The Chair too often downplays its potentially thorny political subject matter.
The film half-heartedly teeters between a kinetic action thriller and something a little more low-key.
Emma Seligman’s film effectively builds tension from what is a relatively familiar, low-key scenario.
The film lacks for the empathy, curiosity, and sense of humor that are the defining characteristics of the Smiths’s music.
In a way, the film feels like a true heir to the petulant, low-budget horror cinema of the ‘70s and ‘80s.
Had the film trusted its self-imposed minimalism a little more, it might have been a lot more successful as a character study.
The film portrays mental illness with all the nuance and insight of Jared Leto in Suicide Squad.
Best exemplified by its fixation on culottes, the film never feels like more than a half-formed in-joke between close friends.
The film doesn’t offer the most incisive social commentary, but as a document of our contemporary political moment, its force is undeniable.
Francis Lee’s compulsion to make Mary Anning stand in for something broader than herself keeps tripping up the film.
The series suggests a more conventional comedy, with jokes that are intended to be taken at face value.
The low-key, serene natural beauty of Beginning’s setting provides a counterpoint to the often-disturbing events of the film.
Although its crime-caper structure is worn extremely lightly, Kajillionaire represents Miranda July’s first real flirtation with genre.
The series’s ambient preoccupation with death is foregrounded more than ever before with this film’s main dramatic subplot.
The film’s insistence on keeping the stakes low throughout is probably its key strength.
The film’s use of scale to drive home the absurdity of its characters’ actions recalls Werner Herzog’s tragicomic existentialism.
Tukel’s film doesn’t live up to the promise of its fleet-footed opening.
The film evinces neither the visceral pleasures of noir nor the precision to uncover deeper thematic resonances.