Cloverfield (review)
There’s no way *Cloverfield* could possibly be worth the to-do. Could it?
There’s no way *Cloverfield* could possibly be worth the to-do. Could it?
Woody Allen’s latest film feels like something out his early career, or maybe even something that long predates him.
Apes the style of Marjane Satrapi’s graphic novel of the same name, with its scratchboard vitality and black-and-white insistence.
I will admit to a certain curiosity about the Disney tween phenomenon, and I will admit that my first look at it left me far more charmed that I had expected to be.
Here’s a side of the filmmaking process that even serious cinephiles — the fans who listen to DVD commentary tracks and read scripts and dissect directors’ intentions — never get to see…
Yes, it’s a romance, like all the ads are saying: a rapturous one, a glorious one, the best since *The English Patient* or *Gone With the Wind* or whatever classic the TV commercials are likening *Atonement* to in tones of hushed, awed respect.
Apparently, it’s now okay to commit serious felonies like robbery with breaking and entering along with kidnapping at gunpoint as long as you have a really, really good reason…
Three ordinary, modern-day, working-class veggies are dragged back in time, where they are mistaken for pirate-esque heroes who have to help a pretty green princess do something or other on the high seas.
I was looking forward to checking this out because it stars Nathan Fillion, the seriously geeky girl’s seriously intense crush thanks to his Han Solo-er than thou performance as Captain Mal Reynolds…

I was not crying, I tell you, not crying by the end of The Bucket List. It’s just that the screening room was hot and dry and my eyes were itchy.