Snowtown (aka The Snowtown Murders) (review)
The story of the killers… but not in any way that you’ve ever seen a tale of serial murder told before.
The story of the killers… but not in any way that you’ve ever seen a tale of serial murder told before.
It. Is. So. Romantic! I could almost die. Just like Bella does here. Almost die, I mean. Because that’s what you do for love.
If there’s one thing that comes across stridently and passionately from Clint Eastwood’s curiously blah biopic J. Edgar, it is this: Leonardo DiCaprio really wants an Oscar.
An elegantly creepy tale of a haunting that, wonder of wonders, one may approach equally well from the perspective of total supernatural belief or entrenched skepticism…

It takes an extraordinary film to turn the notion of woman-as-victim on its head… and an even more extraordinary film if it does posit as its central conceit that its protagonist has unquestionably been victimized.
There is a whole lotta frustration to be found in a movie about a woman forced to play men’s games who doesn’t fight back… not even a little.

Gerard Butler gets Jesus. But not — this is my favorite thing about this movie — in an obnoxious way.
It’s meant to be terribly romantic how theses two sweet guys fall in love over the course of a few days. But something doesn’t feel quite right to me.
Depression is like an enormous rogue planet entering your solar system and ripping your world apart…
A more mature love story, one about what it takes to maintain a relationship after that first blush of love and that first rush of hormones, and the stupid mistakes that can threaten it.