Joss Whedon—to some, the standard-bearer for fanboy culture—is a strong, classical stylist in the tradition of Joe Dante, John Landis, and Steven Spielberg.
The Avengers will assemble for what may be the most overstuffed tent-pole ever, and Katy Perry will unleash the first movie that could actually give you cavities.
While Brad Bird’s direction is not nearly as fleet as his CV in animation would lead one to hope, it’s not without its pleasures either.
Not sure there’s much more to say here than I did two years back ago when I called this for Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight except that this is probably one of two categories where The King’s Speech most deserves to win.
Why beat around the beard? By this point, everyone is forecasting grizzled vet Jeff Bridges to join Christopher Waltz and Mo’Nique in a trifecta of functionally preordained acting wins.
Steeped in the lyrical fatalism of that last great decade for the western, the ‘70s, Andrew Dominik’s film owes a debt to myriad spiritual ancestors.
28 Weeks Later rolls in like a poisonous dust cloud of nihilism.
The film awkwardly shifts gears from gritty independent film realism to gonzo hysteria without ever feeling accurate.