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Kudos to J.J. Abrams for doing something extraordinary: he has made me not care about Star Wars for the first time ever. I’m kind of relieved that it’s over, because it has stopped being fun.
Upends expectations, demythologizes the mythos, and takes an iconic series in a bold new direction with a story full of humor, courage, and dazzling imagery.
Quickly dispels oh-no-not-more-doom-and-gloom climate-change trepidation with the optimism embodied in the title. There is hope for us, but we must act now.
About precisely nothing other than pure pulp comic-book soap-opera rigmarole, overshadowed by clichés, implausibilities, and missed opportunities.
A spoiled melancholy Hollywood brat and a menacing drifter engage in a deadly dick-measuring contest that you will hope neither survives.
Charts a path to a future that refuses to get mired in nostalgia. Yet all the Star Wars notes are here, remixed into a glorious new arrangement.
Mad Max: Fury Road gets a lot of love…
There’s nothing fresh or even usefully true in its cartoonish dichotomy about men, but this pseudo-SF flick will expound upon it with pretentious tedium.
There’s delicious movie-movie elegance in the exotic locales and the period dress, but not much tension to be found in the murderous misadventures on offer.
If O. Henry and Edgar Allan Poe collaborated on a love story, it might look something like this juicy bit of ironic gothic romance.
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