Sentences with phrase «than genres whose»

Genres which appeal to hip or tech - savvy consumers (science fiction, thrillers) may also sell more e-books than genres whose readers tend to be late adopters of technology (again, romance.

Not exact matches

Genres, rather than books: science fiction has never appealed; pastel - covered chick lit, whose promise of escapism rapidly becomes irritation.

They ought to be a whole lot scarier than they are in this tepid genre offering from director Robert Harmon, whose debut film «The Hitcher» set a high bar for screen terror in the 1980s.

I've always maintained that it's ok to boast about one's talent if you have actual talent, and De Palma, whose work has spanned so many genres, has gifted us with more indelible moments in any given film than most directors have in their entire careers.

Occupying the director's chair is Nimrod Antal, a kindred spirit of Rodriguez's whose «Vacancy» and «Armored» were genre films that turned out better than a lot of their genre - mates do — which describes «Predators,» too.

THE DVD Paramount presents Young Sherlock Holmes on a bare - bones DVD whose paucity of supplementary material is more justified this time out for a selection from the studio's»80s genre cache than was the case with the thorny Dragonslayer.

Moreover, I hate that modern pop culture is so literalminded as to place a high premium on plausibility, while I'm 99 % sure that knowing the Batsuit could stop bullets off camera, too, is not going to convert any of the haters, whose snotty disdain for the superhero genre is more a fashion statement than an issue of disbelief.

The performances range from terrible - on - purpose (Fiennes, Close, and Jason Isaacs, whose first line as Pucci's father --»... You let your grades go now, maybe you don't get into a top - tier school» — hastily but explicitly lampoons the genre's default father - son conflict, thus throwing The Chumscrubber's true target of ridicule (movies about the middle - class rather than the middle - class itself) into sharp relief) to oblivious (Camilla Belle).

I can see this being a genre and title whose fans demand the utmost picture and sound quality from, and I appreciate the BD's gains, but it wouldn't be a stretch to say that the majority of the population would be less than satisfied with the DVD's presentation.

Everything about it promises negligibility, and the promise is kept: a less - than - super star (Coburn), a female lead whose potential has scarcely ever been fully realized (Lee Grant), some character actors who stopped getting — or making — good parts some time ago (Andrews, Hendry), a forgettable British sub-leading man who muffed his one big chance (Jayston — Nicholas of Nicholas and Alexandra), an anonymously pneumatic foreign blonde (Christiane Kruger), an English hack with conspicuously unimaginative pretensions to distinction (Hughes), and above all the tiresomely formulaic genre in which doublecrosses are so taken - for - granted by the audience that no degree of geometric complication can do more than increase the boredom.

Nonetheless, this is a more diverse field than usual; the inclusion of Peele, whose only the fourth black director ever to nab a nod, and the Mexican genre visionary Del Toro, makes this the first time ever that white men don't make up the majority of the DGA lineup.

Probably more polished than it's predecessor, though not nearly as profound, in the «bad - ass baddies whose stories are told out of time but linked together to form a wild and crazy ride» genre, but it has a spirit and comic tone all it's own.

And, in a genre that more often than not fetishizes or demeans its female characters, Saulnier crafts immensely enjoyable roles for two underrated (or sometimes underutilized) female performers, Alia Shawkat and Imogen Poots, women whose survival skills outmatch the wits of male peers.

Everything about it screams «niche,» from the budget ($ 4.5 million, which is what its studio, Universal, spent to make approximately two - and - a-half minutes of The Fate of the Furious), to the first - time director - writer, Jordan Peele, a cable - TV star whose show ended and who was looking to branch out, to the complete lack of movie stars (although now, Daniel Kaluuya and Allison Williams are nicely on their way), to the genre: horror cut with more than a dash of comedy and of pointed sociopolitical commentary.

Based on a novel by Ruth Rendell (whose books also inspired Claude Chabrol «s «La Ceremonie» and «The Bridesmaid,» and Pedro Almodovar «s «Live Flesh «-RRB-, it seems to be closer to a melodrama than a thriller, with comparisons already drawn to Douglas Sirk and George Cukor, which marks an interesting departure for the genre - hopping Ozon.

Still, this tale of a high school boy whose party to woo the girl of his dreams is ruined by a zombie invasion is smarter and more fun than most micro-budget genre fare.

Indie titles in these highly popular genres are outselling centuries» - old publishing houses, but now that means that an author whose work can not be readily categorized into one of these popular cubbyholes has even more work cut out for him than before in terms of promotion and visibility.

For genre readers whose primary diet is romance, the prices of the Kindle books aren't lower than BooksonBoard or Fictionwise's Club pricing.

Some of my fellow board members have fewer than 10 books in print, whose firms target audiences that will zero in on any title published in their genre, be it sport - specific weight training (Rob Price of Price World Publishing) or caring for a loved one with Alzheimer's (Brenda Avadian of The Caregiver's Voice blog).

AS THE LAWRENCE WEINER RETROSPECTIVE at the Whitney Museum fades to white under multiple coats of Kilz and latex paint, and his various exuberant ephemera take up residence at LA MoCA before wending their way back to their rightful property owners; as Tate Modern and the ICA London emerge from momentary spells of whispered headlines, random sketching, streams of consciousness, and face slapping; as New York's New Museum concludes its vestigial assault on the Work of Art, not to mention the etiquette of proper spacing, and as visitors to the new building experience the worst case of buyer's remorse since the reopening of the Museum of Contemporary Art, Chicago; as the Metropolitan Museum's Dutch paintings readjust to the staid organizing principles of artist's name, date, and genre rather than hanging according to who bought what from whom (on whose advice) and resold it to so - and - so, who then donated it to the Met; and as the scent of modesty - prosaic, charcoal filtered, crystalline - emanates from the 2008 Whitney Biennial, now is as good a time as any to talk about money.

On the surface the exhibition is a celebration of representational painting — figures, landscapes and still lifes — and nowhere is the power of the genre on stronger display than in the narrow second floor room devoted to the paintings of the late Leland Bell, on whose work this review concentrates.