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.
Less a sincerely kooky elegy to lost time than a slightly off-kilter acting out of familiar rom-com bona fides about commitment-phobes missing out on life.
It conveys life experience to such a sentimentalized degree that the world comes to resemble only the sham of a Norman Rockwell painting.
One's ability to enjoy the film hangs on a tolerance for the ever-popular on-screen man-child.
The film is, like its main character, too naïve to understand or, at least, to deploy the reparative powers of camp.
The ghostliness of the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna derives from an identity crisis, where digitization threatens to eradicate the gallery space.
A sluggish, obvious fusion of a disease-of-the-week tearjerker with a comedic family crime romp that abounds in stiflingly over-emphasized Boston-crime-movie details.
Commingling industry shoptalk with introspective insights and wrangling testimonials, the film casts an incredibly wide net, but doesn't reveal much of anything.
The film is at once devoted to corroborating and casting an exaggerated light on Soviet paranoia and the state's rhetoric of unmasking its enemies.
When the genre-film spectacle arrives, it's in full force, and the strictures of the framing device manage to amplify, rather than suppress, the impact of the shocks and scares.
If the film's copycat visual artistry illuminates nothing, at least its script is sincerely devoted to probing Finkel and Longo's odd partnership.
For all of the potential, historically specific revelations regarding nation and religion, the film elects to become bathetic hokum.
Chris Messina is a little too indifferent to the machinations of the plot, but the film, however inescapably sentimental, is a romantic daydream that casts a lovely spell.
The cumulative effect is cheerily life-affirming, a bracing infusion of macaque-style joie de vivre.
A phony collection of storytelling clichés held under the banner of archetype and lent a modicum of weight by the splendor of the landscape.
If all a movie needed was a boy with abs and a gun (or slingshot), then Beyond the Reach would be a masterpiece.
Maxime Giroux's sharp filmmaking instincts aren't always supported by similarly acute dramatic instincts.
The film's tired sentimentality aside, its general lack of empathy is most damning.
The filmmakers oddly forgoe the abundant elegiac aspects of his film's factual material for a tone approaching the ebullient.
It appears afraid of alienating viewers by overloading on scientific jargon, and in the process becomes too attracted to ultimately superfluous anecdotes from her subjects.
Alex Garland replaces Never Let Me Go's airless metaphor for capitalism with a nebulous treatise on patriarchy.
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