Roman Polanski's latest effort is an adaptation of French dramatic auteur—and, for a short while, Nicolas Sarkozy confidante--Yasmine Reza's play “God of Carnage.” After being favorably received onstage, both Broadway and the West End mounted productions to mostly positive acclaim. It seems natural, then, that a film version—a ninety-minute set piece in which the characters barely leave the room

Limelight, the documentary directed by Billy Corben, is perhaps the most apologetic, mournful retelling of a party animal’s life since The People Vs. Larry Flynt, or at least, Blow. Given Corben’s kid-gloves treatment of his subject—1970s-through-‘90s dance club kingpin Peter Gatien—you may, by the end of this coke-fueled, debauchery-drenched saga, confuse Gatien with Saint Teresa of Avila herself. But whether you

No one wants to watch a movie about the Yankees. No one wants to watch Throwing Money At It: Superstars, Dollar Signs, and Left-handed Relief Pitching. No one wants to hear the story about how the Pinstripes used their massive financial advantages to hire the best coaches, scouts and players in order to forge an American League dynasty--and guess what: they did it! There is no market in the American imagination for the Goliaths of Gotham. We love the

The new short “No Direction,” written and directed by UCLA film grad Melissa Finell, follows a young college graduate named Jamie, who happens to be a lesbian, as she tries to figure out what on earth she's going to do with her brand-new philosophy degree. After some disappointing interviews and general aimlessness, Jamie falls in love with the soothing, Teutonic voice of her parents' G.P.S. and fantasizes about all the different paths

I've said it before and I'll say it again: there is nothing more disappointing than a film that throws away a perfectly good premise only to find itself subsequently wallowing in mediocrity. Take for evidence the last-gasp-of-summer thriller “Apollo 18,” which lurched into theaters recently. Its promotional clips and trailers all looked tantalizing; it billed itself as the unholy offspring of “Apollo 13” and “Alien"

Sam Peckinpah’s “Straw Dogs,” released forty years ago, is perhaps the most thematically confused thriller ever made. On the surface, it’s a standard fish-out-of-water/revenge story: a stuffy professor, David (Dustin Hoffman) and his lithe, blonde, British housewife Amy (Susan George) are tormented by hooligans—including Amy’s ex-boyfriend—when they move back to her rustic England hometown. At first, these roughnecks, who

It boils down to this: Drive is a decent film but I find its critical adoration bordering on reactionary. It’s fun to watch a team play in its throwback uniforms one game each year, and yes, Drive’s combination of sun-tinged neo-noir, eye-contact chemistry, gear grinding chases and silent leading man charisma makes chilling entertainment. But ever since its release at Cannes this May, the real attraction has been as a “man, they don’t make them like they used to