Pete Vonder Haar

Quinn Shephard’s directorial debut, Blame, leans heavily on this persistent despair, yes, but also leverages it in innovative and occasionally startling ways.

Carpenter isn’t a polished interviewer, but her candor and longstanding connections to the sport provide access that we wouldn’t see otherwise.

Shot Caller is Coster-Waldau’s show, and he’s up to the task.

The athleticism on display shames much of Western action cinema’s quick-cut hand-to-hand editing, and the final swordfight between Qi and Japanese general Kumasawa (Shaw Brothers mainstay Yasuaki Kurata) ranks as high as any in recent memory.

Golf's become such a ridiculously well-heeled pastime that it's refreshing to see it portrayed in its infancy, when clubs were carried like a bunch of kindling and the desolate greens of St. Andrews were more like the hazards of today's game.

Aside from the slightly fresh take on a familiar concept, The Boss Baby is barely a moderate success as a kid's flick. Perhaps it will come as good news to studio and audience alike that it works much better as an existential horror movie.

A subject like the Holodomor demands something more than a TV-movie aesthetic and pitched battle scenes featuring a couple dozen combatants.

Everybody Loves Somebody won’t reinvent the (third) wheel, but the knowing dialogue and convincingly human characters are a refreshing break from the norm and worthy of your attention.

The unique setting aside, there's just not much to sink your fangs into.

Yoga Hosers is lazy, unfunny, and self-indulgent.

Director Adam Randall keeps the action tightly paced and the dialogue to a refreshing minimum, helping to heighten Matt's growing isolation.

70 odd minutes of medical tragedy and cops matching wits with criminals devolves into incongruously balletic gunplay accentuated with CGI blood effects so terrible Sam Peckinpah is doing cocaine in his grave. It’s a weirdly calamitous tonal shift, erasing the scant goodwill we’d felt to this point and putting Three down for the count once and for all.

Vaxxed is, in the words of Sheriff Bart, the last act of a desperate man. It’s Andrew Wakefield’s Hail Mary, thrown — I hope — as his time in the public arena finally runs out.

Standoff holds up as a welcome alternative to its more strident brethren.

Convergence ends up squandering too much of its setup time and rushing to a largely unsatisfying conclusion instead of actually coming together in a meaningful way.

The Hallow offers plenty of scares and is unnerving from wire to wire, wrapping up the second act with a bang and red-lining the tension until the end.

There's much to like here, and ample scares for your brains.

While his story is moving, Godspeed would perhaps have been more powerful if Barry spent more time balancing Jones's relative good fortune with the monumental hurdles faced by the less fortunate with similar injuries, instead of touching upon the issue in the film's final minutes.

It doesn't hurt to have excellent support from the likes of Emma Roberts (as Ed's love interest Eloise) and Sarah Silverman, surprisingly winning as Ed's affection-starved mother. But it's Wolff and Rourke who have to carry the load, and for the most part they do.

L.A. Slasher isn't perceptive, shocking, or funny, and if it's remembered for anything, it will be for the tastelessly tone-deaf decision to have the Slasher kill a black actress by dragging her behind a van.

Bound to Vengeance strains credibility (seriously, she never calls the cops?) and swerves dangerously close to exploitation often enough that its semi-clever premise can't keep it on course.

Predictably ridiculous.

Ferrara, best known as "Turtle" on HBO's Entourage, plays what is essentially a muted version of that character. Abeckaser is more believable, which is unsurprising, since the movie is loosely based on his own experiences.

Perhaps even more disturbing than the Dickensian in extremis ordeal of Svalka life — including her rational yet heartbreaking decision to give up her baby rather than raise it in the dump — is Yula's straightforward acceptance of her situation.

The movie works because Christina's desire to help these kids feels natural, and because she herself shoulders burdens that would drive most people to the grave, all without losing her faith.

What starts as a somewhat charming — if prosaic — story of love in the time of gentrification inexplicably spends most of its third act mired in the finer points of apartment hunting, like a tastefully lit HGTV show.

Messina, making his directorial debut, keeps it simple. Alex undergoes a surprising amount of personal maturation in a week, but Winstead never lets the character bog down in excessive navel-gazing.

Home Sweet Hell is a pleasantly unpleasant dark comedy, one that gives new meaning to "detached and subdivided" in the mass production zone.

