Talking Pictures

How to Watch Movies


By Ann Hornaday

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A veteran film critic offers a lively, opinionated guide to thinking and talking about movies — from Casablanca to Clueless

Whether we are trying to impress a date after an art house film screening or discussing Oscar nominations among friends, we all need ways to look at and talk about movies. But with so much variety between an Alfred Hitchcock thriller and a Nora Ephron romantic comedy, how can everyday viewers determine what makes a good movie?

In Talking Pictures, veteran film critic Ann Hornaday walks us through the production of a typical movie — from script and casting to final sound edit — and explains how to evaluate each piece of the process. How do we know if a film has been well-written, above and beyond snappy dialogue? What constitutes a great screen performance? What goes into praiseworthy cinematography, editing, and sound design? And what does a director really do? In a new epilogue, Hornaday addresses important questions of representation in film and the industry and how this can, and should, effect a movie-watching experience. Full of engaging anecdotes and interviews with actors and filmmakers, Talking Pictures will help us see movies in a whole new light-not just as fans, but as film critics in our own right.



THERE ARE A FEW INEVITABLE questions film critics face when we stagger our way into the sunlit world outside the darkened theaters in which we spend so much of our time. The first, almost always, is, "Film critic, wow, how did you get that job?" (Implied follow-up: "How do I go about getting paid to sit around and watch movies all day, too?")

The answer, in my case, is: pure accident. I did not grow up a congenital movie geek. If anything, I was a bookworm, avoiding my family's usual weekend pastimes of board games, cards, and watching Iowa college football on TV to burrow into Harriet the Spy and, as a teenager, On the Road and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I went to movies, sure: Fantasia, Mary Poppins, and Oliver! as a little kid; Young Frankenstein and Blazing Saddles as a fourteen-year-old (I can still remember the frisson of hearing Robert Redford's "Oooooh shit" when my friends and I saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid as easily scandalized youngsters). I credit one of my formative cinematic experiences to a favorite babysitter who took me to see the melodrama Dark Victory at the Varsity Theatre next door to Drake University, purely for the camp value of Bette Davis voraciously devouring the scenery as a rich party girl elegantly succumbing to a brain tumor. But I didn't eat, sleep, and breathe movies like so many contemporaries who would become my colleagues in the field.

Instead, I came to reviewing as a writer: after graduating from Smith College with a degree in government, I moved to New York to become a journalist. I worked at Ms. Magazine as a researcher and, for two wonderful years, as Gloria Steinem's administrative assistant. It was Gloria who urged me to become a freelancer, because she had found the freedom and variety of freelancing to be both fulfilling and fruitful in discovering her own voice as a young writer. By the time I summoned the courage to take her advice, a handsome New York–based movie magazine called Premiere had come into being. I began writing about filmmakers for their Cameo section—edited with superb taste by the poet April Bernard—where I wrote short profiles of the documentarian Albert Maysles, the costume designer Ellen Mirojnick, and the casting director Margery Simkin, among others.

Within a few years, I was writing film-related stories for The New York Times Arts & Leisure section, for which I interviewed the documentarians Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky, the experimental filmmaker Jem Cohen, emerging directors Noah Baumbach and Ang Lee, and a then little-known actor named Stanley Tucci.

This is all by way of explaining that, with the exception of a year spent studying filmmaking and cinema history at the University of Georgia under the auspices of a Pew National Arts Journalism Fellowship, I've learned my craft on the job, as well as through frequent visits to my local video stores (remember those?). By the time I was invited to be the film critic at the Austin American-Statesman in 1995, I had watched enough movies—and had learned enough from their makers—to feel confident that I could evaluate films knowledgeably and fairly. What's more, my background as a non-expert allowed me to approach movies more like my readers, who even in our movie-mad culture only go out to see an average of five or six movies per year.

Still, I'll never forget the paralyzing experience of sitting down to write my first official review—of To Die For, Gus Van Sant's based-on-a-true-story satire about murder, self-deception, and postmodern celebrity starring Nicole Kidman. I had adored the movie, of that I was certain. The question was: Why? As I stared at the cursor insistently blinking back at me in the Statesman newsroom, my mind was as blank as the computer screen. How on earth could I explain to thousands of readers—of wildly divergent ages, backgrounds, tastes, and temperaments—what made this movie so brilliant? How could I quantify the ways in which Kidman delivered such a shrewd, well-judged performance, or prove how Van Sant interpreted Buck Henry's stingingly funny screenplay so adroitly?

