There's a comic streak to the film that suggests David Fincher may understand the material as trash, but it's the kind of affectation that only reinforces, rather than dulls, its insults.
Jason Reitman fails to take into account any of the positive endeavors enabled by social media, which will no doubt be used to promote and market his film.
Mathieu Amalric's film abounds in guilt and grief, reveling in a general sense of hopelessly broken social connection.
It's sense of complexity is giving us masses of people moved by Simon Bolívar's words, and gorgeous sweeping vistas of the landscape backed by a stirring orchestra.
No cartoon has ever conveyed the struggle for self-actualization with such an inexpressive sense of imagination as this cheap and glorified babysitter.
Slowly, the powerful message of heart and soul winning out over an impaired body and over-thinking mind develops into the core drama of this otherwise modest doc.
While the trivia value may feel tremendous, only One9's interviews with Nas, his father, and his brother, manage to make the doc legitimately moving—a history lesson in popular culture.
There's a disingenuous offering of pathos to accompany the film's ridiculous and violent denouement.
Though this setup is perhaps infused with too much piety, cheating audience empathy toward the main character, it nonetheless generates a compelling air of social fatalism.
It operates under a discursive premise so presumptuous and flimsy that its attempted function as an experiential documentary proffers little more than a book-on-tape-on-film.
It intriguingly invites us to think about the forces that can drive a seemingly ordinary guy like Mohamed to do something so desperate and cruel as piracy.
It could have used far more of King's mordant humor, which might have imbued the metaphorical autumnal proceedings with a much-needed jolt of pop anarchy, or even pathos.
The film, although it positions itself in dialogue with contemporary debates about the border, eschews a clearly delineated historical narrative.
Drive Hard is the action-film equivalent of one of those folks who relentlessly speak of having it tough all over as they plan their third yearly vacation.
All this should build up to a moderately engaging battle of wits, but the script has little interest in wit and no capacity for psychology.
The flippancy toward thematic concerns and character construction suggests that the film, like the boxtrolls' myriad gadgets and inventions, was largely built from used parts.
Opting for scenes that tend to be fragmented, flawed snippets from a much bigger story, it exudes a bizarre confidence in not trying to encapsulate Hendrix's whole life in 120 minutes.
Hossein Amini's sequences are engineered for narrative efficiency, often at the expense of thematic or affectual aims
You can't help but be impressed by how much it represents a natural, even defensive evolutionary step on its creator's part.
The film the tough true story has spawned is as formulaically cheery, didactically "uplifting," and fundamentally false as a Disney sports movie.
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