Godard said all you need for a movie is a girl and a gun, but did he ever really consider the cinematic possibilities of a sloth with a sword? The minds behind the horror-comedy Slotherhouse did, and we thank them for it.
As Golda Meir, Helen Mirren gives a showy but shallow impersonation, in a disappointing historical biopic more emotional than illuminating.
My choices for who will win, who should win, and who must not be allowed to win at the 96th Annual Academy Awards.
In which I look back on my preposterous (and predictably failed) attempt to write about every movie that opened this summer.
Denzel Washington eats, prays, loves, maims, mutilates, and murders in Anton Fuqua's The Equalizer 3 (2023), a dumb and dour action thriller that is both unpleasant to watch and bad for the world.
The Avengers is not a Citizen Kane for the capes-and-cowls crowd, nor does it try to be a superhero film for people who hate superheroes. What it tries to be instead—and pretty much succeeds in being—is the film for which people who love superheroes have been waiting all their lives.
"Far Away Places" plays out in three short stories, occurring simultaneously, in which characters grapple with the tentative solidity of their own lives, the slippery hold they have on who they are and what is important to them, and the changing, sometimes elusive nature of reality.
Some people are born evil, some become evil, and some—if they're not careful—may go through life with the best of intentions but still leave evil in their wake.
A few thoughts about The Short and Happy Life of Peter Campbell.
"What is Dead May Never Die" focuses on men who do not quite fit this society's harsh definition of manhood, as we see them fight to hold onto their hearts in a culture where a heart is largely seen as a weakness.
"Burke needs to die. Because he's an asshole. In a vest. This isn't Outward Bound: why's he wearing a fucking vest?"
Almost anything I could tell you about The Cabin in the Woods would risk robbing you of some of its considerable pleasures. You can read this review in total safety (I promise), but don't read other reviews. Don't even watch the trailer. Just see the movie.
Mad Men is largely about the moment when white, middle-class America awakens from that squeaky-clean, all-white, suburban fantasy of itself. This season is the transition point where the dark undercurrent that has always run beneath that fairy tale begins to overwhelm it.
"The Night Lands" is largely about the role of women in this male-dominated world.
"Fuck that shit! Donate to PETA when you get home, but do NOT go back for the fucking cat."
"When is everything going to get back to normal?" Roger asks Don towards the end of this episode. The answer, of course, is never. Normal, as Roger understands it, is officially a thing of the past.
The old gods are burning, and there's a king in every corner. Welcome back to GAME OF THRONES. We've got a lot to talk about.
The white men have ruled the world of Mad Men all along, and their entire way of life has been built on racial injustice and the subjugation of women. Change won't come quickly, but it is coming.
The Hunger Games is what all such franchise blockbusters should aspire to be, but what so few ever are: a real, proper movie, with brains, heart, and soul. Forget those dingy Twilight movies: as a piece of stand-alone entertainment, I'd send this one into combat with the best of the Harry Potter franchise and expect it to emerge from the arena triumphant.
In my last review of this show, I leave The Walking Dead where I found it: wandering aimlessly and emotionlessly through the empty fields of the television landscape.
As the inaugural blockbuster of the season, John Carter is a bit of a disappointment. It's not horrible: it's just dull, cheesy, and deeply, deeply silly.
I hear you: the Oscars are too long, utterly predictable, scandalously commercial, culturally insignificant, and almost guaranteed to be—as they are every year—a gigantic disappointment. But you know what, Sachean Littlefeather? I could give a rat's ass: I still like 'em.
Though the first forty minutes of "Nebraska" just offered us more of the same, the last ten minutes felt like a breath of fresh air blasting through the lingering stench of burning corpses and stagnant dialogue.
Despite its promising questions about appearance and identity, the film never really dives beneath, nor rises above, the surface of its source material. As a result, Albert Nobbs never feels like anything more than a tepid adaptation of a minor short story.
Exceedingly phony and insufferably cloying, Stephen Daldry's Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close begs the question: ten years after the events of September 11, 2001, are we ready as a nation to turn our collective trauma into simpering schmaltz?
We Need to Talk About Kevin is a harrowing and disquieting story to experience, but it is an artistic work to celebrate, one that trusts its medium, trusts its audience, and provides no easy answers.
The Iron Lady is a film that's unlikely to change anyone's opinion of Thatcher, as it has no opinions of its own: as such, it is unlikely to either offend or please a single member of its audience.
What Downton Abbey needs is someone to shake things up a bit. A video mash-up of two great tastes that taste great together.
"It's going to make me want to vomit. And you know, I always leave these movies hating white people, so that's just going to be bad for you."
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