In spite of the tatty "coming of age" familiarity, Johnson's vision seems fresh and vibrant.

Lowell hews so close to the reunion-film formula he ends up stifling anything new that may otherwise have resulted.

Glendon Swarthout’s 1988 novel offered a rare approach to those Old West stories by shifting the focus to the women and children who often bore its brunt the worst, and Jones has — for the most part — successfully captured this, often in devastating fashion.

The tension in Missionary is surprisingly effective, especially given how easy it should be to put out an APB on a guy on a freaking bicycle, and there are enough scares to remind you to keep the chain latched when those polite young men in the slacks and neckties drop by.

The most interesting aspects of the film — the real pressures felt by caregivers; popular perception of the severely disabled — are obliterated by the heavy-handed script and Swank’s inspirational bromides.

It's serviceable.

A broad and occasionally disjointed indictment of the New York art scene and horrorcore rap that leaves no broad side of a barn untargeted.

The Calling breathes new life into a moribund genre by touching oft-ignored themes and offering a bit of introspection to go along with the obligatory slashed throats and biblical portents.

What makes The Dog so compelling isn't Wojtowicz's cinematic imprint but the place in history that was very likely denied him by chance and his own irascibility.

Wolf Creek 2 merely offers more of the same casual brutality. The only shocking (and depressing) part is how inured to it moviegoers have become.

Biyi Bandele's Half of a Yellow Sun strikes an admirable balance between drama and history.

Locker 13 brings the hurt, and not in a good way.

Intermittently refreshing yet thoroughly unpleasant.

Mostly, Guilty of Romance seems content allowing characters to verbally abuse each other before eventually reaching the inevitable conclusion that life is a burden and all love is illusory.

Sommers's script relies on rapid-fire banter between Odd, girlfriend Stormy Llewellyn (Addison Timlin) — yes, that's her real name — and Chief Porter (Dafoe), but occasionally feels forced.

Hey, Crave, the jerk store called, and they're running out of you.

It's in the film's second half that Parkland goes all Tony Romo and fumbles. Instead of becoming truly engrossing, it threatens to descend into unreserved melodrama.

It isn't until the ending, which turns the squirm amplifier up to 11 and exceeded even my horrific expectations, that we finally see the story's potential realized.

Matti sets a brisk pace, utilizing the squalor and desperation of Manila's slums and prisons as well as powerful, against-type performances by Torre and Pascual to give us a familiar yet engaging thriller (with more than a few surprises).

The testimonials from a few of these people, with the realization they speak for tens of thousands, reinforces Inequality for All's sobering message while at the same time undercutting Reich's optimism.

The doc affords us a look into a world rarely seen by the lumpenproletariat, though we could have done with fewer aerial/time-lapse shots and more history.

As an official history, Spark shines adequate light; I just wish it had spent a little more time on the shadows.

Kinkle shows a deft hand at pacing and the gore is kept to a minimum.

The endless hidden connections and coincidences eventually become ridiculous.

Writer-director Clément Michel can't escape the usual infant-related movie pitfalls.

Vlahakis's tale should be compelling, but a weak script and mostly dull performances (one exception: Billy Zane . . . I know!) make A Green Story more monotonous than mythic.

With striking visuals reminiscent of Matisse and Chagall and a refreshingly (for domestic animation audiences) grown-up storyline, The Painting is almost reminiscent of, well, a work of art.

Desperate Acts of Magic is a pleasant little film.

The depressingly predictable script—and tendency of everyone involved to jump to ridiculous conclusions—suggests a combination of Noises Off at best, and at worst, Three's Company.

Scary Movie V murdered my capacity to feel joy.

What starts out as a moderately interesting thriller in the vein of Blue Velvet and Angel Heart ends up less than the sum of its portentous parts.

Hunky Dory isn't blazing any trails, but if you're not wholly burned out by the genre and/or look back fondly on the Glam era, you'll find musicals haven't yet completely gone to the (diamond) dogs.

Firewall’s predictable second half betrays the film's early promise.

Borat isn't just one of the funniest movies of the year, it might be one of the funniest movies of all time.

So who did kill the electric car? There are many suspects, and as it turns out, most of them are guilty.

A thoroughly enjoyable film, and ranks with Pixar's best.

