Movie Reviews
‘The Last Critic’ Review: A Captivating Portrait of Robert Christgau, the Brilliant Mad Professor of Rock Critics, and How He Made the Grade
As a critic, I should probably take offense at the title of “The Last Critic.” The movie is a captivating portrait of Robert Christgau, the legendary music writer who was one of the founding fathers of what was once known as “rock criticism.” (These were the days before poptimism, not to mention the Taylor Swift fan base.) To be fair, the film never asserts the claim of its title — that Christgau was or is “the last critic.” He was, in fact, one of the first writers to establish rock criticism as a vibrant and essential form, the others being Greil Marcus and the late Ellen Willis (both of whom he was close to; Marcus is featured in the documentary) as well as Lester Bangs, the brilliant bad boy who died in 1982.
The singular thing about Christgau is that he invented, and owned, his very own form of criticism. Born in 1942, he started out as a gifted writer and reporter, with the makings of a star journalist (in 1966, he published an award-winning piece about a girl who died from being on a macrobiotic diet). Attracting the attention of Esquire magazine, which was then at the epicenter of a hip new media world, he began to write a youth-culture column there, and in 1969 he came up with Christgau’s Consumer Guide, a monthly series of capsule reviews that would evaluate — and grade! — the latest slate of rock albums.
That doesn’t sound too remarkable, but Christgau’s prose had a quirky electricity, and in a world where rock writers were nerdish monks (Marcus was a rich-kid academic who smoked a pipe), he had a sixth sense for how to brand himself. An acerbic wise guy, brimming with egomaniacal snark, he once jokingly introduced himself as “the dean of American rock critics,” and the label stuck. From that point on, that’s how he was referred to and thought of.
In the Village Voice, where the Consumer Guide became one of the fabled alt-weekly’s go-to features from the ’70s through the ’90s, Christgau wrote like a possessed fan who breathed insight, making every capsule sound like a psychedelic sonnet. And the notion of affixing each densely compact review with a letter grade (from A+ to E-) was so counterintuitive — at least in the post-counterculture world — that it became Christgau’s signature.
He was playful in his judgments (on Prince’s “Dirty Mind”: “He takes care of the songwriting, transmutes the persona, revs up the guitar, muscles into the vocals, leans down hard on a rock-steady, funk-tinged four-four, and conceptualizes — about sex, mostly.” On Bryan Adams’ “Reckless”: “Maybe I’ll let Bruce Springsteen teach me how to hear John Cougar Mellencamp, but damned if I’m going to let John Cougar Mellencamp teach me how to hear Bryan Adams”). He was famous enough to inspire disgruntled album-track shoutouts from Lou Reed and Sonic Youth, and I guess that you could also call Christgau the unintentional godfather of Entertainment Weekly. At one point in the documentary, Christgau talks about a certain grade category he thinks of as “a high B+,” adding that “no one knows what that means” except him. As a critic who handed out grades at EW for decades, I may be just about the only other person on the planet who knows exactly what that means.
In “The Last Critic,” we meet Christgau as an elder stateman of rock-crit (he’s now 83), a downtown stalwart knocking around the streets of the East Village. He’s a bit more bent than he was, with white hair and a touch of arthritis, but he’s still a wry specimen, lean and mean, with a machine-gun mind, ageless in his vigor (and in his hunger for new music). And God bless him, he still pumps out the Consumer Guide each month (it’s now on Substack). The way he goes about it is the real subject of the documentary, because writing the Consumer Guide is the very spine of Robert Christgau’s life; every aspect of it reflects his obsessiveness. The film opens with him tapping out the following quote on an old word processor: “To the eternal ‘Opinions are like assholes — everyone’s got one,’ I just say, but not everybody’s got ten thousand of them.” Christgau has 14,000 reviews and counting, and that’s his glory and his compulsion.
