A very pretty, sometimes funny, sometimes adorable, sometimes boring Wes Anderson doghouse. Dollhouse, that is. But with dogs. Lots of dogs.
A pleasant half-hour of light gags interspersed with 100 minutes of grueling, plotless CGI boredom does not a movie make.
I can’t wait for Brexit: the Movie. Everyone loves a disaster flick.
Superman belongs to all of us. He was born from the experiences of those new to this country and should continue to be loved by people, whether their families have been here for centuries or for days.
I don’t want to give anything away here, but, um, yeah. This is not a contest. Prepare for the worst.
Cronenberg tells a passionate, tragic love story. With a giant fly monster. And everybody loves it.
The Grand Budapest Hotel is not set in Hungary. It’s set in the imaginary European Republic of Zubrowka. More exactly, it’s set in the little dollhouse of Wes Anderson’s head.
In which we travel to 1970s San Francisco and experience a profound and inescapable paranoia.