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A miraculous blend of grief and humor. Big, bold, brash, then sneakily meta. I am only starting to get my head around the emotional and creative right-hook of it. A fitting end (for now) to the MCU.
Ugly, garish, anachronistic like a small mean child playing with matches, and completely lacking in anything Robin Hood–y: there’s no fun, no romance, no virtue. Instead? Bizarre “aesthetics” and even worse politics.
A heist movie that is gripping and badass, elegant and assured. You could ignore all the social-justice-warrior stuff and just enjoy this as a popcorn thriller. But what makes this so special is how it reexamines the genre’s clichés.
Breezy fun that sticks a shiv into Hollywood’s — and the larger culture’s — disdain for women. Wonderfully subtle comic performances from a great cast having a ball make for a perfectly suitable light diversion from the world right now.
A Star Wars–flavored juice drink* of a movie (*contains 10% real juice) that tells us nothing of significance we didn’t already know about Han Solo, in an incarnation that lacks his essential charisma and precarious danger.
A peanut-butter-in-my-chocolate movie, this Die Hard meets Twister monster is so ludicrous it comes all the way back around to being awesome and hilarious.
Psychologically risible and paranormally inconsistent heist horror gives us not a single character to like or root for, or even to cheer dying.
Fun enough and diverting enough while you’re in the middle of it, but hints of something much richer and more satisfying dangle just out of its reach.
More plot holes than plot, this overly convoluted, deeply stupid Fast and Furious wannabe is crammed with clichés and memorable only when it’s laughable.
Hard to believe it took 13 years to get a sequel to our screens and still have it show not a hint of Bad Santa’s inspiration or subversion.
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