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Clint Eastwood turns a terrorist attack into a bit of post-hoc reality “entertainment” with the stunt casting of the actual heroes as themselves in a stilted, tone-deaf piece of Christian-American propaganda.
My Fifty Shades of Grey fantasy: Anastasia Steele gets a restraining order against Christian Grey, writes a tell-all book about him, and becomes a #MeToo/#TimesUp heroine. Mmm, sexy.
An unsettling true story smartly told, from a moment in time at once uniquely its own and a harbinger of things to come. Colin Firth is subtle, unflinching, extraordinary.
Gina Carano roams a mild yet tedious postapocalyptic wasteland as a bounty hunter, and either you are here for this lady badass of our feminazi dreams, or you are not.
Tosses out the very sentiments that make Beatrix Potter’s work so beloved and so enduring in favor of the sullen bratty championing of cruelty and disenchantment. Nihilistic money-grubbing garbage.
The story of a fascinating woman retold in the most reductive, least resonant way possible, while actually sidelining her. Even cast as a simple haunted-house tale, it’s not even a little bit scary.
A descent into the muddy trenches of World War I that is intimate and immediate, melancholy and profoundly moving. An experience as visceral as it is intellectual.
Sensitive, marvelously engaging portrait of the extraordinary relationship between one woman and her service dog. A remarkable story told with intense empathy.
A huge disappointment, crude and simple compared to Aardman’s earlier, more sophisticated and multilayered work. No satire or subversion, just a bog-standard triumph-of-the-underdog story.
Tense but never sensationalized action adventure about the first post–9/11 US foray into Afghanistan, an extraordinary culture clash and mashup of medieval and modern technologies.
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