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If the grownup fimmakers have learned to move past the adolescent notion that girls and women are either virgins or whores and nothing in between, they nobly step aside to let Zack and Matt’s ideas about the male ownership of women — and the sullying of women that thereby occurs — dictate the course of the film.
Ever drop your toast and despair to watch it land on the floor jelly side down? You know who’s responsible for such calamity, don’t you? Satan. It’s true.
The secret is out: Hollywood knows how to make movies about authentic female human beings. It just chooses not to do so 97 percent of the time.
The bizarre non sequiturs that pass for jokes — such as the golf-playing goose who really, really hates cupcakes — make the poop jokes sound like wit.
Affleck could do for Boston what Martin Scorsese did for New York in the 1970s…
Paul W.S. Anderson loves him some style without style, texture without substance: this is all white noise, visual static to make the movie pop more in 3D.
Everything that is wrong with The Movies today in America is beautifully encapsulated in how this lovely little movie cannot find an audience in the current movie environment.
I slept with this movie, and now I’m sorry I did.
I can’t wait for the right-wing windbags to begin decrying Rodriguez and Machete — oh noes! he’s trying to ignite a class war!
I was certain that there was no movie that I could not endure if it meant I could gaze at George Clooney for two hours. I was wrong.
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