A deliciously badass style — part 70s grindhouse, part verité pseudo-documentary — and all-in performances are undermined by an exploitive gaze, and a combination of failed caper and failed satire.
The Shape of Water wins Best Film, and Best Director goes to Guillermo del Toro. Agnes Varda is Defying Age and Ageism, and Hollywood’s sexual tormentors are inducted in the AWFJ Hall of Shame.
Tense, gripping, enraging, but only about things that black Americans already know. This is a primer about racism for white people, and we must pay attention.
Low-key black comedy and sporadic horror lazily pop up among the crime drama, but never enough of either to score many zings.
I want to live in this movie. I want to crawl inside it and curl up in its lap and stay there forever.
This absurd and pointlessly convoluted remake of a decade-old French action flick feels dated and out of step in more ways than one.
No black humor. No satire. No point. But hey, check out the 1987 catchphrases dropped in at random!
I guess he’s been overwhelmed by the fan reaction to the news of his departure from the show…
The real dilemma here is not: Should Vince Vaughn tell Kevin James that his — James’s — wife is cheating on him? It’s: How did Ron Howard get attached to this train wreck of a movie?
These kids today, with their funky step dancing and their vibrant street culture and their desperate attempts to raise tuition for private school. Where did we go wrong with them?