He and his wife, the writer Caroline Dibbell, have lived in the same 2nd Ave. apartment for 50 years. And though it has seven rooms, Christgau has it organized like the encyclopedic pack rat he is. The place is lined with hundreds of feet of books, and he built special industrial shelves to house his 36,000 vinyl albums and CDs (and even cassette tapes), which cover every square inch of wall space in his cramped office. It’s his cave of knowledge, and he sits each day at the center of it, fumbling with CD players that kind of work, listening to music all day long, tapping out his thoughts on an old computer, feeling at every moment that this is his bliss. It’s criticism as a calling, a mission, a drive to find all the new music that’s good, and to capture each album’s worth in one heightened poetic paragraph. That’s what makes Christgau get up in the morning, and what keeps his spirit young. (Recovering from surgery, he won’t take three days off and not write.)
He has mellowed with age (actually, not much), but he’s still a wit and a scholar and a bit of a pedant. He’s bluntly contentious — in his heyday, he was not only a critic but a Village Voice editor who became fabled for his literary-dictator ways. He would make writers sweat (but only in the quest to make them the best version of themselves), and he would sometimes bike over to their apartments to stalk them for copy that was late. But what cemented the Christgau legend was the weirdly rational mania that informed the Consumer Guide. When it came to music, Christgau genuinely believed in the existence of a hidden grand order. He wanted to turn the act of consuming records into a system — a celestial hierarchy of judgment, of which he was the all-seeing lord.
That’s a way of thinking that some critics have (exhibit A: myself). Yet Christgau, through the Consumer Guide, was the only music critic to wear his system-making brains on the outside. The title of the column was a provocation, because here was this writer on the cutting edge of a rock world that still imagined itself as a “revolution,” yet he had the audacity to say that the revolution was a form of consumerism. He meant it as a joke (“I was thumbing my nose at my colleagues,” he says), the joke being that he was actually serious about it. He was going to grade the counterculture like the ultimate professor of cool.
And that’s what Christgau became. The documentary features plenty of footage of him back in the day, when a bohemian New York critic could still be a celebrity, and when he was just about the only person you could name who turned having long hair and oversize glasses and an ironic smirk into a punk look. He was like a sexy underground version of Poindexter. By the late ’70s, it felt like he was the last guy left with stringy hair that reached his shoulders, but the attitude was as far from hippie as you could get. Christgau was from Queens, the son of a fireman, and he had that working-class outer-borough lack of respect for the elites, even as he himself became one.
“The Last Critic,” directed with lively reverence by Matty Wishnow, is full of pithy testimonials to Christgau’s special qualities as a critic. We hear from writers like Kit Rachlis and Ann Powers and Amanda Petrusich and Chuck Eddy and Rob Sheffield. Nelson George and Greg Tate make the vital point that Christgau, in orchestrating a music review section in the ’70s that showcased diverse voices, walked the walk of what the Village Voice was supposed to be about. As someone who grew up in the early rock-crit days, I especially enjoyed the film’s portrait of Christgau’s friendship with Greil Marcus, an equally legendary critic based on the West Coast (we see the two of them seated today in Christgau’s living room, looking like the Statler and Waldorf of rock criticism). They wrote letters to each that were like intellectual mash notes, and they spoke several times a month on the phone but had serious disagreements. “I don’t think he feels hip-hop,” says Christgau of Marcus. “And I think that’s a function of whether you feel James Brown. And that’s a real gap.”
Christgau felt James Brown, all right (he was a major advocate of funk), but I would argue that his Achilles’ heel as a critic is that he didn’t feel pop. We see him in a TV interview from the ’80s where he catalogues his eclectic tastes, saying, “I love African music, I really love some country music, I like the best of what’s called world music, I love rap, I’ve got nothing against pop, I like funk and dance music quite a lot…” Consider that statement: I’ve got nothing against pop. It reflects something that nearly all the formative rock critics (with the exception of Stephen Holden) felt about pop music, which is that they actually did have something against it. They thought it was glossy, superficial, sentimental, fake, confectionary, corrupt, “commercial,” or some other descended-from-the-left-wing-ether bullshit. At one point in the documentary, we see a roster of albums in different Christgau grade categories, and forgive me, but I don’t live in a world where Sleater-Kinney’s “Dig Me Out” is an A and Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” is a B. (I live in a world where Supertramp’s “Breakfast in America” is an A+, and where Hall and Oates are greater than the Replacements.) The anti-pop animus of classic rock criticism reflected nothing so much as a neurotic puritanism, or maybe just a snobbish inability to hear the deep beauty of pop.