Luckily, I had received some advice just before moving to Austin that helped me forge ahead, counsel that has held me in good stead throughout the intervening twenty years. At one of several going-away get-togethers, my dear friend and fellow journalist David Friedman took me aside to share some wisdom he himself had received years before, when he became the television critic at the Philadelphia Daily News. "Before you write any review," David told me, "ask yourself three questions: 'What was the artist trying to achieve?' 'Did they achieve it?' And 'Was it worth doing?'"

I later learned that David was paraphrasing Goethe, who had similar advice for evaluating a piece of theater. No matter: those three questions have served as something of a north star throughout my career, as I've tried to write reviews that go beyond mere subjective, thumbs-up-thumbs-down opinion and instead judge movies on their own merits, to help readers put them into context, and, if they should decide to see the film in question, to prepare them for the encounter—without including pesky spoilers and time-wasting synopses.

After working in Austin for two delightful years of music, movies, and Tex-Mex (enriched by director Richard Linklater's Austin Film Society, whose screenings of vintage repertory and avant-garde contemporary cinema helped enormously in my continuing film education), I went to the Baltimore Sun, and from there to the Washington Post. In all three newsrooms, I've sought continually to improve my understanding of filmmakers' artistic aims and the challenges they face, as well as the assumptions and expectations of viewers with dauntingly diverse opinions as to what constitutes a "good movie." An Iron Man and Dark Knight fanatic may have no intention of attending the latest Nicole Holofcener comedy of manners, but being a critic requires that I evaluate each of those movies in a way that's useful both to its natural constituency and to general audiences who simply want to keep abreast of what's happening in pop culture. And who knows? On the strength of one of my reviews, someone might decide to take a flier on a film they never would have considered before, and emerge a newly minted fan.

EACH MOVIE IS ITS OWN animal, with its own genre DNA, tonal quirks, and artistic and intellectual aspirations. Just as it's not fair to subject a period Western to the same standards as a post-Soviet Romanian family drama, it's not useful to expect a movie that simply sets out to be a slick piece of mainstream entertainment to traffic in lofty ideas about meaning and existence (although slick entertainment and deep meaning aren't at all mutually exclusive). But it is reasonable to expect that all these films will be original, well-crafted, and smart, and that they won't pander or condescend to their audiences. No matter what expectations they're seeking to fulfill, all films have an essential grammar in common: a lexicon of visual, aural, and performance conventions that link them to each other, or, when those conventions are cleverly subverted, constitute an invigorating break. The job of the critic is to recognize these connections and disruptions, not in order to be pedantic or superior to the reader, but to open up interpretive possibilities that will enrich the viewing experience, or at least provide some thought-provoking reading.

Still, the question lingers: What makes a movie "good"? And, conversely, what makes a movie "bad"? As a way of exploring the answer, in 2009 I embarked on a series of articles intended to help readers analyze and evaluate films in the same ways I do when I sit down to watch them. Called "How to Watch a Movie," the series explored various categories of filmmaking production and how the average movie-watcher can recognize fluency, ambition, and excellence when they've seen it. Returning to my roots as a reporter, I interviewed directors, screenwriters, producers, actors, sound technicians, cinematographers, and editors about their crafts and about what they wished audiences appreciated more about their work. How do we know when a movie's been well-written, aside from some memorable lines and a shock ending? How can we tell if a film's been well-edited? What exactly is cinematography, and how does it affect the viewer's visual and emotional experience? How does a virtuosic screen performance differ from one on stage or TV?

The series inspired me to write Talking Pictures, which is designed to guide readers through a medium that, as it morphs into an ever more constant presence in our lives, has called upon everyone to be their own most trusted film critics. Fans deliver instant reviews on Twitter to their friends, collectively deciding a movie's fate in 140 characters or less. Friends gather over a glass of wine or an espresso after a film, trading opinions on the screenplay or a star's performance. Extras on DVDs and streaming platforms have introduced consumers to information and background knowledge once reserved for archive-dwelling historians. The days of passive viewing are over. We're all experts now.

