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 reveal 2026’s best Certified Fresh films are arriving this month with stellar critical acclaim. March 2026 brings an extraordinary lineup of top-rated releases. Critics and audiences are celebrating these exceptional films together.

Project Hail Mary Dominates with 95% Critical Acclaim

Project Hail Mary opened March 20, 2026, becoming the standout theatrical certif fresh hit of the month. Ryan Gosling stars as science teacher Ryland Grace, waking up light-years from home with no memory. The sci-fi epic, directed by Phil Lord and Chris Miller, earned 95% from critics and 96% audience approval. Cinephiles praise its visual splendor and emotional depth.

According to reviews, the film balances spectacular space sequences with genuine human moments that resonate deeply. Amazon MGM Studios released this 156-minute masterpiece based on Andy Weir’s beloved novel. Early box office numbers exceed expectations significantly.

Streaming Certified Fresh Titles Light Up March

March 24, 2026 delivered major streaming victories. GOAT (Greatest of All Time) hit platforms with 84% critic score and 93% audience approval. This animated sports comedy features Caleb McLaughlin as an anthropomorphic goat chasing championship glory. Send Help arrived simultaneously, earning 93% critical praise with 87% viewer satisfaction. Both titles capture hearts through humor and heart.

Streaming platforms flooded March with 69 new movies and shows total. Critics celebrated the diverse quality spanning cult classics, acclaimed dramas, and blockbuster franchises all at once.

Beyond the Blockbusters: Other Standout Certified Fresh March Releases

“Visually, it is strong and immersive, but the real strength of Project Hail Mary is not spectacle alone. It is the sense of wonder and humanity running through the entire experience. The film knows when to be exciting, when to be funny, and when to slow down and let the emotional moments land.”

— IMDb Critics, Film Review Community

What Makes a Film Certified Fresh on Rotten Tomatoes

Certified Fresh status represents the industry’s gold standard for quality filmmaking. A movie earning this distinction must achieve at least 75% rating from professional critics. Additionally, films require 5 or more Top Critics reviews for certification. Recent updates tightened these standards to ensure only genuinely excellent films qualify.

This rigorous process explains why March’s nine certified fresh titles matter significantly. Critics spent hours analyzing each film thoroughly before adding their names. The combined critical weight behind these movies suggests spring viewing will be exceptional.

Plan Your March Movie Marathon Now – Which Film Will You Watch First?

Theater-goers should prioritize Project Hail Mary before it leaves cinemas. The 156-minute runtime demands a big screen experience. Meanwhile, streaming subscribers face delightful choices between GOAT’s comedy charm and Send Help’s heartfelt drama. Ready or Not 2 and Late Shift round out theatrical options perfectly.

New releases continue flowing through March 27, 2026, keeping entertainment options fresh. Kiki’s Delivery Service rereleased March 13, while Stand by Me returned March 27 with new appreciation. Which certified fresh film matches your mood this weekend?

Sources

• Rotten Tomatoes – Official certification database and critical scoring system
• Variety – Best movies streaming in March 2026 coverage
• The Wrap – Most anticipated films arriving in March analysis

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Paul McCartney sauntered onto the stage of the Fonda Theatre, took in the 1,200 faces before him — “I can see the whites of your eyes,” he said — then offered up a brief history lesson about where we’d gathered Friday night.

The Fonda, he told us, opened 100 years ago; back then, he added, it was called the Music Box.

“Cool little place, innit?”

At 83, McCartney is well into his cool-little-place era.

Last year the rock legend played a string of concerts at New York’s tiny Bowery Ballroom while in town for “Saturday Night Live’s” 50th anniversary; a few months after that, he hit the Santa Barbara Bowl as a kind of warm-up for the latest leg of his Got Back world tour.

Friday’s underplay — the first of two instant sell-outs at the Fonda — came as McCartney is drumming up interest in a new studio album he’ll release in May. Outside the venue, a double-decker bus was parked with signage advertising the LP, which is called “The Boys of Dungeon Lane” after a road in his Liverpool hometown.

But that hardly seemed like the purpose of the show itself, which lasted about an hour and 40 minutes and didn’t even include a performance of the album’s lead single. The truth is that Sir Paul genuinely appears to get a kick out of these intimate gigs — out of standing right in front of a crowd and doing the magic trick that is a song like “Get Back” or “Jet” or “Got to Get You Into My Life.”

And why wouldn’t he?

If a Paul McCartney concert in an arena or a stadium is a finely honed spectacle of boomer nostalgia and industrial-strength charm, one of his shows in a club or a theater is a chance to play music, which after six and a half decades still clearly turns his wheels.

You wouldn’t say the shows remind McCartney that he’s a regular guy. (Those six and a half decades have made him anything but.) What they might do, though, is remind him why he became so widely adored — valuable self-knowledge for an artist whose great subject has always been the transformative power of love.

Here, as in Santa Barbara, he and his seven-piece band (which featured three horn players) did a pared-down version of the most recent Got Back set, opening with a killer one-two punch — “Help!” into “Coming Up” — that alone said plenty about McCartney’s range and endurance.

“Let Me Roll It” had a funky swagger, while “Getting Better” chugged with cheerful insistence; “I’ve Just Seen a Face” showed off the group’s crisp harmonies and “Lady Madonna” its tight rhythmic interplay. After “Let ’Em In,” McCartney asked his band member Brian Ray to show off the song’s all-important bass line: a single note plucked over and over and over again.

Friday’s show was the first of two at the Fonda.

(MJ Kim)

He did a few other comic bits, including a memory of Tony Bennett singing without a microphone as a way to demonstrate the excellent acoustics of a concert hall — the punch line was that he later saw Bennett do the same thing at the Beverly Hilton — and some gentle ribbing of the folks sitting up in the “posh seats” of the Fonda’s balcony. Among them, McCartney pointed out, was Morgan Neville, director of the recent “Man on the Run” documentary about McCartney’s life in the aftermath of the Beatles’ breakup.

He also noted that his wife, Nancy Shevell, was in the house and dedicated “My Valentine” to her; truth be told, that one was a bit dreary, as was “Now and Then,” the so-called last Beatles song released in 2023 using machine learning to complete a scratchy demo left behind by John Lennon.

“Thank you, John, for writing that lovely song,” McCartney said afterward, which made it a little harder not to like.

In any event, there were more classics to come, not least a buoyant “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” and a “Let It Be”/“Hey Jude” twofer that inspired such a lusty singalong that McCartney probably could’ve gotten away with lip-syncing if he’d wanted to.

But of course he didn’t want to — that was kind of the whole point.