When I want to watch a movie that explores what makes people tick, I watch Sydney Lumet. Human dramas with complex, layered characters (even if he barely ever wrote the screenplays, though he did write Night Falls on Manhattan). Because he made his directorial debut in 1957 with 12 Angry Men, he could write your own ticket and Lumet’s ticket is often exposes and morality plays. In his best works, he is forcing his well-drawn, near-puritanical protagonists into a crisis…

Randall Wallace is like a more talented, schmaltzy McG; he’s tremendously unsubtle and trafficking in broad, borderline hackneyed cliches but ultimately finding a much warmer, satisfying end-product. Take any number of screenplay elements at work here: The jarhead gatekeeping distrust of Gibson’s Harvard, “academic pussy” approach to general-ing which includes READING and OUTLINING which basically amounts to “don’t get ambushed or massacred”; or Ryan Hurst’s telling Sam Elliot good morning and repeatedly being told to fuck off with a promised…

Sweatier than it needs to be. In a movie (now franchise) where autism is a superpower, you’d think the braintrust would embrace the stupidity of the concept and drop all pretenses of following the regular rules of drama, but you’d be wrong. You can almost imagine the production meetings where they refuse to make it even sillier “out of respect for those inflicted with autism,” as if showing Affleck needing to flagellate himself with a bed post while blindfolded set…

Guy Ritchie might as well change his name to the Tarantino-inspired Gentlemen’s 7 because he’s consistently following in his peer’s footsteps to lesser effect. Here we have yet another “Tarantino did that first” with Ritchie trying his hand at a WW2, Dirty Dozen-esque band of ruffian brothers trying to win the war for the Allies or else. (Does Ritchie even have a POV or angle other than “cool”? And yes, people did this before Tarantino, but it really feels like…

Edge of the Axe sports a great title and cover art (masked man has chopped a couple of fingers off a victim) and hums along with enough mood and inexplicable oddness to get you there. After a memorably badass opening slow-mo kill at a carwash (likely highlight of the film), a 20-something computer genius (and his moped) moves into a picturesque mountain town where he bunks with his not-Grandpa and befriends the local 20-something gold-digging fumigator who married a sugar…

Sly in the desert(s) of Afghanistan vs a couple of helicopters (which come to think of it, is kind of every one of the first three films in this franchise, right?). Sly is ripped to shreds, he has a couple of quality beats with ing cast, his monosyllabic deadpans are top-notch (“I’m not a tourist.” “You’re not sorry for getting me into this.” and so on), and the Hind D (or whatever) footage is awesome. (Other than Apocalypse Now, maybe…

Saltburn at the Clue Mansion. Somewhere in this quasi-disaster is a decent commentary on idle wealth and how the sins of the parents cause their kids to be fucked up in their relationships, but you’d have to comb pretty hard to find it amid the staggering levels of soupy garbage and tonal whiplash.

In another one of those “Patrick Dempsey is the hottest man alive,” meatball-esque rom-coms from the late 80s/early 90s, Dempsey is Jennifer Connelly’s ex-college beau and wouldn’t…

Prey is easily the second-best Predator movie. As a former Totally Rad Show head, I know Director Dan Trachtenberg has seen his share of the Predator catalog and knows what makes these movies work: seeing the Predator use his camo and futuristic tech to outsmart and overpower hapless victims.

This go round, there seems to be an inevitable but purposeful nerfing of the Predator’s abilities, but I think it works because (1) this is set in the 1700s, and (2)…

I really liked this, sue me. While not as New Hollywood/Three Days of the Condor as the trailers would suggest (try Winter Soldier, if you want more of that), this does sport an old-fashioned gumshoe, government potboiler vibe that I really dug. Cap-Falcon (and his Avenger-in-training sidekick Torres) is out here following leads, roughing up hoods, and sticking it to the man, while a larger conspiracy closes in around him.

The biggest compliment I can give this movie is that…

A joyous journey through the 60s and a fresh-faced band’s trip to the top of the (fictional) charts. Great cast, great vibes, great ing Tom Hanks performance, and great and catchy songs written specifically for the film. I know this movie like the back of my hand, but I don’t think it ever hit me until this viewing how everyone in the “Playtone galaxy” is already one-hit wonders who are either enjoying their newfound success or hate their popular songs…

Final Destination 6 (Bloodlines), where have you been all my life? A perfectly cromulent sequel without all of the legacy-ing to show that, yes, Virginia, there is room for more horror sequels. See, somewhere along the line, Hollywood got the idea to kneecap lengthy franchises (I’m particularly thinking of horror here). Diminishing box office returns? Corporate tastes shifted? Whatever it was, sequels are back and en vogue like never before. All hail the corporate overlords as long as they provide…

In my pop culture-addled brain, Rambo in this movie is an iconic archetype – the vengeful Angel of Death who lives only to rescue his fallen comrades and mete out revenge on those who left them behind. In my mind’s eye, he stands there in a blank void, perpetually caked in mud with his hand extended waiting for his exfil, while the enemy closes in all around him. Like Death playing chess (or Twister or Battleship), he is emotionless (except…