
Where Are the Women? The Dressmaker
The female protagonist’s story is all about beauty as a metaphor for women’s power and confidence, without ever reducing her to a decorative object.

The female protagonist’s story is all about beauty as a metaphor for women’s power and confidence, without ever reducing her to a decorative object.

So entertaining, so unexpected, so wonderfully oddball, so damn good. Witty genre-busting simmering with pathos, humor, and calamity.

A familiar site in late-night London.

Helen Mirren makes a very fine villain indeed. But all the other woman in the story are nothing more than supportive adjuncts to the male protagonist.

Marvelously balances the silly and the solemn. There’s almost a whiff of the Coen-esque in its slick sharpness, in its whistling past the graveyard.

Ben Wheatley takes on J.G. Ballard, and it’s a frustrating experience: visually striking but far too literal while aiming for the allegorical.

I don’t know why, but something about this derelict parking garage fascinates me.

Hooray for a black female protagonist. Boo that she is all about romance, and that the film blames her for the dangerous situation she finds herself in.

An enragingly stupid and obvious “thriller” jammed with dull genre clichés, wild hypocrisy, and just a hint of victim blaming.

The advertising sign on the left is unlikely to endure as long as the one on the right has.