Keith Watson

Schilling and Healy never quite overcome the fact that Take Me is a suspense comedy that simply isn't very suspenseful or very funny and, just as importantly, never finds a thematic through line.

Though eerie and quietly deadpan, the film circles its grab bag of themes for so long that it also becomes tedious.

The film may be too preposterous to take seriously, but at least writer-director Aram Rappaport trains his sights on the right enemies.

Doug Liman may effectively maintain a madcap energy through to the end, but unlike Adam McKay or Martin Scorsese, he isn't all that interested in explicating the complex inner workings of vast criminal enterprises.

Writer-director Daniela Amavia fails to link the lives of her characters to any deeper sense of meaning.

The film’s funny and shocking gore too often plays second fiddle to meandering comedic bits revolving around the band’s recording sessions.

The film apes the style that James Wan established with the original Conjuring without establishing any real identity of its own.

In the film, the Battle of Midway suggests something out of a photorealistic animated film.

The film's rendering of the interplay of memory, identity, and grief is disappointingly vague.

Sam Elliott’s calmly affecting performance is overwhelmed by a doggedly conventional screenplay that often plays like end-of-life wish-fulfillment fantasy.

The film lays out the complexities of contemporary race relations with a deliberateness that frequently edges over into didacticism.

If David Cronenberg seems almost indifferent to his audience, Brendon Cronenberg is so fixated on freaking people out that he can sometimes neglect to do much else.

In many ways, Toshirô Mifune the man remains just as mysterious after watching Steven Okazaki's film as he was before.

Restless, at times even chaotic, the film often seems to be replicating the experience of having a manic episode.

It doesn't suggest documentary footage found in the woods so much as a haunted-house version of Hardcore Henry.

Unimaginatively directed and indifferently shot, the film never establishes a distinctive voice for itself.

The mother-daughter relationship ostensibly at the film’s heart is largely reduced to tired jokes about how moms can be overprotective and don’t understand how to use Facebook.

Viswanathan, Newton, and Adlon generate a bit of chemistry throughout, but it's undermined by the fundamentally mechanistic nature of Brian and Jim Kehoe's screenplay, which ultimately forces these girls' experiences into neat little scenarios that are constructed every bit as didactically as a workplace training video.

Writer-director Bryan Buckley's film is ultimately more interested in the journalist than his story.

For a film so interested in the public's malleability, The Take isn't particularly good at controlling its own audience.

Dakota Fanning's Wendy is less a truly thought-through character than a compendium of quirks.

Men is ultimately about as deep as its title, a swipe at the multi-faceted terribleness of its titular subject that rarely gets beyond being a mere catalogue of the different ways that guys can be irritating around and dangerous toward women.

Daniel Y-Li Grove adeptly creates an icy, über-hip atmosphere of sleek clubs, pulsating synths, and woozy opium trips, a style which has the unfortunate effect of draining much of the cultural specificity from his story.

Onur Tukel attempts to connect Ashley and Veronica’s barbarity to the broader callousness of American life, but the satire is too blunt to really stick.

Though initially compelling, Peter Nick's documentary is fundamentally without a clear perspective on its subject.

In the film, hardly any fact about cystic fibrosis is raised without being doubly, even triply, underlined for viewers.

Just as the director seems to be settling in to tackle some heady ideas, the screenplay’s stale narrative complications instead overtake the film.