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The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

This year offered incredible riches in cinema, as well as lowlights that are both obvious and intensely debatable.

The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017
Photo: Paramount Pictures

Just as emotional intimacy exposes one to heartbreak, love of art brings one into contact with masterpieces, disasters, and all levels of achievement in between. The following films encapsulate various forms of dishonor, ranging from pointless cash-ins, born of cold studio calculus, to urgently personal projects that are more reflective of their creators’ obsessions than was even possibly intended, dragging unsavory neuroses up into the light. A best-of list is celebratory, while a worst-of recap is cautionary and—okay—a little snide. For its discomfort, a worst-of list might be more revealing of the impulses that govern our reactions to art. This year offered incredible riches in cinema, as well as lowlights that are both obvious and intensely debatable. Chuck Bowen


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Alien: Covenant

When he helmed Alien in 1979, Ridley Scott, not yet known for bloated epics, had to work within the limits of technology and the confines of practical special effects; he had to find creative ways to conjure a retro-futuristic world. His directorial choices are precise, his shots assiduous in their compositions and movements. Since the advent of CGI, though, Sir Ridley has grown lazy. He no longer makes directorial choices but seemingly does everything that comes to mind, creating messes of philosophical mumbo jumbo and vertiginous, sloppy action. Alien: Covenant, his latest blunder, espouses everything that’s awful about post-Gladiator Scott. Count the shots in any of the attack scenes; instead of making choices, he shoots every angle he can. The sophomoric philosophizing pontificates in a way that may trick some viewers into thinking that the film posits intriguing ideas, but it’s all just a hodgepodge of self-contradicting bullshit whose only purpose is to force along a narrative from scene to scene. Michael Fassbender does astonishing work as the two identical androids, but his virtuoso (and gay-baiting) performance can’t save the film from Scott’s pedantic indulgence. Greg Cwik


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Beatriz at Dinner

Miguel Arteta’s Beatriz at Dinner sets out to make a feast of late capitalism and the hypocrisies of wealthy, white liberals yet never makes its way past the hors d’oeuvres. Beatriz (Salma Hayek) is positioned as the film’s moral compass, yet her obliviousness to the fact that evil deeds are often committed to amass the great sums of wealth that her clients flaunt is so ridiculous that it’s impossible to take her seriously. Arteta and screenwriter Mike White position Beatriz less as a thinking, breathing character than a saintly pawn who miraculously disarms the supposedly politically progressive guests at the dinner party to which she’s been invited, often silently witnessing the casual racism and greed that informs their solipsistic world views. In their attempts to puncture the bubble surrounding elite liberals, the filmmakers overlook the dangers of Beatriz’s own wide-eyed optimism and unquestioning faith in humanity, which render her unable to perceive the blatant evil lurking just beneath the surface of those closest to her. She’s been swimming in a pool full of sharks all the while feeding them like goldfish. Beatriz at Dinner may have its heart in the right place, but the film’s facile dialectics lead only to the slight revelation that seemingly nice people can subconsciously hold onto some really shitty beliefs. In 2017, that point shouldn’t even have to be stated let alone made the thematic crux of a film. Derek Smith


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

The Book of Henry

The Book of Henry’s title character, played by Jaeden Lieberher, is the sort of adorable child genius who only exists in the minds of screenwriters, a mature, sensitive man trapped in the body of a boy whose mind is a bottomless fount of knowledge about everything from ballistics to neurology. And the film around him—a schmaltzy, manipulative, and tonally schizophrenic mess—is such a monumentally misguided venture that it ends up being oddly, if unintentionally, compelling. If not for Colin Trevorrow’s bland, listless direction, it would be tempting to read the film as a parody of slushy Hollywood tear-jerkers, a dark satire that uses the uncannily vacuum-sealed mawkishness of a Hallmark Channel movie as an ironic backdrop for a twisted Hitchcockian thriller. But Trevorrow is no Hitchcock, and his film is unfortunately far closer to Gifted than Shadow of a Doubt. That’s what makes it such a grimly fascinating disaster: It’s a cloying weepie that attempts to pull an inspirational moral out of a story about a mother, Susan (Naomi Watts), attempting to murder her next-door neighbor because her dead son told her to. Whatever genuine moral dilemma is buried beneath the screenplay’s mounds of half-baked melodrama is completely undone anyway by a cop-out ending that gives audiences the death they’ve been primed for without getting Susan’s hands dirty. It’s the final gallingly cynical move in a film that consistently attempts to pass off sentimentalism as profundity. Keith Watson


