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According to this movie, Thomas Edison (Kyle MacLachlan) and Nikola Tesla (Ethan Hawke) were like Mozart and Salieri if Mozart and Salieri had been anything like they are portrayed in Amadeus — but then Tesla has as tenuous a hold on reality as Amadeus does, sans all the things that make Milos Forman’s film otherwise great.

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Chemical Hearts has a very short attention span and requires that the audience has the retentive memory of a gold fish as well.

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As actors, even playing fictionalized versions of themselves, the Foo Fighters are great musicians. Fans of the band needn’t worry though; based on the evidence of Studio 666, the Foos won’t be quitting their day jobs any time soon. This movie appears to be shooting for the same cult classic status as Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park, but I think it’s more likely to inspire suicide cults than anything else.

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John Cho has come a long way since American Pie — well, not that long; Don’t Make Me Go’s opening credits are accompanied by shots of old people frolicking on a nude beach.

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Poker Face does one thing (and one thing only) well: it shows people playing poker without turning into a fucking tutorial, like Paul Schrader’s The Card Counter. Now, if only it were about poker, like The Cincinnati Kid. Or about gambling in general, like California Split or The Gambler. Or about something — anything at all.

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Like the Tate-LaBianca murders, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is a senseless catastrophe, and like Charles Manson’s Helter Skelter scenario, the film’s script is but the incoherent ranting and raving of an egomaniacal lunatic.

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I’d really like to like Black Bear. I actually was really liking it a lot, even enjoying it, right up to the halfway point, where the whole thing comes crashing down faster than Kevin Spacey’s career.

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I hope, for Jonah Hill’s sake, that Stutz will turn out to be some sort of elaborate anti-joke in the same vein as Joaquin Phoenix’s I’m Still Here. Not that the latter warranted imitation, but rather because then I would know that Hill doesn’t really take seriously all this New Agey hogwash. Alas, he appears to sincerely believe that this glorified self-help tape is going to help anyone other than himself.

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Resolution is, for lack of a better term, a neolovecraftian film, relying more on personal conflict and atmosphere than on ‘jump scares’ or visual effects, developing an absorbing, character-driven plot along the way.

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“Why do I have to talk about gender all the time?,” asks Kelsa (Eva Reign) in one of her YouTube videos. This is a damned good question; too bad writer Ximena García Lecuona and director Billy Porter didn’t ask themselves the same thing.

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Attack of the Murder Hornets, despite its B-movie title — and being treated as such a couple of times by director Michael Paul Stephenson (the introductory caption wherein “The Honeybee” is quoted as saying “If we die, we are taking you with us,” is almost as silly as Kill Bill’s “old Klingon proverb”) —, it’s actually about a pretty serious subject.

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The System truly has failed if this loafer budget movie is the best that the great Terrence Howard can aspire to. Why ‘loafer budget’? Because it’s so cheap it can’t afford to be shoestring. The problem, though, is not so much lack of funds as lack of ideas. This film is not just cheapo; it’s dumbo. To put it in perspective, not just Howard but even Tyrese Gibson could and should be doing better than this.

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‘Mediocre at best’ may sound like an oxymoron, but it’s the best descriptor for Borrego. It’s not terribly bad (nor awfully good), but it would be better if writer/director Jesse Harris allowed it to be itself instead of trying to pass it off as something it isn’t — especially considering that the difference between the one thing and the other is almost negligible.

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Killing Gunther is intended as a mockumentary, but I would call it instead a fuck-U-mentary — as in, ‘fuck the people who made it.’

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Demolition feels familiar, and we can recognize elements we’ve seen elsewhere, but while some of it is clichéd, the outside-the-box use of some of those familiar elements is in itself refreshing; furthermore, Jake Gyllenhaal provides another stellar performance.

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Movies like this one never fail to remind me of Cameron Diaz’s “crazy bitch mother” character in My Sister’s Keeper. The difference is that we weren’t really meant to sympathize with Diaz until she eventually relented and stopped being such a bitch. Here, however, Melissa Leo achieves the seemingly impossible feat of making Bella Thorne comparatively likable.

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Dracula: The Original Living Vampire, ostensibly a Morbius mockbuster, is the latest in a long line of public domain hackjobs (excluding Francis Coppola’s comparatively faithful adaptation) that shit all over Bram Stoker’s novel.

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Equals is a hodgepodge of Nineteen Eighty-Four, The Island (and, by extension, Parts: The Clonus Horror), and most incongruously of all, Romeo and Juliet. The result is, ostensibly, a sci-fi flick — albeit one whose fiction is unoriginal and its science unscientific.

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Hope Ranch is not the movie that will make me return to church, unless it’s to pray that they don’t make any more movies like it.

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JP

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