Its only claim to uniqueness becomes running the standard zombie narrative through a Hallmark-card filter.
No matter how much Bertrand Bonello varies his split screens, triptychs, and geometric screen divisions, he forgets that one of the most fashionable virtues is knowing when to leave.
The transcendence it offers isn't to be taken lightly considering the near impossibility of living professionally as an artist.
Ira Sachs, for all the tenderness of feeling he brought to Love Is Strange, wouldn't have countenanced the stacked-deck sentimentality that lies at this film's heart.
This adaptation is to concerned with narrative fidelity and formal objectivity to pierce the veil of power dynamics that largely comprises the film's concerns.
It relays a story of police corruption that's transparently designed as a pitch for a feature-film adaptation.
Gianni Amelio bogs down into a family drama that's neither supplementary to the film's initial quest or a fulfilling substitute.
There's no beauty to this film, little rhythm, none of the physical grace that action-film fans crave even if they don't know they do.
Joss Whedon's film struggles against the rigid formula that typifies the Marvel universe, but only does so up to a point.
Albert Maysles's portrait of Iris Apfel gradually emerges with cathartic clarity without compromising her inherent mystery.
The lack of real analysis or consideration leaves this perilously close to a Goldilocks-style depiction of privileged female indecision.
The film rejects a fawning (or even particularly detailed) account of mental illness in favor of a plunge into the deep end of a bottomless ego.
It chooses the delicateness of a fable instead of the narrative recklessness we've come to expect from Bruce La Bruce.
The film often suggests a less defiant cover of The Defiant Ones, yet it's a must-see for Viggo Mortensen's characteristically wonderful performance.
Quentin Dupieux has a talent for rendering otherworldly concepts banal in a manner that reflects the stymied desires of his characters.
Throughout, Helen Hunt obsequiously tends to her character's evolution as a parent through a flagrant indulgence of sitcom-ish scenarios.
The Gerard Johnson film's blanket cynicism is its most shopworn quality of all.
The film is unable to specify narrative urgency beyond a broad sense of "based on a true story" pathos that's by turns hollowly uplifting and tragic.
The film simply mucks up its earnest take on the buddy movie with undercooked characters and on-the-nose writing.
Eventually, the film's impressive array of formal pyrotechnics overwhelms its morals.
In straining for the profound, the film ultimately loses its way in a veritable no-man's land of ill-conceived stylistic choices and narrative switchbacks.
Director Brett Morgen distinguishes the biographical documentary by viewing himself as more of a curator than a film director.
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