Director Martin Scorsese and Leonardo DiCaprio revisit the anything-goes late ’80s and early ’90s with such debauchery that it should elicit abject horror but mostly plays as comedy.
Entertainment Columns
In the hands of Emma Thompson, “Mary Poppins” author P.L. Travers is a spoonful of something, all right, but it sure ain’t sugar.
For a movie that’s all about literally going home again, “The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug” is further proof of just how hard it is to do so figuratively.
“Out of the Furnace’s” plot is almost stunningly straightforward. No twists, no turns. There’s literally nothing fancy about it. Director Scott Cooper just trusts his talented cast to burrow deep into their roles.
James Franco is both the best and the worst thing about “Homefront,” the new backwoods thriller in which Jason Statham turns rednecks into broken-necks.
How good is “Dallas Buyers Club”? Matthew McConaughey shed nearly 50 pounds for his role, blows the walls off of whatever boxes Hollywood has put him in and doesn’t utter a single “awright, awright, awright.”
“The Hunger Games: Catching Fire” should more than satisfy the cravings of fans who’ve spent the 20-month gap between movies quivering with anticipation.
Unless you’ve spent the past few weeks under a rock — assuming that rock lacked access to Wi-Fi, cellular data and over-the-air TV and radio transmissions, as well as run-of-the-mill chatterboxes — you’re now painfully aware that Friday marks the 50th anniversary of the Kennedy assassination.
“Thor” was half of a very good superhero movie. Thrust into a civilization of Earthlings he couldn’t quite comprehend, Chris Hemsworth’s swaggering Asgardian made for some delightful god-of-thunder-out-of-water moments.
It’s not the kind of thing most moviegoers are itching to see.
It’s being positioned as “The Hangover” for the stooped over. A raucous “Cocoon” in a casino. But “Last Vegas” isn’t that movie.
With his first screenplay, Cormac McCarthy and director Ridley Scott have unleashed what’s either a soon-to-be-legendary misfire destined for a midnight cult audience or a work of staggering genius that operates on a level too advanced for me to grasp.
By now, raving about Benedict Cumberbatch has become as commonplace as chatting about the weather or complaining about that thing Miley Cyrus won’t stop doing with her tongue.
The traditional rollout of prestige pics is still more than a month away, yet successive weeks already have brought “Prisoners,” “Rush” and “Gravity.” Now, so is “Captain Phillips.”
There are worse ways to spend 90 minutes than having Sandra Bullock repeatedly tumble into your lap.
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