Dismal Disney cash grab with the old 'evil property developer' plot recycled once again and Herbie's prescence shoehorned in via a series of flimsy contrivances. Apalling. Charlotte's verdict: Mint.
Exudes a timelessness that comes from recreating a fifties vision of the far flung future in the eighties with thirty years of hindsight at your advantage.
A loving homage to the kind of eighties exploitation schlock that always failed to deliver the level of sleaze promised by some impressively lurid cover art. Only this delivers in fucking spades.
Although admittedly enjoyable here and there, the film is tinged throughout with a sadness that the once great Besson is now lowered to unfocussed Jeunet pastiche.
For the entire film Nicholas Cage manages to look like he only woke up ten minutes ago and is now vaguely baffled as to why he's walking around in a video game about witches.
Depending on who's watching this, it's either going to be; (a) a long-winded over-pretentious perfume commercial or (b) a mesmerising existential study composed of a collage of beautifully captured scattered memories. It's (b) for me.
A loving document that goes on a bit because it's of something incredible you would never otherwise be able to see. All with the finest use of 3D so far as an added bonus.
The excitement garnered from reading the title far outstrips that generated by the film itself in which Peter Cushing visibly strains to maintain his dignity as he investigates a series of murders perpetrated by a giant moth.