More than ever, viewers care deeply about what they're seeing and want to bring a critical eye to a medium that, uniquely, is simultaneously an art form, a mass entertainment medium, and a complex, rationalized industrial practice. They want the means and language to make sense of the sounds, stories, and visual images they encounter on screens that seem to proliferate with each passing day.

As many observers have pointed out, film is an amalgamation of almost every mode of expression—painting, theater, dance, music, architecture, photography, and writing. At their most analytically attentive, viewers must be aware of how each of those disciplines is informing what's happening on the screen, as well as its physiological, psychological, emotional, and even subconscious effect. That's a lot to take in for audiences, let alone tease apart while powerful images and sounds are washing over them.

And, make no mistake: that sensory baptism is vitally important. Although this book is intended as a primer in evaluating movies, the best way to appreciate them is through complete surrender. At its best, cinema should resemble a kind of dream-state that we enter collectively and experience personally. If we're constantly deconstructing an actor's performance or scrutinizing the lighting or production design of particular scenes, then either we're not letting the movie "in," or it wasn't made well enough to achieve that complete, almost cellular merging with our own consciousness that defines cinema at its most powerful and immersive.

The first duty of the critical viewer, then, is a mental one. You must cleanse your mind of any defenses, biases, or lingering distractions that might get in the way of succumbing entirely to the work on offer. Ideally, the movie will cast enough of a spell that you won't be tempted to engage in mental box-checking or second-guessing while it plays. If that's the case, your "critical mind" won't turn on until the end credits begin to roll. If the movie isn't working, for whatever reason, then you'll most likely begin your analysis while still in the theater, trying to figure out what's going wrong and where, and what the filmmakers might have done to create a more rewarding viewing experience.

Talking Pictures is meant to be useful in both circumstances—as a guide for appreciating movies more fully when they succeed, and for explaining their missteps when they fall short. The book is structured roughly according to a film's production—starting with the script, then moving to casting and production design, cinematography, and so forth. I've saved the chapter on directors until the end, because—ideally, at least—it's the director whose guidance and creative vision most influence the entire film, from the first day of shooting through the final edit. (Admittedly, when movies are mega-budgeted, big-studio blockbusters, the directors' roles become murkier; often they're at the mercy of studio executives who dictate casting and plot elements.)

In every chapter, I've tried to include examples of movies that capture the principles and best practices of a particular cinematic discipline; readers will note that most of them are culled from Hollywood's "Golden Age" from the 1930s through the 1950s, and from the 1970s through the present moment, a period that coincides with my most memorable filmgoing experiences as a fan and as a critic. I've included two or three leading questions viewers can ask themselves after they've seen a movie to ascertain whether it succeeded in particular craft areas.

Certain titles will keep popping up throughout Talking Pictures, from wartime dramas such as The Best Years of Our Lives and The Hurt Locker to wry "serio-comedies" like The Graduate and You Can Count on Me, from taut thrillers, including All the President's Men, Michael Clayton, and Children of Men, to such classics as Do the Right Thing and GoodFellas. These are all personal favorites of mine, and each exemplifies discrete areas of the craft—script, acting, design, camerawork, sound—as well as the kind of unifying directorial vision it takes to make them work as a beautifully integrated whole. And at the end of each chapter, I've included a "mini-canon" of movies that exemplify the best in each discipline.

Readers will also notice that certain words recur throughout the book—adjectives like "seamless," "expressive," "authentic," and "specific," and phrases like "emotional connection," "genuine feeling," "service to the story," and "building a world on-screen." In speaking with the hundreds of artists, technicians, and craftspeople who have been my unofficial tutors over the past quarter century, it's become clear that the ones at the top of their respective games keep these ideals foremost in their minds during the creative process, whether they're scouting a location, assessing the proper neckline for a seventeenth-century ball gown, choosing a camera lens, or preparing a monologue for a pivotal scene. It never ceases to amaze me to what lengths writers, actors, directors, designers, and technicians will go in order to finesse every single detail. The least the rest of us can do is notice. With luck, that's precisely what this book will help you do.



When people say a movie is well-written, they usually mean they enjoyed the snappy dialogue or appreciated a diabolically clever plot twist. But a screenplay is responsible for so much more than that. Why do we love a certain movie? Because we liked the story it told, what happened, where it went, and how it got there. Most often, we loved the characters—even when we didn't exactly like them, or even understand them.

