Pat Brown

There’s something very cheap at the core of this overtly, ostentatiously expensive film, reliant as it is on our memory of the original to accentuate every significant moment.

More than its violence, the film is defined by its vileness, its straight-faced attachment to outmoded ideas about masculinity and law enforcement.

A deeply unnerving film about the indissoluble, somehow archaic bond between self and family—one more psychologically robust than Aster’s similarly themed Hereditary. And it’s also very funny.

Transforming Ophelia’s abuser into a helpful co-conspirator hardly seems like the most daring feminist reading of Hamlet.

The film is at least as likely to elicit laughs as shrieks, and certainly unlikely to leave a lasting impression.

In verbally recounting her history, Morrison proves almost as engaging as she in print, a wise and sensitive voice.

The film seamlessly interweaves fun escapades and earnest emotions, but it lacks the visual power of its predecessor.

The film wastes its charismatic leads in a parade of wacky CG creations whose occasional novelty is drowned out by its incessance.

Sienna Miller lends credibility to a character that in other hands might seem like a caricature of the white underclass.

There’s a surprising sense of communal exchange between the male strippers and their fans in Gene Graham’s documentary.

The film simultaneously announces itself as an expressive portrait of a city, an endearing ode to male comradery, a leisurely paced hangout flick, an absurdist comedy, and a melancholic reflection on gentrification and urban black experience.

It's an R-rated teen comedy that proves that you can center girls’ experiences without sacrificing grossness, and that you can be gross without being too mean.

As a musical, Dexter Fletcher’s film is just fun enough to (mostly) distract us from its superficiality.

In pushing so many seemingly crucial moments off screen, the film transforms its main characters into blank slates.

At the very least, Ryan Reynolds’s casting perfectly splits the difference between the adorable and the absurd.

The film’s relatively static approach to narrative works in scenes where the material is funny or elevated by a certain performance.

As it proceeds toward its telegraphed rom-com ending, the film becomes just more empty rhetoric, an ineffectual reiteration.

Rachel Lears’s film is a rebuttal to the position that Alexandria Ocasio Cortez's election victory was an incidental event in American politics.

Ralph Fiennes’s film too conspicuously avoids an overt political perspective.

Its major contribution, as one museum curator suggests, may be to bring the works of Moshe Rynecki back into prominence.

The film's slotting of two African women into a familiar romantic structure represents a radical and important upending of contemporary Kenyan sexual mores.

The film’s playful tone is a corrective to a century of scholarship that insisted on projecting the image of a moody spinster onto Emily Dickinson.

With its naked celebration of self-sacrificial combat and idealization of the soldier as an avenging angel, it strikes a tone redolent of old-school war propaganda.

Michal Aviad’s film forcefully brings home a reality that many of us have been aware of only intellectually.

The film might have better performed if it consisted of more than a smattering of good but relatively isolated ideas.

Throughout, the film can’t decide what attitude to strike toward its characters’ evident greed.

Michael Winterbottom’s film succeeds in translating the problematics of intercultural conflict into thriller fodder.

Director Ty Roberts’s film is unable to realize that its subject matter is that of a horror story.