Ostlund has a keen ear for dialogue and a perfect grasp of the push-and-pull rhythms of an imploding relationship.
The film plays like a show reel for McCarthy’s considerable craft.
At its best, it forgets to be a Marvel movie, casting off corporate shackles to let its freak flag fly.
Besson commits wholeheartedly to his decades-long preoccupation with waifish young women discovering their inner Shiva.
This one begins like a pleasantly hazy post-pubescent fever dream.
It boils an entire culture down to repetitive pastiche on its way to that glittering homogeneous fantasyland of sports-movie magic.
Patrick Stewart’s performance is practically an argument for Stephen Belber to take the actor on the road as a one-man spoken-word act.
The thinness of the material is only accentuated by the cast’s spirited efforts to pad it out.
The film is a cleverly written dissection of a co-dependent friendship being gradually eroded by the incremental ravages of age.
Even a brief summary of the 1974-set film’s plot reveals a near-comical laundry list of recycled plot elements.
Its horrors reach back to the primordial fear of death and loss: of a child, of a loved one, of one’s own sense of self.
For all its references to the show’s history, the film never panders.
The film plays like a terrible sketch comedy with one-dimensional caricatures shuffling listlessly through a succession of stilted tableaux.
The material plays out like a particularly busy episode of Sons of Anarchy.
The film is depressing, sub-sitcom fodder that will dull whatever affection you may still harbor for these legendary actors.
John Crowley’s film fails as a critique of draconian security states and surveillance culture.
From the start, it’s clear that Darcy-Smith plans to play his cards close to the vest.
There’s nothing behind all this sturm und drang but a lineup of insubstantial ciphers.
There’s plenty of gore, but it doesn't engender any visceral or emotional reactions beyond jaded disgust.
As far as high concepts go, it’s a great one.