When those elements are in place, it's because they were put there by a screenwriter, usually after months, maybe even years, of difficult, unheralded work. The screenplay serves as the founding document of every film, laying out not just plot and dialogue but also structure, internal "rules," the inner lives, motivations, and believability of the characters, and such intangible values as tone and theme.

The script is the chief reference point for the director and all the creative collaborators on a film, who use it when they're planning everything from costumes and sets to lighting schemes and camera angles. The better written the script, the more focused and consistent the craftspeople can be in creating a compelling and credible world on-screen.

A screenplay written with authority, detail, and specificity allows the actors to sink completely into their roles without being nagged by questions about motivations or inconsistent behaviors. Everything they need to know about the characters they're bringing to life is right there on the page. George Clooney once told me that the importance of the screenplay hit him after he received the poorest reviews of his career for Batman & Robin. From that moment on, he said, script came first when deciding what projects to do. Tellingly, his next three films were the smart, well-crafted Out of Sight, Three Kings, and O Brother, Where Art Thou?, which together vaunted Clooney into the ranks of handsome movie stars who are also serious actors of discerning taste. The moral of the story? "You cannot make a good film out of a bad screenplay," Clooney said flatly. "You can make a bad film out of a good screenplay, I've seen that happen a lot. But you can't do it the other way around."

In the 1980s and 1990s, a raft of screenwriting workshops and how-to books emerged touting particular versions of writing "rules." Some were based on a three-act structure with carefully timed "plot points" (Act One: Setup. Act Two: Conflict. Act Three: Resolution). Others relied on the classic "hero's quest" popularized by the mythologist Joseph Campbell. Regardless of what rubric individual screenwriters follow, most contemporary Hollywood films adhere to the classical model of narrative, one based on linear forward movement, with every incident, encounter, and reversal of fortune driving inexorably toward a conclusion that, if all has gone according to plan, will be both surprising and satisfying to the audience.

Hewing to those principles, a serviceable screenplay will move a largely predictable story along at a decent clip, hitting all the usual "beats" before reaching its foregone conclusion—i.e.: boy meets girl; boy and girl fall in love; obstacles arise; boy and girl overcome them to get together in the end.

An exceptional screenplay, to paraphrase the writer-director Billy Wilder, grabs viewers by their throats and never lets them go. It leads us along a path that we have no choice but to follow, doling out just enough information at each moment to keep the audience interested in what happens next—and never alienated, bored, or fatally confused.

Put simply, it's the screenplay that answers the first question all critical filmgoers must ask themselves: What kind of movie were the filmmakers trying to make? An action-packed, escapist spectacle? An action-packed, escapist spectacle with a deceptively smart subtext about modern life? A meditative chamber piece about the evanescence of love? A stylish, sophisticated romantic comedy? The aspirations of every film lie in the screenplay, which, if it's been competently executed by the creative team, will result in exactly what the originator intended, whether it's an intellectually demanding work of art or high-gloss entertainment.


Did the movie define a specific world from the outset, vividly and with efficiency?

Were we on board and oriented within the first ten or twenty minutes?

Within the first ten minutes, a well-written movie will teach the audience how to watch it.

Whether viewers are learning dense historical background during a film's opening credits sequence (which may or may not have been specified in the script), or observing as the film's protagonist performs her morning ablutions at the start of the first act, this is where we garner crucial information about the characters, the story's physical setting and time period, and its pacing, mood, and tone. Think of the initial tour through Rick Blaine's Café Americain in Casablanca, the scene of private detective Jake Gittes comforting a distraught client in his Los Angeles office at the beginning of Chinatown, or diminutive FBI agent-in-training Clarice Starling dominating an arduous cross-country obstacle course in The Silence of the Lambs.

Each of those scenes conveyed volumes in relatively little time about what and who the movie was about: intriguingly flawed characters and wartime intrigue set against an exotic World War II no-man's-land; an atmospheric riff on 1930s and 1940s pulp detective fiction; a determined, physically tough heroine proving herself within the male-dominated world of criminal justice. The opening sequence determines whether the audience will "buy in" to the protagonist's journey, and whether he or she is appealing or beguilingly complex enough to follow to the ends of the earth (or at least the end of the film).

