Director Alejandro Gonzalez Iñárritu’s film goes on even longer than its title. 

Deadpan Celtic bickering tints the mundane with blood, as existential chasms open beneath semi-articulate blather. 

Not for clockwatchers, David O. Russell’s entertaining film ambles into brilliance.

The look is hyperbolic, glossy, fetishistic of ’50s clothes and furniture and linoleum—is it a movie set? A Pat Buchanan daydream?

Amid the carnage, Mia Goth’s monologue is the last thing standing.

It’s like lockdown, but with a payday.

A dead body can’t compete with these girls’ middle school anxieties.

A Lincoln Center retrospective delves into the work of a director who tried to save America from itself.

The visionary director delivers a willfully eccentric bear of a movie.

Netflix’s take on the 1818 novel jettisons historical context in favor of YA anachronisms.