Netflix’s latest horror offering only rarely assumes a form greater than its individual elements and references.
Writer-director Susan Walter’s film is almost determined to disprove the causality of social phenomena.
Peter Landesman’s film is a kind of hagiography, and it leans toward whitewashing its subject’s legacy.
The film’s characters are stock types without enough satirical texture to fulfill their function in the narrative.
Above all of the more modest achievements in structure and casting looms Zucker’s garish comedic sensibilities.
Neil Burger’s film transcends the déjà vu of its borrowed trappings but ironically sacrifices all momentum in favor of a long series of physical tests.
Our long national lousy-horror-remake nightmare has finally—or at least temporarily—ended.
As if Hollywood films needed any outside help to celebrate arrested narcissism, along comes The Last Kiss.
From its shrill pitch to its insidious delivery, American Gun is the little sibling of Paul Haggis’s Crash. Its only charm is that it’s 20 minutes shorter.
The film is ham-fisted, maddeningly overwritten, and about as subtle as a jackhammer.