The film turns out to instead be a strained trumpeting of the return of the proverbial king of the box office.
David Gelb doesn't evince so much as a single compositional sleight of hand, merely delighting in turning lights on and off and watching Zoe appear in random places.
For these fractured family units, incest seems the natural endgame of a merit system based exclusively on pernicious nepotism and inveterate ass-kissing.
Kirby Dick's films don't go far enough in explaining how a culture of rape can pervade in vastly different institutions, but they're ruthless about holding them accountable.
Kristian Levring's film achieves nothing more than hollow caricature, too caught up in dumb dress-up pageantry to accomplish anything else.
It distinguishes itself from Pual Greengrass's films by virtue of its close attention to political and moral ambiguities.
Yet another boring ode to heavy breathing that's offered under the hypocritical pretense of celebrating female empowerment.
Lawrence Michael Levine's film occupies a sweet spot between the self-aware and taut.
A ferocious plea for character salvation within a milieu where money and bodily affect are the raison d'être for human existence.
It suggests that a disease isn't a product of one single person's body, but the eruption of an entire family history of unarticulated desire.
The cogent character study nestled inside all the bombast remains crafty for its rare commingling of artful storytelling and genre nonsensicality.
Its lack of dramatic specificity places it in a precarious middle ground between exacting character study and ethereal parable.
Ken Loach's film represents a critical turn away from the popularized kitchen-sink realism of the 1950s and '60s and toward a more improvised and unpredictable narrative style.
Writer-director Lance Edmands's film is knitted-together by its sense of place and lived-in performances, yet unraveled by anemic false melodrama and overbearing music.
It masks depleted drama under a progression of long takes, various music cues, and a three-chapter structure that grows successively tedious.
If there's a general air of emotional authenticity woven throughout all this garden-variety, faith-in-family hokum, it's in the racing scenes.
The film deposits its heroine and everyone in the audience looking toward her for image-maintaining guidance back at square one.
These vignettes concern the methods of calculated mass dehumanization that are (barely) hidden beneath the practices of social institutions.
Josh Heald's script takes the easy way out, ending the film with a torrent of slapdash sentimentality.
So flimsily constructed that it resembles a middle-school play that's been hastily filmed on an antique camcorder.
The film's 90 minutes are a disorienting cyclone of destructive incidents and propulsive energy.
The film lacks an ability to construct significant instances of character drama as symbolic of larger concerns pertaining to nationalist dilemmas.
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