New York, New York, like most Martin Scorsese films, is about the trials and glories of making art.
The film feels composed of burnished, often blackly funny, fragments of erratic memory.
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.
Today, Netflix has given us our first look at the film, which stars Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, and Joe Pesci.
These films are as elegant as they are expansive, acutely perceptive and operatic in their high emotions.
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.
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.
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.
The premise might make sense, if only hypocritically, but the film abandons this already flimsy parody of macho pride disastrously at the last minute.
So wantonly clichéd that to watch it is to explore the outer perimeters of one’s own tolerance for a specific type of feel-good sports film.
It manages to implicitly convey the overdriven, coked-up confusion that many ‘70s period pieces make painfully overt.
The film is depressing, sub-sitcom fodder that will dull whatever affection you may still harbor for these legendary actors.