Last Christmas has the potential to make a lasting imprint with a lot of viewers, and even if my heart wasn’t always into it that doesn’t mean I’m ready to dismiss the film entirely.

While I didn’t like Playing with Fire the kids in the audience did. Maybe that’s enough.

I had a great time watching Maleficent: Mistress of Evil come to such vibrant, colorfully intoxicating life, and as magic tricks go this is one moribund franchise I’m glad to say has risen from the ashes of its predecessor and found fiery new life as its own, captivatingly idiosyncratic animal.

Outside of its Academy Award-nominated theme song (beautifully sung by Lionel Richie and Diana Ross), I will never understand the enduring appeal of 1981’s Endless Love. It is an anemic adaptation of Scott Spencer’s novel, and in my opinion is arguably the worst motion picture the great Franco Zeffirelli ever directed.

“These women had a mature and complicated relationship. They were equals, collaborators, friends and lovers. This was a moment in their lives, one that made a massive impression upon both of them.”
– Chanya Button

In my opinion this feature’s excellence isn’t up for debate, and to paraphrase one of the two authors if books are the mirrors of the soul than Vita & Virginia is a looking glass overflowing in unvarnished reason and romantically comprehensive understanding everyone needs to see.

For everything Ode to Joy gets right there’s so much that can’t help but ring false, facile and slightly distasteful about this endeavor, the bad taste it left in my mouth after it had concluded one that took a little while to dissipate.

“We don’t have any expectations for our pets. We’re going to love our dog. Even if our dog craps on the floor, we’re going to love our dog. Even if our dog eats our best shoes, we’re going to love our dog.”
– Garth Stein

While there are enough plusses to make The Art of Racing in the Rain moderately agreeable and not particularly difficult to watch, as far as the greater whole is concerned the inelegant mediocrity of its interpersonal human maturations is unquestionably calamitous.