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I sincerely cannot help but worry, with no snarkiness intended whatsoever, whether Clint Eastwood has gone senile. He is 80, after all. I hope this not the case, of course, and I certainly don’t wish it on the guy, but I can’t imagine what else explains this utterly baffling film.
‘I wanna kill myself,’ Craig tells the triage nurse. ‘Fill this out,’ she tells him boredly, handing him some paperwork. Yet the film steadfastly refuses to go anywhere near cultural criticism of how we now turn ordinary frustrations and disappointments into medical diagnoses…
It starts out all sad music at momma’s funeral and we gots to sell the horse farm, but dang if nobody can keep Diane Lane down.
Once upon a time, a film this epic, this relevant, this emotional would have been celebrated as a great entertainment and important storytelling with something vital to say about the world today.
It’s weird to look back at ‘Genesis of Daleks’ now and know that the first time I saw this — it would have been back in the early 1980s — I had no idea what the hell a Dalek was.
There’s a sneaky cheekiness to You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger that is inherent in the slyness of the title, which wraps up in one neat little package ideas about romantic fate, our yearning for something better than the pretty good thing we might already have, and an up-to-the-minute restlessness about our lives that hounds even the most comfortable of us.
Of all the washed-up washed-out over-the-hill too-old-for-this-shit action-hero movies we’ve had thrown at us this year — The A-Team, The Losers, The Expendables — Red is by far the most amusing, the most clever, the most tongue-in-cheek, the most fun (and I say that as someone who mostly liked those other movies).
If you’re not sure why it’s so awesome to see Helen Mirren unapologetically kicking ass in Red — and to see her doing so without getting grief for it from the guys — then perhaps you’ve never seen Prime Suspect, the British cop series she starred in through most of the past two decades.
James Franco’s elucidation of Allen Ginsberg is soaring in its warmth and sincerity. The words are (mostly) the writer’s, but the vitality and the passion are all Franco’s: he makes the poet breathe for us today in a way that feels entirely modern and relevant.
First of all, any movie that kills off the smashing Christina Hendricks in the opening 20 minutes deserves to be shot down on the basis of that alone. But that’s only the tiniest of the many cinematic crimes of Life as We Know It, which pretends to be something hip and fresh and is in fact relentlessly conventional, even retrograde.
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