Smartly prioritizing the bond of relationships over action, the film is in the end only somewhat convincing on both counts.
The show offers testimony to the power of communal storytelling, just as mighty on screen as on stage.
Throughout, it’s as though Werner Herzog were more witness than author, simply registering Japan being Japan.
The film presents its scattershot cop-movie tropes in earnest, as if, like hurricanes, they were natural, unavoidable phenomena.
The film is well-outfitted with telling, thematically rich shards of historical information.
There’s colossal might to a cinematic image achieved through the scrappiest of means.
Peter Segal’s film is pulled in so many different directions that it comes to feel slack.
With great clarity, the film conveys how discipline can be directed both inward and outward.
Jon Stewart’s amiable satire tries to show that you can make light political comedy in the Trump era.
It’s hard to tell whether we’re in the midst of a film apocalypse, a film revolution, or both.
The film is never more intense than when it’s finding parallels between its main character’s anomie and Korea’s dehumanizing expansion.
The film refuses to shy away from the unvarnished honesty of the Blind Melon frontman during his brief moment of fame.
Some of the film’s narrative threads are frustratingly unresolved, while others are wrapped up in arbitrary fashion.
Where When We Leave built to simple outage, this one concludes with a rush of complex, conflicting emotions.
The final product feels like more of an interesting and beautifully filmed anecdote than compelling political and human drama.
David Koepp is a fatally un-obsessive craftsman, one who’s fashioned a horror film that resembles a tasteful coffee table book.
Cinema isn’t the sole mechanism for making our presence known, but it can be among the most powerful.
Murphy discusses how she steered the film away from weepy clichés and toward an authentic portrayal of teenage experience.