My grousing aside, the early rock critics actually forged their own brand of beauty. The reason they were able to plant this form of criticism on the map is that they were extraordinary writers. What you feel, in every Robert Christgau capsule, is that he’s channeling whatever he’s writing about, and that’s what always made the Consumer Guide such a compulsive read — the drama of listening to Christgau let each of those albums flow through him. “The Last Critic” is a portrait of a venerable voice, but mostly it’s a testament to everything a great critic is: a priest, a fan, an assassin, an aesthete, a merciless truth-teller, and a vessel of love.
Movie Reviews
Mortal Kombat 2 Movie Review: Simon McQuoid’s Latest Is A Breezy, Bloody, Sometimes Baffling Time
Warner Bros. has a new movie to put in the ring. Mortal Kombat II, the sequel to the action-filled 2021 video game adaptation that at the very least got the gore right, is here. It’s a breezy, bloody entry that leans heavily on video game characters and logic, a move that should satisfy franchise fans, even if the actual narrative is too weak to win over new converts.
We’re in an era of regular, variably solid video game adaptations. Series like The Last of Us and Fallout, and films such as Sonic the Hedgehog and Werewolves Within, are exemplary, with stories that capture much of what works about the games. On the other hand, adaptations like Borderlands show that it’s still possible to get one wrong. The stakes remain high.
When director Simon McQuoid’s Mortal Kombat graced the screens and HBO Max, it was received with a sizable difference between fans (currently 85% on Rotten Tomatoes with over 5,000 verified ratings) and critics (55% with 299 factored in). It was refreshing to have fights that didn’t skimp on the game series’ violence, but some muddled plotting, a failure to fully capture the game’s feel, and centering the film on an original character (rather than a fan-favorite from the games) were ill-received.
Mortal Kombat II is a bigger and more faithful adaptation in many ways. The tournament actually feels deadly, and many of the fight sequences are sufficiently bloody to accurately reflect the games. The actual narrative falls apart somewhat when you think too hard about it, but it largely works, and certain characters (Kano, Johnny Cage) steal every scene they’re in. If you like your movies bloody with a side of silly, you’re in luck.
Mortal Kombat 2 Has Stellar New Additions
Mortal Kombat II doesn’t waste time in setting the stakes, with an opening fight between Eternia’s King Jerrod and Shao Kahn (Martyn Ford). The helmeted tyrant Kahn’s violent victory allows him to raise Jerrod’s daughter, Kitana, as he comes to rule Eternia thanks to his tournament victories. That backstory sets up the complex journey of adult Kitana (Adeline Rudolph), who fights for Kahn alongside longtime friend Jade (Tati Gabrielle), but has understandable reservations.
Another major element of this iteration is the addition of washed-up action star Johnny Cage (Karl Urban), who is recruited to fight for Earthrealm despite lacking powers. Cage has to fight under the tutelage of Lord Raiden (Tadanobu Asano), alongside mainstays including Sonya Blade (Jessica McNamee), Jax (Mehcad Brooks), Cole Young (Lewis Tan), and Liu Kang (Ludi Lin). Our heroes have to defeat Shao Khan’s warriors to save Earth, all the while preventing him from acquiring an amulet that would render him immortal.
Urban is a stellar addition to the series, with a huge and charismatic personality that fits Johnny Cage and is fun to watch onscreen. Josh Lawson’s dirtbag mercenary Kano gets some fantastic scenes here, and the two add a lot of charm that some other characters may lack. Adeline Rudolph is empathetic and believably tactical as Kitana. Gabrielle’s Jade isn’t given enough key scenes to shine, but there’s clear potential for the character in future iterations.
Baraka (CJ Bloomfield) isn’t the deepest character, but Bloomfield makes him memorable, and his relationship with Johnny Cage is always a fun watch. While Tan’s Cole Young has something to do in Mortal Kombat II, he’s much less of a focus here, as are returning favorites like Hiroyuki Sanada and Joe Taslim’s Bi-Han.
There are new characters, many moving parts, and a narrative that’s more a string of battles than a traditional Hollywood tale, leaving some favorites underutilized. Because of the need to introduce new characters, most of the existing ones are relatively one-note. Kitana and Johnny Cage get ample screen time, even character arcs, and Kano, Baraka, and some others do get standout moments. Most characters, however, remain one-note figures.
