Exodus: Gods and Burger Kings
The first plague is tornadoes. The second is digital hail. The third is running. Fourth is exploding seagulls and fifth is xenomorphs.
The first plague is tornadoes. The second is digital hail. The third is running. Fourth is exploding seagulls and fifth is xenomorphs.
You can’t change the course of teen culture. All you can do is survive — and pick your friends more carefully.
All the better to void myself in front of you, my dear.
Are you smarter than an Autobot? Prove it, sucker.
Mick looks angry, Keith looks like he’s come to fix the sink, Wood is just joshing, Wyman resembles a cardboard stand-up, and Watts like he’s running sums in his head.
As far as depicting a world gone completely tits up goes, you’d be hard pressed to top the work of Australians.
Not the most imaginative title, but at least it doesn’t have a colon in it.
My faith lies with a young Val Kilmer, even though he cannot, right now, nail a six-inch spike through a board with his penis.
Perhaps it’s just good for a comedy sequel, which is an awfully low bar to leap.
… as mud.
Two characters. One vague villain. Only a whiff of backstory. No transparent lunges towards a potential sequel.
Zombies, ghosts, and poltergeists are (the remains of) people, too.
I should have stopped watching these films after Fast Five.
It is the presidential candidate of films — attempting to be all things to all people and so succeeding in taking a stand on nothing, evincing zero honesty or insight.