The Bad Guys is a heist film that steals all of its moves.
When Hudson is singing her heart out, not so much approximating Aretha’s voice as channeling her soul, the effect is transportive.
The film is one that might have been dreamed up by one of the cynical douche bros from the Hangover during a blacked-out stupor.
Season three eschews the notion that there’s a single experience of the ’80s that should dominate above the others.
Maron discusses modern media discourse, the communicative bridge linking his acting with his podcast, and how he likes to be directed.
Marc Maron’s commanding aura of regret gives the film, despite its missed opportunities, an emotional center.
The final season fulfills the possibilities of the show’s concept, informing it with humanist fury.
There’s a little Charlie Chaplin in the Joker’s steps early on, before madness grips him in ways that would probably make Pennywise shudder.
Much like with Neighbors 2, Mike and Dave’s obvious ace in the hole is its commitment to gender parity.
Bobcat Goldthwait’s hand too nervously tempers Barry Crimmins’s outré tactics as kooky showmanship bred from unimaginable trauma.
The first couple of episodes of season three of Maron are slight to the point of near nonexistence.
It presents itself as a fair complement to Louie in that both shows concern themselves with refreshingly substantive masculine types.
Season three of Louie continued to tread some fantastic dimension where a half-hour television comedy is about real discovery.