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Midnight in Paris becomes the butt of its own gentle joke… perhaps the most Woody Allen joke ever, one that wraps up a paralyzing self-awareness in a redemptive self-deprecation to, finally and splendidly, laugh with great good humor at itself.
So it turns out that perhaps the most awesome thing ever to happen to sappy shitty romantic flicks is brain damage. It makes sense! These movies are already brain-dead 95 percent of time anyway…
Who does this? Who makes a black-and-white movie in the 21st century? Who makes a silent film in the 21st century? The Artist: Not in 3D, not in IMAX, not even in widescreen!
Screenwriters Brit Marling and Mike Cahill don’t know where to take their story beyond its initial neat-o science fiction premise…
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.
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.
How is it possible that no one has done anything quite like this before? This is one of the funniest things I have ever seen, a clever, witty, surprising splatter comedy…
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.
Crams the “quirky” back into the please-god-kill-me-and-save-me-from-yet-another-ridiculous-teen-romance.
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