Once the audience is hooked, over the next ten to twenty minutes the story's context and general mood should be pretty well set up, the main characters introduced, and their relationships to one another clearly established. From here, everything else should flow in such a way that the viewer can look back at that first section and realize that even the biggest whopper of an ending was completely supported by the early material—maybe even preordained.

The classic example of earning the audience's allegiance early is the masterful opening sequence of The Godfather, set at a sprawling, lavish wedding reception. During the film's opening scene, we meet mob boss Don Vito Corleone as he receives a supplicant in his sepulchral home office. Seven minutes later, we're plunged into the lively rites and rituals of a traditional Italian wedding; we're introduced to key members of his organized-crime family, and finally, twelve minutes into the sequence, meet Michael Corleone, a returning World War II hero who wants nothing to do with his family's morally dubious business. Luckily, Michael has brought an outsider to the affair—his future wife, Kay—who knows nothing of mob life; she is the audience's proxy, learning about a culture that is as alien to us as it is to her. When she expresses shock at a particularly violent example of the Corleone way of doing things, Michael looks at her soulfully and says: "That's my family, Kay. That's not me." Francis Ford Coppola's screenplay—adapted from the Mario Puzo novel—has elegantly set the gears of the film in motion within its first twenty minutes, driving us toward an ending where those words will prove to be either prophetic or cruelly ironic. What's more, by conveying the characters and environment of Michael and his family so clearly and economically, Coppola has made sure we'll eagerly tag along on whatever journey they take.

For a particularly invigorating example of scene-setting, look at the first page of writer-director Tony Gilroy's screenplay for the 2007 legal thriller Michael Clayton: "It's 2:00 a.m. in a major New York law firm. Ten floors of office space in the heart of the Sixth Avenue Canyon. Seven hours from now this place will be vibrating with the beehive energy of six hundred attorneys and their attendant staff, but for the moment it is a vast, empty, half-lit shell. A series of shots emphasizing the size and power of this organization; shots that build quietly to the idea that somewhere here—somewhere in this building—there's something very important going on."

Boom. We're in.

Screenwriters are word people. But the best ones know they're working in a visual medium, and they think and write accordingly. Although the visuals of a movie are ultimately the director's responsibility, the initial concept begins at the screenplay stage, when it's incumbent upon the writer to relate the story by outlining potent images that convey as much information as possible with as few words as possible, rather than through a series of static conversations explaining what's happening and why. Most scripts adhere to the one-page-per-minute rule, meaning that typical feature-length screenplays are between 90 and 120 pages; the beauty of Gilroy's Michael Clayton script is that it conveys an enormous amount of information about his characters and their environments economically, not with novelistic density, but almost poetically. Not all scripts need to be written with such voice and detail: although that kind of descriptive specificity can be enormously helpful in terms of visualizing the story, in the hands of a gifted director a spare, more schematic screenplay can allow plenty of room for creativity and interpretation.

As viewers, most of us will never know how much of what transpired on-screen, and how it looked, was specified in the script. As a rule, the best screenplays are exact and closely observed in terms of settings and characters. But they don't suggest particular camera angles, edits, or stylistic flourishes, those choices being the purview of the director and his or her creative team. Indeed, screenplays with long, descriptive passages can be a turnoff to filmmakers who are looking for a compelling story and vivid characters to bring to life in their own way, rather than being railroaded by an overeager writer—who, in most instances, won't be involved once the production is under way, and who may well be rewritten by a raft of "script doctors" as well as the director and even the film's star.

But sometimes, even the smallest details that we would assume are the choices of the director or editor first appeared in the screenplay. The pink underwear Scarlett Johansson wore in the opening shot of Lost in Translation? Specified in the script. The hamburger phone in Juno's retro-tastic bedroom? Written into the script. The famous "match cut" in Lawrence of Arabia, when a lit match is juxtaposed with a rising sun over the desert? The same. It is the screenplay that defines the world we will inhabit for the next two hours—and it's initially up to the writers and their words to make that world vivid and alive enough for us to move right in.


Did the story "want" to be a movie?

Was the movie simply an illustrated plot, or was the story intrinsically visual?

If it wasn't a conventional story, did it take me on a journey or plunge me into an unfamiliar environment?

I hate plots. I love stories.

