Blonde’s platinum sheen is nothing more than a dime-store dye job.
Elvis collapses under the weight of its director’s ambitions and style instead of letting its standout lead re-create more key moments in the icon’s life.
Luhrmann’s technique had my toes tapping, but left my intrigue lacking.
The Eyes of Tammy Faye keeps all (other) eyes on Jessica Chastain as she inhabits the controversial first lady of televangelism.
Heads in the wrong direction like the Neighborhood trolley going off the tracks.
It immediately reminds us of Goodfellas, and the comparison does this film no favors.
Zellweger inhabits Garland so fully that we quickly forget that there’s just an actor behind the makeup.
Starts off with a dramatic opening scene that’s vintage Elton, but soon bogs down under the weight of an unmistakable identity crisis.
If you can stave off the initial boredom, the plot takes off like a rocket for the film’s second half.
It packs a lesson every bit as pertinent today as it was nearly five decades ago.
It’s exactly the film that May and Taylor wanted, and it’s a complete bore.