Long before I'd gone to a theater and lashed myself to a seat, I formed two expectations about The Perfect Storm.
It is a depressing rule for students of American political discourse that the more one happens to know about a given subject, the more amazing one finds the brazen ignorance that passes for publi
In Me, Myself & Irene, Jim Carrey bullies a series of small children, gets into senseless fights (on the grounds that "he started it") and reverts hungrily to breast-feeding.
The first thing I need to explain about Bruno Dumont's Humanité shouldn't have to be said at all. It's that the film is not a whodunit.
Everyone knows you can't film Remembrance of Things Past, so Raúl Ruiz did it.
I suppose it would be in my financial interest if Rush Limbaugh were to get his wish and become part of the broadcast team for ABC's Monday Night Football.
As Woody Allen awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into Jackie Gleason.
To watch Lars von Trier's The Idiots is to see a dead dog rise and howl at the moon.
According to Gibbon, the emperor Commodus spent the early years of his reign "in a seraglio of three hundred beautiful women and as many boys, of every rank and of every province." Later, adding