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Brad’s Status

Mike White’s Brad’s Status depicts Brad Sloan (Ben Stiller) as a middle-class father whose life seems, upon his own voiceover reflection, an almost conspiratorial concatenation of unfortunate events. As Brad enumerates the hardships not incurred by his now-rich college friends, he chaperones his son, Troy (Austin Abrams), around Harvard, where the young man hopes to pursue a music degree. White’s tone-deaf screenplay offers characters that simultaneously challenge Brad’s pouty demeanor and legitimize it. A female student at Harvard asks him to ponder his privilege and first-world problems, while a condescending college pal (now author-cum-professor Craig Fisher, played Michael Sheen) feigns words of praise about Brad’s non-profit that condone Brad’s hurt feelings and prompt him to finally speak his mind. In White’s realm, Brad isn’t a psychopath, but merely a struggling, passionate human. However, the film never questions Brad’s paranoia and resentment as a socially accepted form of mental illness. Class politics are made into fodder for ricocheting perspectives and taxonomies of socio-cultural awareness. There’s finally no recognition on the film’s part that this form of auto-critique—a movie poking fun at middle-class anxieties meant to be consumed by middle-class audiences—winds up consecrating its object of derision rather than making it a malediction. Clayton Dillard

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The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Brimstone

There’s a fertile history of European directors tackling the western genre and producing memorably unorthodox takes on American foundational myths, but with Brimstone, the primary distinguishing trait is a level of male-on-female violence unmatched in even the most sadistic spaghetti westerns of the 1970s. Running 148 minutes and encompassing four chapters (portentously titled along biblical lines, such as “Exodus” and “Retribution”), the film returns over and over to scenes of frontierswomen being ruthlessly degraded by vile men. As Liz, a mute midwife plying her trade in a generically harsh, geographically non-specific Old West, Dakota Fanning bears the brunt of Dutch director Martin Koolhoven’s callous tendencies, while Guy Pearce plays a vindictive man of the cloth (as well as the devil incarnate) with a severity verging on self-parody and a thick Dutch accent that makes the florid dialogue all the more clunky. No one’s denying that the Old West could be a brutal place, and for women specifically, but Koolhoven’s hand-me-down vision leaves almost no wiggle room for humanity. That Brimstone ultimately postures as a feminist yarn is unsurprising given the current market demand for Strong Female Leads, but its bid for social correctness—manifested most plainly in a last-minute uplifting voiceover—does nothing to make the film’s juvenile and numbing fixation on brutality any more palatable. Carson Lund


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Dark Night

That a nascent director could create a film as vibrantly, empathetically alive as Memphis and then follow it up with a tonal misstep as ghastly as Dark Night is infuriating but also oddly encouraging. At least that’s the position I’ve been staking out ever since watching the hagiographic HBO documentary Spielberg and coming to terms with the notion that a director’s failures tell you as much about their personality as their successes. Only problem here is that, in making this airless, faux-poetic depiction of the hours leading up to the 2012 massacre at an Aurora movie theater’s first-in-line midnight screening of The Dark Knight Rises, Tim Sutton isn’t showcasing his own personality. Instead, he inherits the failures audiences perceived in Gus Van Sant’s galvanizing Elephant (about yet another infamous Colorado mass-shooting incident), and none of that film’s successes. Whereas Van Sant was bold enough to blend his Béla Tarr-infused formalism with the intrusion of a particularly American brand of ugliness, Sutton eschews all such cognitive dissonance, instead choosing to depict only the gauze before the metaphorical thunderstorm. Does that risk aestheticizing the violence that’s left unseen? Oh, much worse than that. It idealizes it. Eric Henderson


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

A Dog’s Purpose

There’s perhaps no easier way to wring tears out of an audience than to show the death of a beloved pet. The genius of Lasse Hallström’s A Dog’s Purpose—and the only remotely clever point of this relentlessly uninventive film—is that, in tracing one dog’s soul across decades as it’s reincarnated in various canine bodies, the filmmakers have discovered a narrative format that allows them to keep returning to this same well over and over again, getting several tear-jerking moments for the price of one as each new incarnation of the pooch passes away. At its best, the film drops its narrative pretenses and simply indulges in puppy porn, as in a completely gratuitous scene of the dog playing with a small donkey. But more often, the film operates in bathetic overdrive, exploiting the genuine affection people feel for their pets for cheap emotionalism. The script, a product of no less than five screenwriters, knows how to manipulate an audience’s sentiments but does so mechanically, making only the barest attempts to ground its schmaltzy melodrama in anything resembling genuine feeling. The film imbues Bailey (voiced with cloying cutesiness by Josh Gad) with a human-like consciousness and ability to question his own existence only to suggest that he lives solely to serve the needs of his master. Beneath all the gooey sentimentality, Hallström’s film is ultimately less interested in canines’ own fulfillment than in reassuring audience members of their pets’ natural servility. Watson


