Alex Cross is a bad film, and that’s all there is to say on the matter.
Early on House at the End of the Street had me intrigued. By the midsection I was completely captivated by it. But by the end? By that point I was ready to throw things at the screen and howl my disapproval at how wildly off the rails this Hitchcockian enterprise in suspense and terror had suddenly become.
Cosmopolis may be a mess, but it’s still something of a glorious one, and for those willing to take the ride they’ll have ridden shotgun in a journey they’re unlikely to forget anytime soon.
The moral of this story is universal and, especially in a heated election season filled with double-speak, specious innuendo and outright lies, everyone everywhere should listen to.
It’s all a great deal of fun, but there is also no avoiding that The Bourne Legacy, an expansion of the universe begun with The Bourne Identity, does feel a bit inconsequential.
The Woman in the Fifth is as coldly obtuse and emotionally distant as anything I’ve had the misfortune to come across this year.
Who are we? Where do we come from? Where do we go from here? Are we alone in the universe? These are just a few of the questions Prometheus asks, the end product not so much reaching for answers as it is more interested in reigniting the cooling embers of an age-old debate.
McTeigue’s thriller is a massive missed opportunity, The Raven leaving my tell-tale-heart wanting and to the idea of ever watching it again in the future I can boil my feelings down to a single word: Nevermore.
Sound of My Voice is haunting me. I find myself mulling over various segments in a way that has dug under my skin in some sort of uncomfortably luscious fashion, burrowing its way into the very marrow of my bones.