For Stiller, apparently, James Thurber’s classic story is occasion to craft what eventually amounts to a totem to his own vanity.
I’m not sure how Mulholland Drive would look to me now that this decade is ending.
I don’t mean to speak for Ed here, but this wouldn’t be the first time we’ve started pulling back and rethinking the momentum of our day-by-day Oscar-winner forecasts.
One thing no one could have told you a year ago was that not one, but two darlings of the critical establishment would be frontrunners here.
Sean Penn shovels phoniness on top of phoniness in one poorly staged scene after another.