Mortal Kombat II Doesn’t Fully Make Sense, but It Mostly Hits Hard
While Mortal Kombat 2 doesn’t have the biggest fights you’ll see this year (that would be The Furious), it does have quite a few memorable ones with great finishers. The final fight with Shao Kahn has a solid ending, and many get standout moments as the movie proceeds. Kitana, Baraka, Liu Kang, Hanzo Hasashi/Scorpion, and Kung Lao all get particularly unforgettable moments.
A more faithful structure also makes this round’s fights feel a bit more like one is playing an actual Mortal Kombat game, which is welcome. Most are well-paced, though a few could use tighter editing. Unfortunately, the story is more than a little muddled. Shao Kahn wants a Maguffin to be unkillable, sure, but if the tournament rules allow an invasion of Earthrealm if and only if Earth’s champions defeat Outworld’s five times, isn’t an immortality-granting amulet the equivalent of steroid use? Where are the referees?
Some characters (like Jade) change allegiances almost at random, with no consistency. There are several moments when characters make choices that don’t make sense, or at least we don’t have enough information to understand them.
Altogether, Mortal Kombat II learned from quite a few of the issues the first film had. It swapped out protagonists for one with a flashier personality, better replicated the game’s elements and structure, and had kills to boot. That’s largely enough to succeed for the kind of film it is, but it still has issues.
There are too many characters to develop in any interesting way, the tournament rules and character plans don’t make total sense, and the pacing is quick in some moments and slow in others. Nonetheless, it’s a delightful outing and feels just like a big ol’ violent video game (complimentary).
Final Rating: 7/10
Mortal Kombat 2 is playing in theaters.
Movie Reviews
1986 Movie Reviews – Dangerously Close, Fire with Fire, Last Resort, and Short Circuit | The Nerdy
Welcome to an exciting year-long project here at The Nerdy. 1986 was an exciting year for films giving us a lot of films that would go on to be beloved favorites and cult classics. It was also the start to a major shift in cultural and societal norms, and some of those still reverberate to this day.
We’re going to pick and choose which movies we hit, but right now the list stands at nearly four dozen.
Yes, we’re insane, but 1986 was that great of a year for film.
The articles will come out – in most cases – on the same day the films hit theaters in 1986 so that it is their true 40th anniversary. All films are also watched again for the purposes of these reviews and are not being done from memory. In some cases, it truly will be the first time we’ve seen them.
This time around, it’s May 9, 1986, and we’re off to see Dangerously Close, Fire with Fire, Last Resort, and Short Circuit.
Dangerously Close
I would love to tell you what the point of this film was, but I’m not sure it knew.
An elite school has turned into a magnet school, attracting some “undesirables,” so a group of students known as The Sentinels take up policing their school, but will they go too far?
The basic plot of the film is simple enough, but there is an oddball “twist” toward the end tht served no real purpose and somehow turns the whole thing into a murder-mystery. Mysteries only work when you know you’re supposed to be solving them, and not when you’re alerted to one existing with 15 minutes left.
Decent 80s music, some stylistic shots, absolutely no substance.
Fire with Fire
Oh wait… I may want to go back and watch Dangerously Close again over this one.
Joe Fisk (Craig Sheffer) is being held at a juvenile delinquent facility close a high-end all-girls Catholic school. One day while running through the forest as part of an exercise he spots Catholic schoolgirl Lisa Taylor (Virginia Madsen) and the two fall immediately in love because… reasons.
This film is just so incredibly lazy. The ‘love story’ really can just be chalked up to ‘hormones.’
Last Resort
Once again I am baffled how Charles Grodin kept getting work so much through out the 1980s.
George Lollar (Grodin) is a salesman in Chicago in need of a vacation. He loads up the family and takes them to Club Sand, which turns out to be a swingers resort as well as surrounded by barbed wire to keep rebels out.
