Nearly everything in Taylor Hackford’s tin-eared comedy is as ersatz as the Robert De Niro character’s rage is real.
The Panamanian-born Roberto Duran’s story has all the makings of a fascinating film, but Hands of Stone isn’t it.
It emerges as something chillingly akin to the unholy love child of Judd Apatow and Donald Trump.
Writer-director David O. Russell proposes that there may be no real barrier between the caustic worldview he wears and the sense of childlike wonder he sells.
Scott Mann’s film gets by on chutzpah, growing more diverting with every ludicrous plot twist.
Nancy Meyers is committed to her signature of giving her female protagonists their cake and letting them eat it too.
Martin Scorsese’s soberest, most vivaciously thrilling vision of how hollow (and short) the fast lives of mafios really are.
Scorsese’s intoxicating, sardonic gangster film has, for better and worse, been one of the most influential films of the last three decades.
A compassionate, pragmatic anti-sentimentality, or an attempt at one, serves as the through line for his examination of one the most mythologized of all screen actors.
The art is the reason to see the enjoyable but egregiously slight Remembering the Artist.