Toy Story 4: Retconning Childhood
Revisiting childhood after it’s over can make it more complicated than it should be. Pixar fumbled another one.
Revisiting childhood after it’s over can make it more complicated than it should be. Pixar fumbled another one.
The talk of what it means to be a Mary Sue has gotten so emotional that I think it’s time for the term to disappear. But not before my final word.
An ensemble cluster of action and color anchored by one of the best villains in the genre. The series’ most essential film.
About as bad as a movie of its kind could be. The franchise equivalent of suicide ideation.
A ton of effort goes into figuring out what to do with a Kung fu movie. It can be beautiful, and it can also fall apart in your hands.
It’s like a workout — a lot of flexing and then a lot of fatigue. Good movies never have to try this hard.
If Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was a tour of fantasy-land (who else thought their feelings seemed stuffed with baubles like gift-bags from a theme park?), The Chamber of Secrets is like accidentally wandering into the maintenance closet. Something is disenchanted by it, and I can think of no harsher criticism, to call something squinty that once was wide-eyed.
Alien: Resurrection is not unified by its cynicism as Robocop was. It’s not a satire of us, but just a satire of Alien movies. It’s never boring and that’s actually something, in the realm of fourth entries. The reason this film is in the category of “Everyone Else is Wrong” is not because I think it’s good, but because I don’t know what people were expecting.
Cinema’s strongest action lady brings us the most charming gore-fest ever made.
I’m aware that Alien 3 had a troubled development and a schizophrenic screenwriting cycle, all documented to any reasonable human’s satisfaction on Wikipedia. But if the result had been miraculous, Fincher would have reaped the credit as a directorial miracle worker. Blame is now the price of that possibility.
Superman II is exciting even in its flaws: even its badness seems to defy other kinds of movies, like so long as Superman is on top of this, everything else will be okay.
Visually daunting and perfectly performed, it’s easy to ignore the film’s muddled plot and struggle to justify its existence.
If Raiders was a backyard adventure where we put on our explorer’s hat and went bucket-and-shoveling out into the woods for buried treasure, The Last Crusade is like watching a home movie of it. It’s still got the same gee-whizz endearment but in a “boy, don’t we look silly” kind of way.
A totally sparkling view of living with manners and believing in beauty. Everyone was opening the doors for each other on the way out of the theater.
No one said Pirates movies were cinematically healthy, but up till now there have been defenders of each film at least regarding tastiness. Dead Men Tell No Tales is like Davy Jones in previous films: chained to the job he was hired to do despite having no heart.
A home setting becomes a pressure cooker of nicety and resilience. Tremendous, tiny horror.
The Thing’s lack of a stable form worked for Carpenter, who was able to squeeze a pure and palpable uncertainty out of never knowing who or what the Thing exactly was. But in Heijningen’s version, it seems to be more a matter of horror tradition than the transcription of a bold idea.
A nauseating movie. I’d say it was hedonistic but that requires it to be pleasurable at some point.
The title card of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, blazoned in its pulpy font across the opening dance act of shimmering waists at club Obi Wan, was the moment a great movie became a brand. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. After all, Indy’s adventures were born as serials, each entry a new exotic locale, another damsel, another sidekick, a new hellish fortress to conquer with a whip-cracking grin.