Richard Scott Larson

John Krasinski is most in his comfort zone when the importance of family and legacy drives the film’s tension.

The film casts its source narrative as a delusional fantasy through which to enact the effects of possible traumas that go completely unexplored.

In a world increasingly resistant to cultural exchange, the miracle of The Little Prince is how it’s become so universally beloved, and Boonstra’s film is a worthy homage to its passionate translators who’ve been so inspired by Saint-Exupery’s story .

The story has enough pathos to fulfill the expectations of a great tragedy, but the film feels like a commercial for something else entirely.

In Mapplethorpe, the ultimate purpose of the film seems to be the reductive portrayal of the artist as yet another tormented queer destroyed by his tendencies toward vice.

This charitable act of resuscitation for the benefit of Mercury’s admirers is something that the film as a whole ultimately fails to accomplish, as Bohemian Rhapsody mistakenly believes that simply trudging through a workmanlike overview of the Queen frontman’s life will allow it to arrive at something approaching intimacy.

Perhaps the film's failure to surprise in the end is a result of leaning too heavily on a toolbox not yet translated into the language of cinematic form.

The pleasure of A Quiet Place is in John Krasinski's commitment to imagining the resourceful ways in which a family might survive in this kind of world, then bearing witness to the filmmaker's skillfully constructed methods of putting them to the ultimate test, relentlessly breaking down all of the walls the family has erected to keep the monsters out.

Greg Berlanti's charmingly heartfelt film is a remarkably successful attempt to give shape to the experience of the closet by drawing an incredibly intimate portrait of a teenage boy about to leave it behind.

Women deserve a better vehicle for demonstrating the power of female solidarity than this empty money grab.

Bill Condon's Beauty and the Beast actually delivers a remarkably optimistic balm to a festering, existential wound.

Stacy Title’s film ends up succeeding most deftly as an advertisement for on-campus housing.

It abandons its subtlety en route to becoming a moralistic screed about the preservation of the nuclear family.

The juxtaposition of courtship and violence is the film's one true coup, but Pride and Prejudice and Zombies still mistakes weaponry for agency.

At its worst, the film dangerously repackages the queer experience using language invented by those originally deployed to break it apart.

Even stronger than its predecessor, which didn't quite go as far in terms of representing these young women in a wider context.

These films, and Tolkien's entire oeuvre, are most affecting in their depictions of friendship, and the performances here represent plutonic male intimacy in convincing, often moving ways.

As a metaphor for the way we respond to the media, and the way our politics are funneled through the media lens, the film succeeds most when it revels in ambiguity.

A curious blend of our newly acquired taste for dystopia alongside a healthy sprinkling of Lord of the Flies, the film offers familiar pleasures without prompting the sense of having already been here before.

The film, based on the novel by Gayle Forman, is an almost deliberate confirmation of Alison Bechdel's claim that women in film are so often shown only in relation to men.