Julianne Moore pulls off the small miracle of tamping down her own intense charisma while still imbuing the ordinary, unglam Gloria with lively verve and a dynamism of low-key resilience personified.
A charming delight in a retro timeslip. Gillian Robespierre and Jenny Slate continue their rampage of creating wonderfully, memorably flawed women onscreen.
The cast is amazing and the film has a certain grim visual beauty. But ultimately there is little here but ugly senselessness.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a film that looks more like the filmmaker’s midlife-crisis wish-fulfillment fantasy than this one.
I’m starting to get it. Men are simply so piss-in-their-pants terrified of women that they must reduce us to bits and pieces in order to even begin to cope with the horror.
You already know the score — duh da-duh-da-duh! duh da-duh-da-duh! — but in case you’ve forgotten, The Nutcracker in 3D will attempt to mainline it into your brain, fuel-injecting sugar-plum fairy juice into your festivus lobe at the drop of, um, a sugar plum. If you think that’s a horrendously mixed metaphor, it’s got nothing on this polar-express train wreck…
I’m overstating a little: I cannot honestly say that I *loved* ‘Zohan.’ But in a relative sense, given my history with Sandler, it is a huge admission to me to say that I kinda got a kick out of this silly movie.