In the wake of the ostentatious atmospherics summoned by the likes of Shutter Island and American Horror Story: Asylum, the film feels unnecessarily restrained.
It’s all a far cry from James Wan’s The Conjuring, which embraced the thrill of the paranormal even as it respected its frazzled, earthbound characters.
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.
Like Viola, Matías Piñeiro’s pastiche of Twelfth Night, the film delights in sowing epistemological uncertainty.
A romantic drama complicated by a stroller and a wheelchair, and its first mistake is in assuming some kind of equity between the two vehicles.
A visual pleasure, and refreshingly free of message or structure, but it leaves an aftertaste similar to that of an awkward party spent among intellectuals.
There are many instances of questionable logic in Into the Storm, but the most persistent is the film’s unexplained assumption that tornado-hunting is a growth industry.
A rare War on Terror military exposé almost exclusively interested in the hearts and minds of low-ranking soldiers.
Harbach’s winning debut novel takes great advantage of its cozy narrative confines, though its final pages are perhaps too enamored of them.
The Curfew manages to be a pretty original leftfield entry in the canon of dystopian literature because it doesn’t simply present the resigned apathy of a common citizen as a given.