
The Sisterhood of Night movie review: bitch hunt
There are no cartoon Mean Girls here; instead, we get striking portraits of girls in pain, desperately grasping for coping mechanisms.

There are no cartoon Mean Girls here; instead, we get striking portraits of girls in pain, desperately grasping for coping mechanisms.

A sort of miracle. A black comedy about a not-well woman saving herself is a savage satire on a not-well world that doesn’t realize anything’s wrong.

Smart, thoughtful science fiction that’s about ideas, not spectacle, with an extra kick of cautionary-tale warning in light of current events.

Al Pacino fully arrives at old-coot-dom, ushered in by David Gordon Green in an apparent self-parody of his usual elegiacal visual style.

Admirable but not very engaging SF drama that either fails to recognize the potential of its central conceit, or else is too afraid to confront it head-on.

This is a remarkably inert movie: unscary, unexciting, and so obvious that it announces how obvious it is going to be in advance.

Hollywood does kinda make sense now: it’s a neverending frat party of talentless rich bastards.

A repulsive and disgustingly manipulative roundrobin of revenge that veers from softcore porn to an emotionally ignorant parody of a family drama.

No one has done a musical like this before, keeping an uneasy beat to craft a dark replica of scared community spirit in the wake of a shocking crime.

I am the prime demographic for this movie, and I found it only sort of inoffensively blah. Chris Pratt: He’s no Jeff Goldblum.