Isherwood

Every second sentence is a catchphrase and every first shot scores a hit. The change in director is both noticeable and not noticeable, and it depends mainly on whether you are willing to accept the last one after the elegant genre breaks when the heroes ride out toward the obligatory action finale in an armored jeep. Until then, everything works without the slightest flaw, although you don't know whether to admire Končalovskij's wild action or to fall out of your chair laughing at the verbal skirmishes. Either way, Stallone and Russell are having the time of their lives.

In the context of superficially polished heist styles, it's actually the absolute peak, and you can't ask for more. Sure, you may want a plot that doesn't borrow from everywhere and characters who are more than just uncompromising muscle heads, but every once in a while, it is possible to survive one of these. This is especially true if you assemble a high-quality group of proper actors off the bench. [PS: If the quality of the director's films maintains a continuous rise over the same time span, we can look forward to a top-five hit in 2020. :-)]

Yup, the hillbilly rhetoric and horny teenager humor are more or less Rogen's trademark, which is certainly not a complaint by me. However, the script full of infantile humor is tamed by Gondry in the end. He put the perfect stamp of exaggeration on it and turned all that instantaneous crap into a perfect hit, which pleases especially during the action, when playfulness, original ideas, and wit are combined. No, this wasn't supposed to be the second Kick-Ass, but it definitely is the third Iron Man.

This is Touching the Void in a more cinematic, but less emotional package. Boyle cuts back on the poignant sequences and instead serves up a minimalist tale of one self-centered fop for whom a smaller rock was waiting to show him that ego isn't everything. The cinematography, music, editing, and especially the acting are incredibly captivating for the entire ninety minutes, even if all of this can be summed up in a single sentence. Maybe this is how you recognize good filmmaking, and maybe this is what works better than all the sad sights from the slums. But then again, it doesn't collect gold-plated statuettes.

Kosinski will (probably) remain a one-film filmmaker. Whoever watches his commercials on YouTube and then Tron Legacy will understand that this director is a design genius with a unique sense of visuals, which is perfectly emphasized by Daft Punk's music, but he is also an absolutely bland storyteller. The attempts to create something epic are very funny, whereas the rest of it is kind of dysfunctional. And yet, unless you might want a serious cinematic adventure, it doesn't let up because the primitive plot actually doesn't hurt the film at all. Regardless, there are two ways in which the film can be seen. Either just "watch" it (perhaps in HD over time), or "experience" it in 3D (and I say that whilst having quite an aversion to this technology as a cheap decoy from clueless filmmakers).

If I want to see a charismatic Luke Goss, I'll watch Blade 2, if I want Robin Shou, I'll watch Mortal Kombat, and if I want to see some serious tits and ass, I'll just watch porn. This is such a horribly inartistic, disgusting, and generally anti-cool piece of crap that I am ashamed of the filmmakers. It's not about the plot- that's classic B-movie broth - it's about the fact that Reiné is a total loser who defines new intimidating examples with his cinematography, editing, and overall composition of action sequences. The perfect opposite of the "brilliant" first film.

The equipment from which MacGyver would make a mining drill, an air supply that exceeds the physical limit of volume and a phone signal that would make a regular operator pay in gold are compensated by an unpredictable plot and an excellent Ryan Reynolds. What is most surprising is that the director squeezes the original concept throughout the entire runtime, without any significant slump or climax. Rodrigo Cortés is a concept for the future, and not just for those opening "Hitchcock credits." 4 ½.

You can stone me, but Aronofsky is repeating himself for the third time and it's getting old. Although he once again emphasizes the physicality and the decay of the soul and body, the film lacks any sort of more prominent moment that I haven't seen from him before. The lacerated fingers do hurt, but what I saw here was more so pseudo-art, where he gracefully tiptoes around but doesn't get to the core even once. The metamorphoses at the end amused me unintentionally rather than making me feel any kind of gradation or even catharsis. However, I can understand the standing ovation the film receives.

Scott has tamed the visual orgy down to a minimum, instead letting James T. Kirk and Senor Creasy put the brakes on the Runaway Train, which is pumping at maximum warp drive. All this in the year's most suspenseful film, where I involuntarily let out a few "Wow!" moments. Without a drop of shame, I admit that I was hoping for a happy ending, just like the emotional American families of heroes on TV screens, or when clichés and adrenaline work in the best possible ratio. [Coincidentally watched on a train.]

Objectively, this is perhaps a great pseudo-documentary that is easy to believe as portrayed, but subjectively a bland affair. That’s mainly because these sadistic games of various nutters have left me feeling slight apathy lately. There’s no fear, no tension, just a few blurry shots of women suffering, which basically just pass me by. Dowdle is capable of better craft.