The film predictably alternates in scaring its characters by tapping into their deepest fears and having them rub shoulders with the relics of a past that insists on being undisturbed.
Roger Donaldson embellishes an already overly plotty scenario with hollowly attractive genre superfluities.
As executed by writer-director Ari Folman, the concept is tidy, superficially clever, and almost defiantly irrelevant.
Down to its too-crisp rubber Nixon masks, Daniel Schechter's film revels in obnoxiously self-aware period detail.
One can never fully shake the feeling that the sense of unease the filmmakers rouse, every act of seduction, infiltration, and vengeance they orchestrate, is borrowed.
The cautious optimism with which it answers questionsa about rehabilitation and forgiveness is credible because the characters and setting feel so thoroughly authentic.
By eschewing even basic B-roll footage, it ends up feeling even more stripped down than Frederick Wiseman's patient inquisitions, yet nearly as complex overall.
It bolts down a foreseeable slasher-movie trajectory, laying on thick the dramatic irony while constantly inventing new reasons to punish its characters for old iniquities.
János Szász's film is a thoroughly provocative WWII screed that almost deliberately goes out of its way to avoid sentimentality or bathos of any sort.
The film's attempt at political commentary amounts to a half-baked treatise on good governance in the face of tyranny and socioeconomic exploitation.
Thomas Allen Harris's documentary consistently takes agency away from the art itself with a litany of talking heads.
As photographed by Vittorio Storraro, the film is a mélange of the sensual haziness of '70s European art-house fair and the high-contrast, anxious angles of film noir.
The filmmakers' inquiry-free recipe for disaster is to idealize everyone's unchecked narcissism and idle privilege.
The premise of faith-based assisted suicide as a motivating factor for a madman's killing spree is initially intriguing, but quickly revealed as solemn window dressing.
Whereas a single, stinging one-liner would have sufficed Tourneur or Lang, Miller's overcompensating flood of pulpy dialogue only renders his characters flat and sans empathy.
The film, based on the novel by Gayle Forman, is an almost deliberate confirmation of Alison Bechdel's claim that women in film are so often shown only in relation to men.
The push for heartrending poetry makes it clear that the film is putting too fine a gloss on the acute pains of one small tragedy.
Jim Caviezel commits only to the level of God-like omniscience that Mel Gibson whipped into him a decade ago.
The female characters on Mad Men are probably the show's strongest asset, but here they're hollow to the point of insult.
It plays things a bit too straight and safe by giving into basic emotional and thematic possibilities of each period in Takei's prolific early life and subsequent Hollywood career.
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