You will believe everything that happens.
In which a rapper tells you about movies.
Just pretend it’s a Star Wars movie and that the two leads are supposed to be as charismatic as canned salmon.
They had the skill. They had the cred and the time and resources and, yet, what they have produced is so pube-straightingly, joint-invertingly, ghastly terrible you will not stop removing your eyes to check if they’re still working properly from the time it starts to its thankful finish.
Three Billboards is more of a Twin Peaks ruse; a rusty nail upon which to hang an assortment of meaty, twisted, and — yes — angry characters.
You all wrote off The Lone Ranger as big-budget Hollywood tripe but you were excessively incorrect. Are you equally mistaken to dismiss Verbinski’s latest, A Cure for Wellness?
A pleasant half-hour of light gags interspersed with 100 minutes of grueling, plotless CGI boredom does not a movie make.
Harry Dean Stanton is Lucky.
Imagine if you took Mad Max and mixed it with mumblecore and maybe a dash of Hal Hartley. Just, you know, with cannibals and psychedelics and fear of the other.
You know what film I knew was going to be terrible within the first three minutes?
Logan Lucky frames itself as a paean to the people of the Mid-Atlantic and their underrated pluck. ‘Take me home, country roads,’ it croons, but I was not tempted.
Atomic Blonde lands a welter of punches and leaves you reeling — which is great, because once you stop spinning you’re sure to say, “hang on a minute…”
It is a film about the tragic cycle of revenge and how fun it is to watch that played out in vivid color.
Hey look! It’s a goddamned lemur. Far out.