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

It

Simultaneously over-directed and directionless, Andy Muschietti’s It foolishly elides the adolescent curiosity and paranoia of Stephen King’s doorstop novel, which relied on familiar anxieties to induce fear. Muschietti is content to inundate his film adaptation with imagery that either feels overly manufactured or recycled from countless horror freak-outs before it: sharp teeth protruding from crooked red lips, fulvous eyes glowing in sepulchral sewers, those variegated balloons. In the miniseries, Tim Curry understood that creepiness lurks in the ruination of innocence and adolescent imagery; here, Bill Skarsgard seems to think the only way to be scary is to utter every syllable with stagey aggression. Muschietti leans almost exclusively on jump scares, and you always know when they’re going to happen. The projector scene epitomizes what’s awful about mainstream American horror: incessant and illogical cuts, and loud abstract strings intended, lazily, to augment anxiety. But there’s no suspense, just relentlessness. Cwik

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The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Julian Schnabel: A Private Portrait

Pappi Corsicato’s Julian Schnabel: A Private Portrait unfolds with no less ambition than to enshrine its titular figure as a mortal god whose life has been so blessed and meaningful that, it would seem, he’s never made a false move. Contradictions, hype, and hagiography ensue to the extent that a more honest title for this film would be Julian Schnabel: Cult of Personality. Corsicato piles on bits of insight and factual detail at a brisk clip, but the growing lot of information swells into an incoherent mass of undifferentiated claims. Every statement and recollection about the director’s most well-known films (Basquiat, Before Night Falls, and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly) is a marvel of straight-faced hyperbole. The most outrageous comes from a secondhand account of Javier Bardem allegedly telling Schnabel, who was weeping after watching dailies of Before Night Falls, that “usually I meet a director and they’re crying because their movie’s so bad, not because it’s so good.” That this is followed by Schnabel himself saying the film has to do with “things that are beyond language” wildly reinforces Corsicato’s shameless bid to make the documentary as an offering to be placed at the altar of Julian Schnabel, an artist so singular that words simply fail. Dillard


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

The Killing of a Sacred Deer

Ah, yes, a screeching blast of Bach and a bloody grotesquery filling the screen in slow motion: Is there a quicker way to spell empty provocation? The Killing of a Sacred Deer finds Yorgos Lanthimos following up his star-studded breakthrough success The Lobster by inexplicably regressing to mimicking Kubrick (slow zooms and wide-angle tracking shots down endless corridors) and Hitchcock (the nerve-rattling score takes the lessons of Psycho to an abrasive extreme). The film’s title apparently refers to an arcane myth cherry-picked from Greek lore that concerns accidental killing, eye-for-an-eye justice, and filicide, but Lanthimos leaves the connection implicit in transposing the action to the modern-day Midwest, where a surgeon (Colin Farrell) finds his sterile upper-middle-class existence upset by the high-school-aged son (Barry Keoghan) of a recently deceased patient. None of this is terribly interesting at face value, and Lanthimos cuts short the possibility of transcending his scenario’s dull revenge plotting by emptying his mannequins of any psychological dimension. Keoghan at least brings an unorthodox verbal cadence and reptilian physicality that suits his character’s vaguely supernatural sociopathy, but the rest of the able cast is handcuffed by Lanthimos’s narrow conception of humanity (all are stilted, unfeeling drones) and his script’s truly embarrassing stabs at transgression (way too many straight-faced gags concerning body hair). The lingering impression is of a director with an abject contempt for people and a scenario too thin to hide it. Lund


