The Book of Clarence has an energy that’s largely missing from its influences.
By reducing the play’s grandeur to the scope of a lightly staged radio play, words become the principal protagonist.
Twelve Minutes feels like Something Awful copypasta wearing the skin of an Ibsen play.
Together’s dramaturgy perfectly, if unintentionally, underscores the suffocating nature of pandemic living.
The film argues we’re stronger and better when we’re home, building communities that can oppress the oppressors.
The film is an all-too-fitting whimper of a conclusion to a franchise that never remotely fulfilled its potential.
The teaser seems hell-bent on satisfying those who found the first film to be an over-directed succession of freakouts.
M. Night Shyamalan’s film is aimed at an audience from whom he cringingly craves fealty.
Submergence’s globetrotting only succeeds at exposing the hollowness of the characters at the film’s center.
Arthur Conan Doyle’s legendary characters feel as if they’ve been air-dropped into a universe where they don’t belong.
Whatever political commentary Wim Wenders sought to make here is lost beneath confounding characterizations.
David Leitch’s Atomic Blonde frequently loses sight of its own action to glibly pay homage to other works.
Split is personal and outlandish, with riveting plotting, somber storytelling, and elegant construction.
The issue with X-Men: Apocalypse is that Bryan Singer suggests so many possible directions to go in and still chooses the least interesting one.
Its litany of human freaks and animal monstrosities are meant to distract from the superficiality of its psychological and intellectual concerns.
The film abounds in excruciatingly obvious, often precious, articulations of grief, where armchair philosophizing volleys back and forth with punishing abandon.
The film is too nihilistic to believe its protagonist can be saved, declaring him a lost soul and satisfied to let him suffer.
Ultimately, the time-traveling conceit feels like a shameless ploy to further expand the franchise’s narrative universe.
For all you geriatric mutants looking around for your glasses, McAvoy and Fassbender are shown within their colored Xs.
The film draws out Danny Boyle’s less dazzling commercial side, not to mention his penchant for whirling excess.