
Ricki and the Flash movie review: rocking (down and) out
There’s some good stuff here, like the prickly relationships between women at odds with one another, but too much feels too contrived to fully satisfy.

There’s some good stuff here, like the prickly relationships between women at odds with one another, but too much feels too contrived to fully satisfy.

The seething rage radiating from the screen elevates this above similar movies. But that rage is truncated in ways that are hard to ignore.

Not so much a movie as an advertisement for a soft drink or tampons or sneakers or a cell phone for fresh! active! fun! young! people.

Descends into emotional idiocy and insufficient intrigue to end in a disgusting place that presumes that a woman is an appropriate pawn in games men play.

I have a terrible feeling of deja vu. I have a terrible feeling of deja vu. I have a terrible feeling of deja vu. I have a terrible feeling of deja vu.

Hooray for movies about sex and love that aren’t about teenagers trying to get laid but adults still trying to figure it all out.

An unlikely duo of films in which folks way beyond their teens fight hauntings injects a bit of the unexpected into a genre now tediously predictable.

Cornball disaster-porn melodrama… in 3D! Dumb, insulting, and bloodless. It’s Hollywood’s subconscious death wish brought to life, in more ways than one.

Julianne Moore’s terror at watching her own emotional and intellectual life slip away is palpable, and much scarier to me than any slasher movie.

Mary Elizabeth Winstead is eminently relatable in a compassionate, human-scaled movie of the sort that movies have almost forgotten of late.