
The Last Shaman documentary review: pharma madness
Tragic hipster indulges in the tribal Amazonian divine. Credulous, sophomoric garbage full of the slick salesmanship of a vaguely spiritual sneaker commercial.

Tragic hipster indulges in the tribal Amazonian divine. Credulous, sophomoric garbage full of the slick salesmanship of a vaguely spiritual sneaker commercial.

A rote disappointment. There is nothing shocking or even mildly unexpected here. But there is an ironic weakening of the power of the xenomorphs to terrify.

There’s stuff in this spy thriller that’s fresh, and lots that’s familiar, but Noomi Rapace using her brains and brawn to fight bad guys is a genuine thrill.

A wonderfully silly sendup of fandom and nostalgia… and an absolutely hilarious smackdown of actorly pomposity and delusions of celebrity grandeur.

This melodrama about men unable to express themselves emotionally except through heavy machinery isn’t only clichéd: it doubles down on the clichés.

Wonderfully strange and weird and funny and dark and bitter. A deliciously geek-flavored metaphor for how damaged people heedlessly spread around their damage.

Lesbian and not-quite-sure-if-she’s-a-lesbian have a weekend fling. Sometimes unintentionally hilarious, this is little more than soft-core porn.

An astonishing tale of privilege and power: stark, searing, and brutal, almost a Victorian companion to Get Out. Florence Pugh is a force of nature.

Thinks it’s edgy and transgressive, the punk little brother of all those other stodgy comic-book movies, but it isn’t. It’s just slightly more candy-colored.

This may be Werner Herzog’s most conventional film, but its mostly untold true story knows what it means for a woman to choose a life of adventure and intellect.