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Of all the backward antisemitic canards that somehow persist to this day, arguably the most egregious is the blood libel — which is why it’s a shame that Blood Relatives, with its intriguing premise of a Jewish vampire, turns out to be such a bloodless affair, both literally and more importantly figuratively.

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The Lurker is a love letter to the slashers of the 80s that reads as if it was written by someone with an IQ well below 80.

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This movie may be A Banquet, but it’s no feast. It has no fat in it, but no meat either. It’s lean but not muscular — nothing but skin and bones. It might whet your appetite for similar but heartier offerings such as Take Shelter, Horse Girl, or Kreuzweg — but then why not just skip the apéritif and go straight for the main course?

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The Harbinger’s mishmash of a plot is put together with familiar elements from countless other, superior films; there’s even a little The Shining thrown in for good measure, only instead of ‘Redrum’ we get “Flesruoy Llik.” Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, though.

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According to Wikiquote, a “British official” once said that Idi Amin needed “things explained in words of one letter.” Similarly, it is one of The Last King of Scotland’s several flaws that it assumes we need things seen through the eyes of a white Westerner.

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If nothing else, the 2013 version of Embrace of the Vampire sets the bar even lower than the 1995 film of which it is a remake. That particular bar, mind you, was already so low that perhaps only Barbados Slim could have passed under it.

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An American remake of a European film that fails to address the original’s fatal flaw; i.e., that it was too American for a European film.

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I Used to Go Here is an alleged comedy about a hack who admits that “I’m not good enough to write a good book so I wrote a shitty book.” Not only has this premise been lifted from a Family Guy episode, but the movie’s sense of humor is as half-assed as it is unoriginal.

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Slumberland is on the right side of serviceable; familiar without being contemptible, heartfelt without being saccharine.

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Dry Martina (as far as I can tell this is the original title; why the movie, made by, for, and about South American people, isn’t called Martina Seca — which would preserve the pun —, I haven’t the foggiest) reminds me of both Lana Del Rey’s song “Fucked My Way Up to the Top” and Kevin Pollak’s book How I Slept My Way to the Middle.

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I’ve watched a lot of idiotic movies, but never have I seen one that defends the notion of ‘ignorance is bliss’ as zealously as this one.

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In 2257 AD, the colonists of the planet New World, all men, have been afflicted with a condition called the Noise, which causes everyone to see and hear each other’s thoughts. Judging by the level of intelligence the characters exhibit, this ought be a deafeningly silent planet.

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Pistolera is an action movie with dialogue in English and Spanish, written by someone who can’t speak either.

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Redeeming Love looks great. It features great locations shot with great cinematography, but that’s about all director D.J. Caruso can do to entice us to keep watching. It’s terrific to see a story unfolding in a non-CGI, true-to-life setting, even if it’s Cape Town standing in for California, but while this movie arguably achieves the western look, it fails to conjure up any sort of western feel.

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For a movie called Alone, the cabin where the heroine was supposedly going to enjoy unperturbed peace and quiet quickly fills up with a shitload of fucking people.

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The Watcher is about a tormented FBI agent and a deranged serial killer. For some reason, James Spader plays the former and Keanu Reeves the latter, when it’s obvious to anyone familiar with both actors’ careers that it should be the other way around.

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I Am Mortal fights the status quo and the status quo beats the shit out of the movie. This is yet another dystopian utopia that would be ironic if all movie utopias weren’t in fact dystopian. The curse in disguise this time around is immortality (real fucking original).

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Whether by design or accident, the most important thing in this film is not Story, or History, or even Truth, but Art; specifically, the craft of acting. The plot takes a backseat to the characters, and the script to the actors.

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Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie must have been very hard to describe if they truly fell somewhere in between John Wayne and Billy Bob Thornton, and Richard Widmark and Jason Patric, respectively
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JP

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