In the moments when Old works, it’s because M. Night Shyamalan embraces the inherent weirdness of his material.
The Father approximates the dislocation of its main character’s mind with a frighteningly slippery ease.
Renée Zellweger can reach all the notes and hit all the marks, but Garland’s intense emoting eludes her.
The film fluctuates haphazardly between semi-serious reverence and tongue-in-cheek camp, with no shortage of opportunities for the inevitable Rifftrax accompaniment.
Vampire Hunter feels like a flashy corpse largely drained of its comedic lifeblood.
When not simply functioning as a sorry excuse for a thriller, The Tourist also operates as the Angelina Jolie Ego Trip Show.
To be, or not to be. Kenneth Branagh’s seminal Hamlet is as conflicted and vital as life itself.
The film’s premise seems ripe for execution in the vein of Neil LaBute’s style of behind-closed-doors perversion.
In Paris Je T’aime, 18 renowned directors contribute star-studded vignettes about amour, each set in a different Parisian neighborhood.
The film is proof that liberal filmmakers can make movies that aren’t desperate manifestations of their political guilt.
Apocalypto finds Mel Gibson working in the same nyuk-nyuk vein that’s sustained him for over 25 years.
To list all the contrivances strewn throughout would require more words than are warranted by Nancy Meyers’s cinematic maple syrup.
If only it was rewritten in a manner different than the Bryan Singer film, well that would have been magic, wouldn’t it?
Bring home the Legend.
Tristan and Isolde doesn’t deserve James Franco’s fine performance.
Stitched together from a variety of disparate elements, The Legend of Zorro is a frustrating hodgepodge of a movie.
The bad news is that Extreme Ops is every bit as atrocious on the small screen as it was on the big screen.
Imagine a Tony Hawk skating video interspliced with footage from Behind Enemy Lines and set to Jersey shore techno.