Criterion’s top-notch presentation offers yet another argument for the value of physical media.
The Game of Thrones prequel struggles to apply new makeup to the old face of palace intrigue.
Slow Horses is more of a dark office comedy than spy show, finding most of its drama in the tension radiating between its characters.
The film gets at the profound truth that our relationship with another person is, at its core, a collection of shared memories.
Darius Marder’s film captures, with urgency and tenderness, just how enticing the residue of the past can be.
The show’s fundamental goal isn’t to present love that’s unique to the current moment, but to expose the universality of its stories.
Life Itself revels in the shameless emotional manipulation stemming from the ham-fisted tendencies of its own maker.
This buckaroo of a disc does not blow it on the image and sound front at least.
If it turned out to be Spielberg’s final film, it would make for a fitting final curtain call for his brand of escapism.
Thoroughbreds is a film about the disastrous perils of too little empathy, but it never evinces much of its own.
Initially colorful, the screenplay’s lurid and overripe dialogue eventually grinds the film to a halt.
It unites a mélange of teen-film tropes into a narrative overburdened with cultural references and framing devices.
The surfeit of subplots might be seen as a series of speed bumps or potholes, slowing a ferociously entertaining two-hander at every turn.
The film consistently settles for the cheapest shock devices and the most shopworn totems of our current neo-gothic moment in the genre.
The signal refers to the Nomad hacker’s taunts, though it may as well point to the film’s nature as a self-styled calling card.
John Pogue orchestrates the film’s consistently chilly unease from a series of unassuming jolts embedded in the humdrum.
Bates Motel suggests what Gilmore Girls would’ve been like if it arbitrarily featured a tormented young Charles Manson.