Every film gets two thumbs. Most of them point down. Split decisions fuel the feud; double-ups are a begrudging miracle.
Norm's home lane — revenge — meets a film that is all collection and no case. For only the second time in court history, the ruling came down THUMB DOWN. Norm has declared the office compromised. Matt won a case while voting down, which nobody knew was possible.
For the first time since Transformers, the critics buried a film together — 165 minutes, invoiced, plinth dusted. And for the sixth consecutive time in site history, the elevator moved. The Hall of Shame's retention rate remains a perfect zero.
161 minutes of driving around 1969 Los Angeles with a fading TV cowboy and his stuntman — maximum Tax exposure for a film where famously little happens. Somehow, both thumbs up, and the office explained itself in writing.
Five chapters, each one a slow fuse — a war movie built almost entirely out of conversations you can't breathe through. Both thumbs up, and another 45 minutes waived off the books.
A crime classic told out of order, which turns out to be everyone's lanes at once: Matt's '90s clause, Norm's crime ledger, and a structure that is secretly a puzzle. The double-up was a formality.
A chosen one, a prophecy, and an oracle walk into Rule 03 — again. But this time, history: Management declined to rule. The split stands raw. The feud is officially, legally, gloriously unresolved.
The horror ban's first real stress test: a horror film that is also an airtight mystery, delivered four minutes UNDER the runtime promise. Norm's lanes went to war with each other. The mystery won. And upstairs, horror's patron finally got a horror case.
A broad family comedy before the court of a man whose doctrine says comedy must be dry. Matt defends the '90s classic; Norm invokes the doctrine; and the ruling turns on whether a paint can to the face constitutes procedure.
One hundred sixty-nine minutes, a black hole rendered from actual physics, and a third act inside a bookshelf. Both thumbs up — and the Runtime Office issues yet another Nolan waiver while denying, again, that a pattern exists.
A crime thriller that is also a double-mystery about two moles hunting each other. There was never going to be a fight here — just an argument over who liked it more.
A revenge epic (Norm's lane) that's also a built-for-real classic (Matt's lane). The verdict was never in doubt; the only surprise is how little they fought about it.
A revenge thriller that arrives UNDER the 108-minute promise — the first film in ledger history to come in under budget. Norm approves. Matt, of all people, objects. And Management ends Matt's three-case winning streak with a ruling Norm has already had framed.
Matt's thumb was up before the lights dimmed. Then something happened that has no precedent in this publication's files: Norm's went up too — for a SPIELBERG film. He insists the grudge stands. The dinosaurs, he says, are innocent. The director remains overrated.
Norm published the grudge months ago; the case finally reached the docket. Matt wept on schedule and dared the court to call it manipulation. The Spielberg Question got its first formal answer — and it did not go Norm's way.
A '70s classic (Matt's lane) containing a prophecy, a chosen one, and wizards with laser swords (Rule 03's entire jurisdiction). The fantasy ban met the classics clause in open court, and the ruling turned on a single question of law: does space count?
Both critics finally found a film they could bury together — no dossier conflicts, no asterisks, a clean unanimous double-down at last. The Hall of Shame prepared a room. Then the elevator moved. The Hall of Shame is now 0-for-5, and the critics are beyond fury into something quieter.
A dry comedy wrapped around a kidnapping mystery — which put it, unannounced, in everyone's lane at once. A double-up so comfortable it made the critics suspicious.
Matt calls it the last of the great built-it-for-real epics. Norm filed an 86-minute Runtime Tax invoice, itemized. And for the first time in a formal case, Management ruled FOR Matt. He has been told to stop celebrating.
Both critics invoked the fantasy ban and went down in perfect unison. Then the office upstairs vacated the whole verdict — and in doing so, accidentally revealed that Management's fantasy doctrine is much, much bigger than previously disclosed.
The superhero ban finally met the biggest superhero movie ever made, and both thumbs did what the dossiers promised. Then Management overturned it from upstairs — revealing, to the critics' horror, that E Money apparently likes these.
Norm's Cruise manifesto already cited this film as evidence. The formal verdict is a double-up in which Matt praises real airplanes and 'what about Harrison Ford' is ruled, again, a separate proceeding.
Under settled law, cinema begins at Jaws (1975) — meaning this film, technically, did not exist. Matt filed the appeal. Norm co-signed it, which has never happened. And Management, for the first time in site history, granted one. The record has been amended. Barely.
Three hours of physicists talking, and the site's strictest accountant walked out calling the ledger clean. A double-up with paperwork.
Matt already called it 'the greatest thriller ever made' in a Steven Seagal op-ed, of all places. The formal review makes it official — and reopens the chain-of-custody dispute.
The one lane both critics admit to sharing — heists — meets the film that owns the lane. A double-up so inevitable the Crossfire had to fight about something else entirely.
Matt's most indefensible hill finally comes before the court. Norm bills for overtime. And for the first time in site history, Management breaks the tie.
A schoolteacher, a spaceship, a dying sun — and the site's rarest event: a unanimous verdict. Norm sat through 2h 36m without invoicing anyone.
Norm calls it the greatest performance ever robbed of an Oscar. Matt, after an internal review he conducted on himself, now agrees — and has asked that his earlier remarks be stricken. Denied. The double-up stands.