The movies you saw once and barely remember were, most likely, mechanically executed plots. The movies most critics and fans recognize as classics are great stories, from Casablanca to The Godfather to Fargo. Plot gets the protagonist from point A to point B. A good story moves the protagonist through a journey that feels simultaneously personal and universal, both spontaneous and organic. Plot is what happens. Story is meaning. Plot is mechanics. Story is emotion.

There's a truism in Hollywood that there are only a handful of basic movie plots; it's the detail, depth, and ingenuity of the screenplay that turn them into unique stories. The tale of a reticent hero who reluctantly saves the day was just as galvanizing in Captain Phillips as it was in Casablanca. A vulnerable stranger's arduous journey home made for epic, emotional drama in The Wizard of Oz, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, and 12 Years a Slave, albeit within radically different contexts. The monster vanquished in Jaws was just as daunting as the ones in Gravity and The Revenant, even if the monster took the form of a giant fish in one film, and outer space and nature itself in the others.

You'll notice that most of the movies I just mentioned were book adaptations, which suggests how difficult it is to come up with genuinely original stories. Hollywood has always depended on previously produced work from which to cadge narratives and characters—right now, the studios are mining comic books, old television shows, and even their own archives for properties to remake. If it worked once, they figure, it'll work again; and often, previously produced works bring their own built-in audiences in the form of rabid fan bases.


  • "Hornaday, a movie critic for The Washington Post and a Pulitzer Prize finalist, offers a primer on everything about filmmaking, from casting to sound edits to production design. Along the way, she includes tidbits from her interviews with actors and directors, helpful questions to keep in mind when watching films and recommended viewing lists. The resulting book is a sensible, middle-of-the-road guide for amateurs and movie buffs alike."—New York Times Book Review
  • "[An] illuminating new book for anyone who wants more from the movies than popcorn and thrills." —Washington Post
  • "Hornaday has written a highly readable treatise on the sinew and bones of filmmaking.... If you really are serious about the films you take time and money to see, Talking Pictures will make your celluloid education an ongoing pleasure."—Providence Journal
  • "[Hornaday] offers her insights, opinions and finely tuned observations on actors and acting, camera work, editing, sound and music, and the other elements of film--and how they can all combine to truly make a movie good, bad or just so-so."—Parade

"Ann Hornaday provides a pleasantly calm, eminently sensible, down-the-middle primer for the movie lover--amateur, professional or Twitter centric orator--who would like to acquire and sharpen basic viewing skills." —New York Times Book Review
  • "For people who go to the movies and (even better) like talking about them afterward, Talking Pictures is a must-have. For those of us who study and write about the movies, it's a reminder of why we bother."—Popmatters
  • "Talking Pictures is like enrolling in a master class on the art of cinematic parsing--and is a lot cheaper than signing up for a college course. It is also more fun since Hornaday wisely employs quotes and anecdotes from a wide range of major talents both in front of and behind the camera, many taken from interviews she has done over the years."—Buffalo News
  • "A master class in filmmaking and a celebration of why we love movies."—Booklist
  • "Ann Hornaday knows movies, but more importantly, she knows how to write about movies for a diverse readership. This book is an extension of that essential talent, a clear-eyed assessment of what makes this art form so engaging and how to ask hard questions of it. Anyone remotely intrigued by the filmmaking process will learn something new about it--I know I did--and come away with a fresh toolkit for debating movies old and new. Hornaday's book is a quintessential reminder that movies are a major art form, and it's a must-read for anyone who feels the same way."—Eric Kohn, chief critic, Indiewire
  • "In this essential book Ann Hornaday explores the unique alchemy of filmmaking through its various disciplines, and manages to explain the unexplainable. With clarity and compassion she demystifies the brilliance of Groundhog Day, breaks down how the editor on a film is the audience's chief surrogate, and ultimately puts her finger on what we crave every time the lights go down in a movie theater: 'the singular joy that comes from authentic human connection.' This book is a true gift to all filmmakers and film lovers."
    Albert Berger, Academy Award-nominated producer of Nebraska, Cold Mountain, and Little Miss Sunshine, among others
  • On Sale
    Nov 6, 2018
    Page Count
    320 pages
    Basic Books

    Ann Hornaday

    About the Author

    Ann Hornaday is a film critic at the Washington Post and was a finalist for the 2008 Pulitzer Prize in criticism. Hornaday lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

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