The Tomatometer rating – based on the published opinions of hundreds of film and television critics – is a trusted measurement of movie and TV programming quality for millions of moviegoers. It represents the percentage of professional critic reviews that are positive for a given film or television show.
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The Tomatometer is 60% or higher.
The Tomatometer is 59% or lower.
Movies and TV shows are Certified Fresh with a steady Tomatometer of 75% or higher after a set amount of reviews (80 for wide-release movies, 40 for limited-release movies, 20 for TV shows), including 5 reviews from Top Critics.
Percentage of users who rate a movie or TV show positively.
Licorice Pizza takes an arm's-length embrace of nostalgia. Anderson doesn't turn a blind eye to reality-he heightens it, weighting it with meaning, reflecting the romance of hindsight and adolescent abandon.
One thing I really like about this movie is the way it's structured, because it's meandering and it's loose [but] all these little moments, they feel like stories and anecdotes and memories that have been told and recounted many times.
This is a film carried by two people who've basically never acted before, but Anderson somehow knew that they could, and neither hits a false note in over two hours. It's a star-crossed love story à la Harold and Maude minus the tragedy.
Such is the energy Anderson whips up, forever sending in chaos from the edge of the frame. The result is a giddy freewheel in which scenes never end how you or the characters expect, and what's coming next is anyone's guess.
I had fun watchingLicorice Pizza,an all-too-rare quality that no other year-end release can match. For that I am grateful that someone wrote Paul Thomas Anderson a blank check to make such an idiosyncratic, highly personal film.
'Licorice Pizza' has an openness and vulnerability that's closer to his early work, specifically to 'Magnolia,' and its willingness to swing for the emotional fences in a way his later films might not.
Watching "Licorice Pizza" is simultaneously like watching life with all the boring parts cut out and like watching movies with all the phony parts cut out. I can't even guess how anyone could do both things at once, but Anderson did it.
Anderson is going backwards to the terrain of Boogie Nights, Magnolia and Punch-Drunk Love, but now with the maturity we see in his recent work, as if he's hanging his own growth as a filmmaker onto this story.
For the most part Anderson has delivered another highly entertaining movie, capturing a very particular time but also the enduring and universal nature of relationships developing in the most unexpected ways.
Anderson has harnessed all the thrilling, muscular techniques that are his directing trademarks as well as his affection for high drama as a writer and applied them to telling a story that's surprisingly sweet.
[Licorice Pizza] is anchored by the aesthetic meld Anderson has perfected in recent years, and by a pair of truly stunning debut performances that bring to life two of the most fully-formed, deeply complicated Hollywood characters in recent memory.
Darkness stays on the edges of Hollywood town in Paul Thomas Anderson's screwball comedy explosion about the serious business of first love. Newbies Alana Haim and Cooper Hoffman light up the screen in one of the very best movies of the year.
Licorice Pizza delivers a piping-hot, jumbo slice-of-life look at how it felt to grow up on the fringes of the film industry circa 1973, as seen through the eyes of an ambitious former child actor plotting how to follow up his early screen career.
[Paul Thomas Anderson] has sifted through a haze of wildly embellished tales and half-forgotten memories -- and pieced together something that feels more concrete, more achingly, tangibly real, than just about any American movie this year.
Over his brilliant, wandering career, Anderson has shown us plenty of scuzz and grime, alongside flashes of kinetic verve and primordial howl. But Licorice Pizza is, by some measure, his most deliberately pleasant film to date.
[Licorice Pizza] is irresistibly hard to pin down: you'd have to go back around 50 years, to the likes of Hal Ashby's Shampoo or Peter Bogdanovich's The Last Picture Show, to find another that runs on a similar kind of woozy clockwork.