Ultimately, at least in the first few episodes, cancer serves as a handy device to transform an uptight suburban woman into a free spirit.
The film seems geared to the same superficial, property-obsessed, upper-middle-class sensibility that New York magazine peddles on a weekly basis.
2012 could be about any disaster, rendering moot the half-baked proclamations of the Mayan calendar that are so central to the film.
This bibilical buddy comedy often makes you wish that 2001: A Space Odyssey’s dawn-of-man apes had never picked up that bone.
Ron Howard’s film is a trivial afterword to a historical footnote.
John Cusack deserves much better than this sentimental slop.
David Wain and Ken Marino’s The Ten is as tonally divergent as possible from Krzysztof Kieślowski’s The Dekalog.
Working with Atom Egoyan has not done Kevin Bacon any favors.
In general, the smarter and sadder Platt is allowed to be, the more piercing and exciting he is.
The film is so garishly colorful and cute that even rom-com neophytes will find its uninspired adherence to formula borderline-unbearable.
The Ice Harvest proves that modest, workmanlike film noir need not be accompanied by hipster homages and ironic self-consciousness.
When you take interactive sex questionnaires, do you easily become sexually aroused?
Bill Condon’s provocative, problematic biopic takes an unapologetically reverential stance in its portrayal of the 1940s sex research pioneer.
In Pieces of April, writer-director Peter Hedges makes an entertainment out of stringing his audience along.
The film is a Freud for Dummies journey into mind-cracking.