The film is so economical in its momentum, and its tone of comic wistfulness so uniform, that its string of tableaux rarely feels jerky.
The film’s tone is extremely eerie, with creeping camera movements, striking imagery, abrupt edits, and a delicately sinister score.
The question of whether art and artist can possibly be detached from one another looms heavily over the film.
Throughout, Helen Hunt obsequiously tends to her character’s evolution as a parent through a flagrant indulgence of sitcom-ish scenarios.
This isn’t a film of bedside conversions or radical emotional transformations, nor is it a story about laughing at one’s own hardships as a coping mechanism.
This is the movie I used to rent incessantly and watch on elementary-school sick days, back when, ya know, no one suspected a thing about this sports-snubbing color coordinator.
Blergh. Weeks ago I dreamed a dream where all the particulars of my presently contentious relationship with Anne Hathaway were manifest.
Boasting enough fine performances to at least fill a 10-wide field, supporting actress is this year’s most riches-packed race.
With its Oscar clout and inevitable crowd-pleasing matched by widespread critical ire, the film is easily the year’s most divisive awards contender.
Biopics may have the strongest track record in currying Academy favor, but tales of overcoming physical obstacles aren’t far behind.
The Sessions is a deeply humane dramedy about sex and good spirits.
It’s a little disturbing that Brooks’s Oscar-winning comedy should get what amounts to a home-video brush-off.
It’s refreshing to see The Sessions unostentatiously treat intercourse as a normal need that most people counterintuitively associate with taboos.
Soul Surfer just sits there lifeless on a numbingly bland narrative template.
His is a cinema populated with men who wince as they unload the barrels of their mouths.
This is a so-painful-it’s-funny comedy about the increasingly heavy pressures of modern-day middle-class existence.
By now, I’m sure many of us have read about Setoodeh’s infamous Newsweek piece about gay actors.
The film is a quaint but inane portrait of a modern-day Big Apple family.
An anorexic premise could’ve been a great and unusual disaster film if only Twister had taken the courage to keep everything pared down.
Twister is so 1990s it hurts.