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Even if this story had been told sequentially, it would still be hard to follow with its espionage and counter-espionage, moles, agents and double agents, and above all, its moral ambiguity and political contradictions.

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Juniors seems to think that a kid perpetrating a sick baby hoax is just ‘boys being boys.’ I think it’s more like boys being future sociopaths.

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This film understands the power of the spoken word and uses it to craft a fascinating story that relies more on the viewer’s imagination than on special or visual effects.

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Watching Pretend It’s a City, it’s easy to see why Marty Scorsese enjoys Fran Lebowitz’s company so much. Indeed, one of this miniseries’ greatest pleasures is seeing the usually self-composed filmmaker slapping his knee in a fit of laughter.

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Branching Out could have been a nice little family drama, but they ruined it by putting the plot on autopilot and letting it settle into your average predictable Hallmark romance.

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Tyson makes a big deal about what it is that makes a man a hero or a coward, but the movie is too timorous to venture an opinion as to which category Mike Tyson belongs in.

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I wish Breaking Olympia: The Phil Heath Story had been Breaking Down Olympia instead. You know, give us an insight into the so-called sport of bodybuilding, so that we may understand why the people who practice it and watch it enjoy it so much — because, to me, it was and remains a fucking mystery.

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A Match for the Prince is yet another modern-day fairytale with a literal Prince (not so) Charming from a European monarchy with a patently made-up name, but who speaks the King’s English fluently.

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Thank You, Goodnight: The Bon Jovi Story consists of four one-hour-plus episodes, and in all that time the documentary doesn’t get around to answering the burning question that any old-school fan worth their salt should be yelling from the rooftops: when the fuck is Richie Sambora coming back?

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My Mercury unwittingly exposes the boundless arrogance and hypocrisy of Homo treehugginus (‘tree-hugging freak,’ in lay terms).

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The screenplay is nothing to write home about, but Uncovered is nonetheless a pretty good-looking movie with great locations (you can’t go wrong with Gaudí) and neat props.

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Red Rover is as escapist as escapism gets, and I’m not even talking about the half-baked ‘let’s got to Mars’ premise.

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Starring Sean Penn, Tye Sheridan, Michael Pitt, and Myke Tyson, Asphalt City certainly runs the gamut from the tippy top of the acting profession, through the ‘good, not great’ category, and all the way down to ‘what the hell were they thinking?’

ninetypercentcrapmoviereviews.

Seldom do you find a film so reluctant to being pigeonholed. Going off on tangents is what it does, and therein lies its charm. This is slice-of-life as its sliciest.

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I’ll give it to Recipe for Love; it briefly makes the idea of a cookbook ghostwriter sound not quite as dumb as it truly is.

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What we’ve got here is essentially the worst of both stereotyped worlds: white privilege plus brown chicanery with nary a redeeming quality in between.

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Late Night with the Devil is not just bullshit; it’s Penn & Teller: Bullshit-worthy bullshit. Most movies are bad because they lack quality; this one is bad because it lacks scruples and moral fiber. It is as spurious as the supernatural claims it supports, and as devious (and thank God, as sloppy) as the con artists it defends.

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Gene Siskel liked to ask, ‘Is this film more interesting than a documentary of the same actors having lunch?’ After watching The Taste of Things, I might tweak the question to whether a film is more interesting than a documentary of the same actors making lunch?

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Woody gets kicked out of the forest for attacking a black man. Seriously, that happens. Also, the main villain is a black bird. I’m beginning to think that the title character should be called Woody Peckerwood instead.

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JP

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