Dave Franco has a mighty command of silence as a measurement of emotional aftershock.
The film never feels as satisfying or as haunting as its bow-tying epilogue strives for.
The script doesn’t contain many lines that ring true, and a few clang wildly off-key.
Václav Marhoul’s film is at its most magnificent when it lingers on the poetry of its images.
The film vague on the intersections between Cara Jones’s family, Sun Myung Moon, and the Unification Church at large.
The film’s unreflective earnestness is haunting in all the wrong ways.
The Rosses discuss how performance, accessibility, empathy, and nostalgia figure into their work.
It’s in certain characters’ trajectories that the Ross brothers locate the tragic soul of the bar.
The film heralds the arrival a bold and formidable voice in horror cinema.
The film’s characters are simultaneously horny and melancholic. They seem to want plenty of sex but also love.
With no vividly drawn humans on display, the action feels like rootless war play.
The character drama becomes afterthought as it’s superseded by action.
Smartly prioritizing the bond of relationships over action, the film is in the end only somewhat convincing on both counts.
The film is a kaleidoscopic portrait of a world where emotions are accessed and revealed primarily through digital intermediaries.
The film smuggles some surprisingly bleak existential questioning inside a brightly comedic vehicle.
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.