Mad Max: Fury Road

MAD MAX: FURY ROAD
George Miller’s post-apocalypse redux is mostly a staggering triumph of mesmerizing imagery and jaw-dropping stunts. But Max himself is basically a supporting character, and the distracting model casting of Immortan Joe’s brides dilutes the wonderfully grotesque milieu (and undermines any feminist message). Ultimately, a fun ride that could’ve been more.

Aquarius

AQUARIUS
Lacking the period verisimilitude of MAD MEN (maybe two characters feel of the time and anachronistic props abound), the creepy tenor of HANNIBAL, and the edgy hard boil of TRUE DETECTIVE, NBC’s HELTER SKELTER prequel feels more like a product of the 1960s than a period piece set there.

John Wick

JOHN WICK
 A retired, bereaved hitman (Keanu Reeves) loses his dog and classic Mustang to douchey Russian mobsters. Then Keanu kills all the people. Shoot-and-stab action abounds, but there’s zero heft, and a typically stoic Reeves is so charmless he can’t even elicit sympathy when his fucking dog is killed.

Interstellar

INTERSTELLAR
Christopher Nolan’s sci-fi epic is heavy on the metaphysics and faux-techspeak, but even heavier on the gooey sentiment. Visually spectacular, well-acted, and at times riveting, it’s still a tad overlong and incredibly self-indulgent, the main takeaway being that Nolan really, really wishes he had made 2001 or SOLARIS.

The League of Regrettable Superheroes

THE LEAGUE OF REGRETTABLE SUPERHEROES by Jon Morris (Quirkbooks)
A riotous, beautifully-designed catalogue of ridiculous comic book heroes from the Golden Age thru the 1990s (Doctor Hormone! Zippo! Skateman!). Morris’ tone strikes the perfect balance between mockery and celebration, appealing to both fanboys and non. I only wish Morris had included his own fantastic artistic interpretations in the sidebars.

Transformers: Age of Extinction

TRANSFORMERS: AGE OF EXTINCTION
Even in the context of big, stupid blockbusters, this overacted, underwritten (the Autobots are more fleshed out than the human characters), Oreo-bot-placed slab of mindless mayhem may be the shrillest, dumbest, most pandering piece of product I’ve ever seen. Calling this shit is an insult to excrement. An Oreo-bot. Seriously.

The Babadook

THE BABADOOK
The best horror makes a boogeyman out of our deepest fears and greatest tragedies. This visually mesmerizing, spectacularly creepy and disturbing film from writer / director Jennifer Kent is not an easy watch (both leads are hard to root for), but if you’re looking for genuine chills, make the effort.

Inside Amy Schumer Season 3

INSIDE AMY SCHUMER Season 3
So, if I were to say that I find Amy Schumer to be a one-note comic whose “schlubby slut” shtick is mostly just tiresome, and whose show is almost as reflexively unfunny as Louis C.K.’s has become, does that make me a sexist pig? Oh, 2015. I hate you.

Last Week Tonight

LAST WEEK TONIGHT WITH JOHN OLIVER Season 2
By going deep on selected stories, LAST WEEK crafts a fresh, whip-smart reinvention of a staid but worthy format. The gloriously uncensored Oliver is the true heir to Jon Stewart. The only complaint is that it’s not on five nights a week (and the giant mascots can stop, too).

Sinatra: All or Nothing At All

SINATRA: ALL OR NOTHING AT ALL
Considering how much time is spent on Frank’s youth, the sudden stop after his comeback in 1973 makes an otherwise exhaustive documentary feel incomplete (there’s 25 years left). I wish more time had been spent on the music than the tabloid fodder, but it’s still a riveting, remarkably even-handed portrait.

Daredevil

DAREDEVIL
The gritty tone seems an ill fit to the cinematic Marvel Universe, but Charlie Cox makes a sturdy Murdock, and Vincent D’Onofrio simmers as the Kingpin (despite an ill-advised sympathetic backstory). A clunky costume and a super-whiny Foggy Nelson somewhat mar a noble effort, but I’m eager for Season 2.

The Disaster Artist

THE DISASTER ARTIST: MY LIFE INSIDE THE ROOM, THE GREATEST BAD MOVIE EVER MADE by Greg Sestero and Tom Bissell (Simon & Schuster)
The promise of behind the scenes juice on Tommy Wiseau’s magnificent trainwreck is left mostly unfulfilled in favor of stories about what a great guy / terrific actor the (ahem) author is. I get not wanting to hurt the feelings of friends, but it makes for sadly tepid reading.