There are a lot of talented people in this movie such as Phil Hartman and Megan Mullally, but the film lets them down at every turn with half-baked ideas of jokes. Supposedly, Grodin rewrote nearly the entire script and I think that explains a lot about how this film feels like unfinished ideas. It’s a Frankenstein monster of a script with half-complete ideas that feel like they are from completely different movies.
Short Circuit
Lets just get this out of the way: What in the world was Fisher Stevens doing?
NOVA Laboratory has come up with a new series of military robots called S.A.I.N.T. (Strategic Artificially Intelligent Nuclear Transport). Following a successful demonstration for the military, Five is struck by an electrical surge and finds itself needing ‘input.’ After inadvertently escaping the lab, it wands into the life of Stephanie Speck (Ally Sheedy), who cares for animals and takes Five in. Dr. Newton Crosby (Steve Guttenberg) is trying to get five back, while the security team wants to destroy it.
Overall, the film is thin, but harmless. The 80s did seem to love a ‘technology being used for the wrong reasons’ theme, and this falls into that camp. What is mind-blowing, however, is Stevens as Ben Jabituya, Crosby’s assistant. Not only is he wearing brown face, but he’s doing a horrible Indian accent and later reveals he was born and raised in the U.S.
His whole character is mystifying.
Honestly, a couple of decades ago I may have recommended this movie, but it’s a definite pass now just for being offensive.
1986 Movie Reviews will continue on May 16, 2026, with Sweet Liberty and Top Gun.
By ABBIE BERNSTEIN / Staff Writer
Posted: May 8th, 2026 / 08:34 PM
AFFECTION movie poster | ©2026 Brainstorm Media
Rating: Not Rated
Stars: Jessica Rothe, Joseph Cross, Julianna Layne
Writer: BT Meza
Director: BT Meza
Distributor: Brainstorm Media
Release Date: May 8, 2026
AFFECTION is an odd title for this tale. While it is about a number of topics and emotions, fondness isn’t one of them. Obsession, definitely. Love, possibly. The kind of general warm fellow feelings associated with “affection”? No.
There have been a lot of movies lately in which characters – mostly women – are grappling with false identities and/or false memories imposed upon them, mostly by men.
Let us stipulate that the protagonist (Jessica Rothe) in AFFECTION is not an android or in an artificial reality. However, we can tell something is way off from the opening sequence. A car is stalled on a tree-bordered highway. Rothe’s character is lying face down on the asphalt beside it, possibly dead.
But then the young woman rises, dragging a broken ankle. She experiences a full-body seizure. Fighting to recover, she sees oncoming headlights and tries to run, only to be hit by a car.
The woman wakes up in a bed she doesn’t recognize, next to a man (Joseph Cross) she likewise is sure she’s never seen before. One big confrontation later, the man says his name is Bruce – and that the woman is his wife, Ellie.
Ellie insists that her name is Sarah Thompson, and she is married to someone else, with a son. When she sees her reflection in a mirror, she doesn’t relate to the face looking back at her.
Bruce counters that Ellie has a rare neurological condition that causes her to block out her waking life and believe her dreams are real. This is why they agreed, together, to move to this isolated house, without the kinds of interruptions that can hinder Ellie’s recovery.
The set-up is presented in a way where we share Ellie’s skepticism. But Ellie and Bruce’s little daughter Alice (Julianna Layne) immediately identifies Ellie as “Mommy!” Alice appears to be too young to be in on any kind of deception, so what is going on here?
AFFECTION eventually explains this via a helpful videotape, though it’s so convoluted that viewers watching on streaming may want to replay the sequence to make sure they understand the exposition.
Writer/director BT Meza musters a sense of menace and lurking weirdness, as well as making great use of his location.
We still have a lot of questions, many of which are still unanswered by the film’s end. It may not matter to the points AFFECTION is trying to make, but a better sense of exactly how all this started might help our investment.
As it is, despite a heroically versatile performance by Rothe, a credible and anguished turn by Cross and appealing work from Layne, we’re so busy trying to piece together what’s important and what’s not and how we’re supposed to feel about all of it that it can be hard to keep track of the action as it unfolds.
Agree or not, Meza’s arguments are lucid and illustrated clearly by AFFECTION’s events. However, the movie is structured in a way that becomes more frustrating as it goes. We comprehend it intellectually but can’t engage viscerally.
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