
A New York Winter’s Tale (aka Winter’s Tale) review: cold in the city
A leaden, charmless movie that is unable to commit to its own fantasy. So implausible that even Colin Farrell’s own Irish accent sounds fake.

A leaden, charmless movie that is unable to commit to its own fantasy. So implausible that even Colin Farrell’s own Irish accent sounds fake.
It took 17 years, but now we know that there is a good reason for the existence of Batman and Robin.
You sell out and you sell out and you sell out until you can’t do it anymore. And that’s when things gets interesting.
Phone booth? When was the last time you saw a phone booth? I mean, a quarter of a century ago, Christopher Reeve could already get a laugh when his Clark Kent looked askance at the little kiosk that was his only public telephonic refuge for quick changes. But here’s an entire movie, set in the 21st century, that expects us to accept not only that a phone booth still stands in Manhattan but that its glass panels remained unbroken until a dramatic moment here in the very course of events that unfold before our eyes.