
Under the Skin movie review: sex as a weapon
Scarlett Johansson is an alien serial killer who sexes men to death in a misogynist fanboy wet dream that also fails to satisfy as science fiction.

Scarlett Johansson is an alien serial killer who sexes men to death in a misogynist fanboy wet dream that also fails to satisfy as science fiction.

Builds up a good momentum of suspense only to throw it away on a rushed, unsatisfying ending, rendering all its preposterousness suddenly unforgivable.

An enlightening portrait that sheds much needed light on a subculture that could do with some demystifying.

A painfully funny odyssey of personal ineffectualness that is bitterly wonderful in how it revels in the decrepit horror of the everyday world.

A weirdly beautiful film, eerie in its complicated simplicity, and open to seven billion interpretations, all of them valid.

An overwrought pastiche of Hitchcock that makes less sense and renders its protagonist far less plausible the longer it goes on.

This is what passes for a children’s movie these days: a 1950s sitcom drawn in pretty tropical CGI colors with a few mostly forgettable songs tossed in.

Follow a humble yellow school bus as it is transformed into something joyous and defiant. It’s like discovering that your grandma is a secret agent.

The movie equivalent of a mean girls’ game whose only goal is humiliation. Also: a failed parable of the twistedness of the 1 percent.

A marvelous little unpacking of the meaning of happiness, precisely what constitutes it, and how to know whether you’ve found it.