The returns have finally diminished, I'm afraid. James' insistence that the films preserve her original dialogue combined with her husbands' feckless screenwriting skills have doomed this impotent final entry, which would need a director who gave a shit (long-gone are the stylish trappings offered by Sam Taylor-Johnson) and a male lead who could transcend a character as two-dimensional as the pages from which he was lifted (sorry, Jamie; your abs look great). More than ever, only Dakota Johnson manages to…
This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.
- Has any camera in the history of cinema been more in love with its subject than Kenneth Branagh's camera is with Kenneth Branagh?
- "The mustache will be so big and beautiful, it simply won't fit on 35mm!"
- It will take all of us to stop Johnny Depp.
A truly great movie marred by David Schmader's condescending live commentary. It really takes balls to make a name for yourself acting superior to a work of art so singular that you've been able to spend a decade coasting off your loose association with it. Schmader derides Verhoeven's own thoughtful insights, which on their face have more merit than Schmader's smug self-satisfaction. At the show's nadir, he claims the moral high ground over Showgirls by refusing to show the rape…