Portrait of the Artist as a Young Asswipe. Matt Johnson’s film concerns a seminal summer in the nascent career of a young, pretentious punk-ass who eventually grows up to become Anthony Bourdain, capturing, in essence, a young man at the precise crux between his reach and his grasp. As beloved as the later-day Bourdain, the one-time high-end chef, turned tell-all memoirist, and eventual global TV mainstay, became, by his own admission, his early years were pockmocked by fits of self-absorption, self-destruction, and grating irascibility that, to his considerable credit, he has never shied away from (in the film’s epigraph, he refers to himself in that era as a “spoiled, narcissistic brat.”) 

A masterwork that stands head and shoulders above Nolan’s already-impressive past catalogue.

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.