Fails to satisfy.

The Longest Yard lives or dies with its physical humor, a form of recent comedy I like to call slapstick sadism.

On the whole, The Brothers Grimm is a mess; a formerly daring director’s attempt to cash in on big studio backing even after the rug has been pulled out from under him.

Works best when it sticks to some of the tenets of successful horror; namely, gore and surprise.

I thoroughly enjoyed the street level perspective of the world being destroyed, it just would've been nice if they hadn't crapped out at the end.

One of the drawbacks to rushing your sequel to theaters is that there's not a lot of time to hone dialogue and performances.

It's noisy, nonsensical, and will fade from your consciousness even before you make it out of the theater lobby, but it's entertaining enough, and Tamahori throws us a few curve balls to keep things interesting.

Hairspray isn’t all that bad, frankly. The songs are catchy, most of the leads are engaging enough (Blonksy and Bynes especially), and there’s just enough low-key subversiveness to keep everything from getting too saccharine.

Leatherheads is as trifling as Clooney’s second movie (“Good Night and Good Luck”) was significant, but that’s okay. It succeeds where so many other romantic comedies fail because of a superior script and because everyone involved has the good sense not to take themselves too seriously.

A visual triumph, and also a work of surprising warmth. No small accomplishment for a bunch of cadavers.

The Dark Knight may not be a masterpiece, but it easily vaults to the top of any list of "best superhero movies."

It has its share of eye-rolling moments, but at its heart there's a decent story.

Too often, the movie follows up Adams’ chaotic humor with weak slapstick and the incongruous love story.

If Cars is indicative of the kind of movie we can expect from Pixar post-Disney merger, well, there's always Miyazaki.

Should have billed itself as a fairy tale, as that’s the only possible way to swallow what Prince-Bythewood and Kidd are feeding us.

Breach is a look at the insecurities and flaws we all carry, it just happens to be embedded in the story of the worst traitor in FBI history.

It’s funny, it’s smart, and it pokes fun at exactly the things it should (organized religion, big business, and audience itself).

Giamatti has his hands full trying to keep us from thinking about Burgess Meredith.

First-time director James Gartner has managed to whittle away whatever was compelling about the 1966 Miners championship run.

One of the best movies of the year, and a great accomplishment for Messrs. Harmon and Schrab. Maybe now we’ll get a feature length "Robot Bastard" movie.

Like all of his previous films, it's visually arresting - if any recent film embodies the concept of cinema as poetry, this it it - but unlike "Pi" or "Requiem for a Dream," these aren't characters we're ever invested in.

What's more refreshing about Severance is how the movie's humor offsets the violence, and even that is pretty restrained (at least by modern standards).

So remarkably free of laughs I might as well have been watching John Wayne Gacy’s home movies.

It’s a thoroughly intense and mostly entertaining movie.

Every rumor you’ve heard about this film is true; it’s an absolute wreck.

An oddly sweet little tale, and easily Ferrell’s most enjoyable movie in recent memory. And even though his onscreen chemistry with Gyllenhaal fills me with murderous rage, this film goes a long way towards erasing the memory of his more obnoxious roles.

Too much of the time, Jackson is a complete blank, like he's bored with his own story.

Right out of the gate, we realize that bringing the series to the big screen makes the flaws that much more obvious. The voices are too thin, the music and lyrics too simplistic, and the production values are – frankly – too "televisual."

A sweetly engaging effort that manages a fair amount of charm and innocence in spite of the rather seedy surroundings.

Kirk and Mol are convincing, easily inhabiting their respective roles.

Two things come to mind as you watch the first act of Street Kings, the first is how fresh and exciting the movie would’ve been if it was released in 1984, the second is the question, “James Ellroy wrote that?”

Director Juan Carlos Fresnadillo, who was essentially handpicked by now-executive producer Danny Boyle, gives us a more depressing look at humanity while retaining several of his predecessor’s moves. This isn’t always a good thing, since Fresnadillo can’t seem to get his fill of low-light hyper-edited fight scenes or frenetic hand-held shots of people running, but when used right it adds to the sense of claustrophobia and impending doom.

The movie is engrossing and well-acted throughout (especially Khan), but ultimately leaves us less optimistic about the prospects for peace.

Not only did those so-called "demons" take the form of animals, but they actually talked!