The game is a fascinating, unique, and fulfilling portrayal of the human mind.
The series argues the ways injustice might persist, and in that sense, its alternate history doesn’t look so alien after all.
Behind the film’s self-awareness and irony is a hollow emotional core.
The series is decidedly unambitious and ends before it ever really gets off the ground.
In the film’s world, there can be no real resistance, as the suburbs have already won.
The show’s violence is a reflection of its characters’ existence, a cycle from which there’s no escape.
The film is an aimless, albeit sometimes funny, chronicle of absurd behavior and government ineptitude.
The series bottles the original’s pulpy spirit and atmosphere for an irresistibly macabre package.
The film often feels like a maximalist season finale trimmed of any build-up.
The series is both beautiful and inventive, even if it uses the mental health of its protagonist as a story hook.
Larry Fessenden diagnoses the rot of our era through the shifting personalities and power dynamics of solipsistic men.
Subtlety dissipates as Justin Chon’s film grasps for something louder and more obvious.
One hopes Man of Medan will function similarly to a mediocre TV pilot for a series that only later finds its footing.
The game is as much a thrilling paean to human curiosity as it is a warning of its numerous casualties.
The show’s myriad absurdities are resonant reminders of how tough it is to get lost in the labyrinth of capitalism.
The film bottles a palpable emotion of unabashed joy, even when the rest of it seems to barely hold together.
The series is striking not only for its scope, but for how uncompromising it is.
The game isn’t really supposed to be about anything, yet in that ambiguity it captures the specific madness of our present.
It experiments with all the weakest parts of the series and ties them together with a new, tedious progression system.
The violence of Jennifer Kent’s film doesn’t seem to build upon its themes so much as repeat them.