THE RIZEN Review
140 incoherent minutes of dawdling about in underground corridors littered with feral mutants.
140 incoherent minutes of dawdling about in underground corridors littered with feral mutants.
There is fun to be had in the wilderness of Jumanji once you take a machete to the excess foliage of its script and cut to the endearing characters at its core.
There was not a moment I experienced in the theatres this year that was remotely comparable to the sensation of knowing that 2017 gave us something as pure as Lady Bird.
Apocalypse Road wrongly believes some vague question dodging is an acceptable substitute for dedicated world building.
When a killer is revealed and your response is somewhere in the realm of “yeah I guess,” you've clearly made some stylistic missteps along the way.
From the unmistakable vibrant colors that adorn its fully realized characters (all played by real Spanish-speaking actors) to the soundtrack bursting with guitar-plucking, toe-tapping flavor, Pixar surprises nobody through its unwillingness to compromise and to let Coco stand out as the one-of-a-kind film that is (although it begs the question of why such a cultural touchstone would need a 21-minute lead-in by the “whitest” of Christmas specials in the grating Olaf's Frozen Adventure, but I digress).
It’s intentions are undeniably good, and it’s so inoffensive that even the most jaded soul could crack a smile at its whimsical airs.
There's no experience quite as enriching as watching a film that allows its surface narrative to betray a loaded and mystifying interior meaning that's both elusive and begging to be milled for interpretation.
This was excruciatingly hard to write about - not only because the film gives me so little to work with, but also because of my constant denial of who is responsible for this bore fest.
k Ebeling's Along for the Ride, a portrait of self-destructive maverick artiste Dennis Hopper and the falls and rebounds of his post-Easy Rider career, aims to profile the director-actor from a position as of yet really seen attempted; intimately.
It may not be perfect, but Miike's latest still entertains in the way only one of his films can.
Why the Coens or Clooney could possibly care about suburbia enough to tackle it in such a way is beyond me, but what it resulted in is a film whose clear incompetence betrays its haphazard sense of self-importance.
“You can write anything once someone is dead; you can write a whole book of lies, and there's nothing we can do,” ruminates shock provocateur John Waters over the credits of the off-beat analysis of seminal Hollywood starlet Jayne Mansfield's final days.
The question of what exactly went wrong with the winter serial killer fiasco The Snowman will, I hope, puzzle critics and audiences alike for years because, even after seeing it in all its ludicrous glory, there is no satisfying answer.
Dementia 13 comes across as rigid and bland in a way that, seemingly in the effort to differ itself from the original, it had to sacrifice any traceable sliver of a personality.
If we were to go off of the film's mundane ruminations over the experience of knocking at death's door, the afterlife is an eternal purgatory of being forced to relive the most middling of direct-to-DVD horror films scene by scene.