If you’re looking for flash and snark, Boy Kills World has them in spades.
Dev Patel’s shaggy revenge flick treads familiar territory with captivating flair.
In its second season, Russian Doll continues to ably straddle the line between realist tragicomedy and run-of-the-mill sci-fi.
Tony Stone’s avoidance of emotional manipulation in dramatizing Ted Kaczynski’s terror campaign is admirable, but only up to a point.
Gringo’s circuitous narrative never allows for a character or storyline to develop in a particularly efficient way.
Ben Wheatley’s Free Fire reduces the modus operandi of the action movie down to its starkest elements.
Its self-consciously witty dialogue is meant to paper over gratuitous violence with a veneer of nonchalance.
The film’s ruefully honest tone is periodically drowned out by the blare of stagey coincidences.
The film’s unbelievably precise choreography of action seeks to tap into a universal feeling of powerlessness.
Its exasperating atonality washes out any legitimate idea about identity, education, nature versus nurture, or artificial intelligence.
Disney has given Maleficent a red-carpet audio-visual treatment.
The mystery was far preferable to having Maleficent defanged and declawed in the process.
An unsung 21st-century American noir receives the audio-visual treatment it deserves. But don’t expect much in the way of supplemental context.
Individual moments linger, but Gonzalo López-Gallego’s film is merely a rough draft of a thriller.
The film loses the original’s sense of moral complication emerging out of the intertwined action of two men hell-bent on retribution.
Red flags should fly with the relaunch of anything as notable—and bankable—as a Disney brand.
Neill Blomkamp strides closer to the muscular, subversive genre terrain of Carpenter and Verhoeven.
After a while, it’s hard to escape the fact that the audience is watching a potential monster movie in which most of the fun stuff—i.e. the monster—has been pared away.
I hate to take the easy road and say that the designers of the poster thought outside of the box, but, hey, if the metaphor fits.
What is it with Gen-X men and their nostalgia for the machismo-fueled entertainments of their youth?