The End Of The Tour: Chatting Up David Foster Wallace
Annoying reporter meets awesome writer. No drama ensues.
Annoying reporter meets awesome writer. No drama ensues.
In which we find questionable those insisting we stop complaining about computer graphics overwhelming movies.
Let’s just pretend it doesn’t exist and never speak of it again.
Stanley Kubrick’s last film, Eyes Wide Shut, is fucked up.
What’s this? A non-moralizing coming-of-age movie about a teenage girl? Tis rare indeed, but here it is, in all its ’70s glory.
In which killer rocks from outer space come for our women.
Tarantino’s debut is no cakewalk.
Saying it’s the best in the series may not be saying a lot, but it’s saying something. Something like: Gosh, this ain’t half bad.
This is a film full of shrinking potential.
Will you go to the Maze Prom with me?
In which we examine the fabled slasher video hit with the crazy-pants ending.
It’s all gunplay, explodey bits, and kisses from here on out. Whatever planet they’re on seems pretty disposable. And flammable.
I have found the great white whale of bad films. It is so staggeringly incompetent that it makes you long for the narrative cohesion of Highlander 2: The Quickening.
Matthew Vaughn’s Kingsman: The Secret Service is so clever it’s not clever at all.