The film’s aura of sincere, uncomplicated Americana can be intoxicating and hard to resist.
Once the film shifts into a broader comedic register, it no longer capitalizes on Kumail Nanjiani and Issa Rae’s gift for gab.
There’s little apparent benefit to how the show’s second season foregrounds its interpersonal relationships.
At Home at the Zoo, the last name Albee picked for one of his works, carries as much weight as one can ask of a name.
Thoroughbreds is a film about the disastrous perils of too little empathy, but it never evinces much of its own.
Despite its punctilious aesthetic of detachment, The Girlfriend Experience exerts a sneaky emotional pull.
The show’s writing feels wrapped up in hitting plot points and story beats rather than seeking out moments of violent personal revelation.
In its final season, Boardwalk Empire seems determined to follow up on the show’s early tag line, “You can’t be half a gangster.”
The Killer is an everyman play written to resemble a political parable.
If only we lived in a world where production values counted for everything, Boardwalk Empire would be some kind of masterpiece.
Nichols’s beautiful and touching adventure is a bracing reminder of the primal thrill that a great pop film can offer.
Noah Buschel interestingly mirrors the monotony of his main character’s routine in his claustrophobic aesthetic.
The film ultimately succeeds thanks to small details, from the swampy texture of its location photography to its uniformly expert cast.
It’s when the film falls back on the most familiar tropes that it runs into the most trouble.
It has the advantage of a veritable galaxy of stars at its disposal, but all that sparkle too often comes together as a gaudy mess.
It’s a mistake, albeit an easy one, to compare Boardwalk Empire to The Sopranos.
What would a psychiatrist prescribe to Antonio Campos for framing the world like Gus Van Sant and wagging his finger at us like Michael Haneke?