
In the Name of My Daughter movie review: suspenseless Riviera
Not even Catherine Deneuve can save this dramatically inert soap opera of corruption and obsession, which does not even resolve its central mystery.

Not even Catherine Deneuve can save this dramatically inert soap opera of corruption and obsession, which does not even resolve its central mystery.

With supercool 70s chic and a smart crime thriller vibe, this is a welcome throwback to action dramas of the past, before they chose spectacle over story.

Plausibility isn’t in the cards for this odious excuse for a thriller. This is all about sexy danger, for sociopathic, misogynistic values of “sexy danger.”

A slow burn mystery in which the secrets aren’t so much about the crimes it explores but truths of women’s emotional lives that are too often ignored.

Two films about poor black teen girls offer harrowing — and very universal — portraits of how our culture tries to crush the spirit out of all girls.

Overly complicated yet somehow anticlimactic, and constructed more with pat Hollywood pomp rather than the authentic grit it demands.

Hard to believe, I know, but this is a real movie that real people have unashamedly put their names to. Because a sweet paycheck trumps human dignity.

Funky-elegant, weirdly funny, visually intoxicating. I love this movie so much for how it’s different about being more of the same old stuff we always love.

A contemplative film pondering the nature of the difference between reality and fiction, one with resonance beyond the true-crime story it’s kinda sorta about.

A chipper woman-hating comedy about a serial killer… that wants us to feel sorry for him? This is disgusting, repulsive, and enraging.