As if taking a cue from its own title, the movie emphatically sets its sights on the upward trajectory of Brown’s career.
Baggage Claim basically slits its own throat by rendering its entire conceit moot before even getting things rolling.
Testraint doesn’t seem to be an item on Tyler Perry’s menu.
With The Light of the Sun, Scott reasserts herself as a relevant voice in modern R&B.
Leave it to Fucked Up to illustrate so neatly that accessibility doesn’t have to herald the loss of credibility.
Only time—and, purportedly, a third film—will tell if this move is one of audacity or outright stupidity.
The African veldt was never so picturesque nor its inhabitants so one-dimensional as in The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.
Hounddog deserves to be known as The Dakota Fanning Rape Movie.
The film proudly flaunts its maker’s right to make movies as badly as Bart Freundlich, Peyton Reed, and Woody Allen.
The Real Thing swiftly descends into over half an hour of sex songs you’d expect to hear at the tail end of a Janet Jackson album.
Michel Gondry’s film is a casual mix of live hip-hop and man-on-the-street stand-up.
Vol. 2 sometimes sags under the weight of its subtlety.
Scott is first and foremost a poet, and most definitely one of the brightest new R&B talents to emerge in the last few years.
Just when we thought we knew who Jill Scott was, she deepens her definition.