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.
On this Thursday, just past midnight/I went to see Green Lantern, right?/Let those who'd do the same tonight/Beware my warning: Green Lantern's shite.
As we discover in the first two episodes, things sort out fast in Deadwood.
Given a choice between love and honor, wouldn’t we pick love every time? And, by that logic, can something be dishonorable and still be right?
Submarine is a fine enough example of its genre, but it’s a story we’ve seen a hundred times before. And all this affected, self-obsessed, WASP-y teen angst is making me want to take a big old Hollywood flamethrower to the next disaffected kid who comes along with bicycle and a bowl-cut.
Super 8 is both another entry in, and a fabulous tribute to, the long, unbroken legacy of big summer movies. Director J.J. Abrams and producer Steven Spielberg have made a film that openly celebrates the sheer joy of filmmaking, and the way we never really grow out of the movies—and the movie makers—that we loved as children.
The slender threads that held this world together have all snapped, and Westeros is quickly falling back into chaos.
One of the best episodes of New Who, "A Good Man Goes to War" could also be a game-changer in terms of the Doctor's character development.
Rescuing the series from the diminishing returns of the previous movies, Vaughn breathes new life into the X-Men franchise by taking it back to its beginnings.
As we learn this week on Game of Thrones, all politics is personal.
Since Episode Two I had been bracing myself for the discovery that this whole season was either an alternate reality or a dream, either of which I would have hated. But this is so much better: a huge twist that somehow doesn't invalidate what has come before.
In a film about longing for the romance of the past, I find myself wishing I myself could be magically transported back to the long-lost days when Woody Allen had more on his mind than this kind of wispy, whimsical confection.
Okay, look—I'm not saying Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides is the worst movie I've ever seen: it isn't. What I am saying is this: don't see it. For the love of God, don't see it.
"A Golden Crown" is all about justice; it's filled with characters all protesting, "It's not fair!" But justice, as we see this week, is very much a work-in-progress in GAME OF THRONES.
"The Rebel Flesh" certainly looks like a classic, stand-alone Doctor Who story, but there are definitely clues here that this story may be much more important than it appears.
The subject of the new documentary Bill Cunningham New York hasn't even seen the film: he's far too humble, and far too busy. The rest of us can watch Bill Cunningham New York and wish our lives were a little more like his; he's having too much fun being Bill Cunningham.
With Judgment Day less than 24 hours away, I thought it was a good time to revisit Michael Tolkin's 1991 fundamentalist schlock-fest, The Rapture. And I'm so glad I did: among other things, I learned that the apocalypse will be foggy, that Mimi Rogers had very nice breasts, and that Jesus hates plaque.
Of all the shows that could feature a guy getting a knife through the eyeball, a bludgeoning dwarf, a breast-feeding 7-year-old, a spontaneous equine decapitation, and a discussion of the economics of cadaver fucking, GAME OF THRONES has definitely become my favorite.
Since 1963 we've seen this mysterious blue box that promised to be the gateway to all the stories to come. And last night, after more than 47 years, we finally met her.
Part concept album, part autobiography, Evelyn Evelyn is a masterpiece: a strange, funny, heartbreaking, twisted musical phantasmagoria that is not unlike listening to a collaboration between David Lynch, Tim Burton, and Tom Lehrer.
In such a heavily structured society as that of Westeros, what happens to the outcasts, the cast-offs, the people who just don't fit?
"The Curse of the Black Spot" isn't even going fun to crap all over. It's not horrible, it's just not much of anything at all. It's a filler episode, a budget-controlling episode, a go-do-this-while-we're-over-here-working-on-the-ones-that-matter episode.
I needed a new television addiction like I needed an ice-cold broadsword up the ass.
Last year's Doctor Who season opener, "The Eleventh Hour," was—by coincidence and design—a good jumping-on point for the series. With this year's season opener, on the other hand, Moffat seems to have different goals entirely, and "safe" is nowhere on the agenda.
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