The joy of watching Daniel Kitson comes from the performer’s own (very British) love of language.
Little Dragon seesaws from bright to heavy textures, yet Nagano never gets sucked into the drama.
Palin’s denial of her own contribution to the current political discourse is dumbfounding.
The original Hairspray is just funky and enthusiastic enough to make its ham-handed moral go down easy.
I hate hotshots.
Adam Bock’s plays need to be handled as delicately as someone balancing an egg on a spoon from room to room.
Cute may be what Darby was about, but cute is not what Mattie Ross is about, and she puts a big gash in the center of True Grit.
Ferrara’s film is as rambling and all over the place as his previous foray into documentary filmmaking, Chelsea on the Rocks.
At long last, BBC America has bowed to the reality of the internet and broadcast the Doctor Who Christmas special within hours of its UK premiere.
eventy years in the making. No, really.
‘Tis the season for surreal culture shock.
Basement Jaxx’s lopsided, Schaffel return to form, may very well have been commissioned by Audi to sell their A7 Sportback.
Today marks the start of Ryan Kelly and Adam Zanzie’s Spielberg blogathon.
I was moved by Requiem for a Dream, but boy, has he ever made me regret that initial feeling of enthusiasm.
This is a glorified laser light show, which feels half-assed despite its booming complexity.
The Conformist represents Bernardo Bertolucci’s first fully successful coordinated attack on the retinas.
As Mattie might say, in her almost biblical sense of wisdom, an eye for an eye, no pun intended.
Part of the reason I’m drunk on Black Sawn while still struggling to identify its taste has something to do with the film’s hallucination-filled narrative.
Haunted might have benefited from more claustrophobic surroundings.