
The Diary of a Teenage Girl movie review: crossing no-woman’s-land to adulthood
It shouldn’t be radical to see a movie treat a girl with this level of appreciation and understanding of her most intimate inner self. Yet it is.

It shouldn’t be radical to see a movie treat a girl with this level of appreciation and understanding of her most intimate inner self. Yet it is.

Listen as the world’s tiniest violin plays on the soundtrack of this utterly obvious and clichéd three-quarter-life crisis dramedy.

There is joy and wonder in this marvelous mounting of a human mind, and a thrilling audacity in how it dares at such a strange and impossible thing.

A leisurely, slightly absurd drive through 20something ennui that is as maddeningly diffuse as its protagonist’s state of mind.

Marvel’s tiniest hero stars in the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s smallest movie so far, one that loses Paul Rudd’s charm among familiar comic-book action.

Tedious romantic dramedy with a pointless sci-fi tinge that has nothing in the least bit memorable to say about anything at all.

A cringe-worthy jamboree of dimbulb manflesh that’s even more embarrassing than the first film. If you want a picture of the future, imagine Channing Tatum grinding his crotch in a human face, forever.

Bracingly off-kilter, a sort of anti rom-com that sends up a cultlike subculture while embracing the full, curious humanity of those who live in it.

A film critic turned filmmaker seems intent on confirming negative stereotypes about critics… and that’s before his movie gets truly unpleasantly smug.

Writer, director, and star Chris Rock is so close to something great here, but he gives in too easily to the unchallenging and the very conventional.