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

The Last Face

Every decision made in Sean Penn’s The Last Face is so woefully misguided that the film almost plays as a satire exposing the oblivious sense of racial, cultural, and class privilege that it virtually flaunts in our faces. Its shameful exploitation of Africans doesn’t stop with the mere privileging of its two wealthy white doctors (played by Javier Bardem and Charlize Theron) and their trivial personal struggles. The film abounds in National Geographic-style shots of human despair, from delimbed and dying Africans to piles of dead bodies that were used as human shields. But there’s no humanity in Penn’s gaze—only a pity that’s rendered further useless by his consistent use of Africans’ anguish merely to fill in as a tragic backdrop for the story’s central love affair. Rather than treat its African characters as people whose context cannot be summed up with a paragraph-length title card or through the experiences of white doctors, The Last Face wallows in the shock and righteous indignation experienced by outsiders. Its intent seems not to better understand the Africans on a human or cultural level, but simply to filter their suffering through the experiences of people from the countries who colonized them. Derek Smith


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Leatherface

Leatherface mines contemporary cinema’s ongoing obsession with providing backstories to characters who were once resonantly inexplicable, suggesting a merging of Rob Zombie’s The Devil’s Rejects with the filmmaker’s 2007 cover of Halloween. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’s iconic Leatherface, who once wore a mask fashioned out of human skin and served as an errand boy for the Sawyer clan, is now a troubled teen in a Texas asylum. Leatherface’s aunt, Verna Sawyer (Lili Taylor), is a diseased matriarch determined to have her boy back so as to teach him the finer arts of smashing people’s heads with sledgehammers and feeding their corpses to carnivorous bores. We’re not told who Leatherface specifically is until the plot’s climax, as the film encourages a guessing game on the part of the audience in a desperate bid to drum up suspense. Aware of the narrative’s pointlessness, directors Alexandre Bustillo and Julien Maury offer up the usual smorgasbord of redneck-horror clichés, with a dutifulness that reflects our own boredom. This film is admittedly low hanging fruit for such a list, but the curse of the endless Texas Chainsaw Massacre cash-ins must somehow be put to rest. Bowen

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The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Mother!

Darren Aronofsky’s aesthetic has a reliably visceral power, as the remote house in Mother! communicates a viscous aura of sexual rot. But the film manages to be at once obvious and opaque, and so laughably arty that it collapses into shrill monotonousness. An unnamed woman (Jennifer Lawrence) attempts to play house with her much older poet husband (Javier Bardem), only to be bombarded by hostile guests in a scenario that suggests a fusion of Rosemary’s Baby and one of Luis Buñuel’s late-period satires, without either’s poetry or casualness of being. Aronofsky has claimed that the film is concerned with the biblical origin of Earth and global warming, though Mother! is really a fable of men draining uncredited women dry for the sake of art. Aronofsky sledgehammers away at Lawrence, subjecting her to a battery of abuses that recalls the toil endured by Ellen Burstyn in Requiem for a Dream, Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler, and Natalie Portman in Black Swan. But toil for toil’s sake is an increasingly tedious subject for Aronofsky, who continues to dress his theme up in a pretense of intellectuality. Bowen


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

The Ottoman Lieutenant

A love triangle set against the backdrop of World War I-era Anatolia, The Ottoman Lieutenant is an intensely familiar product, a studiously old-fashioned period melodrama in which the winds of history are subsumed into a predictable romantic narrative. These dull, thinly drawn characters barely hint at the lusty passions and broiling political divides that their interpersonal conflicts are meant to embody. But more conspicuous than the film’s rote melodrama is the way that it elides the concurrent genocide of ethnic Armenians by Ottoman forces. In The Ottoman Lieutenant’s sole depiction of Turkish forces killing Armenian civilians, the violence is portrayed as simply the misdeeds of a few bad apples in the Ottoman ranks. While it never quite engages in outright genocide denial, the film provides highly selective historical context carefully constructed to spin what most historians agree was the systematic extermination of ethnic Armenians as nothing more than an unfortunate overstep in the legitimate battle against Russian-backed Armenian fighters, who committed their own atrocities anyway. The Ottoman Lieutenant implies that everyone is guilty, and thus no one is. In so doing, it attempts to hide a genocide behind the fog of war. Watson


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Rebel in the Rye

Faced with the question of how to respectfully dramatize the life of a figure as cagey as author J.D. Salinger, writer-director Danny Strong takes the conservative route with Rebel in the Rye by sticking to the recorded facts. Hewing closely to Kenneth Slawenski’s biography J.D. Salinger: A Life, Strong lays down the outline of Salinger’s (Nicholas Hoult) life leading up to his reclusion in New Hampshire after Catcher in the Rye brought him infamy, hitting upon his turbulent college years, his fling with Oona O’Neill (Zoey Deutch), his myriad publishing trials, and his even greater test in World War II. While the epochal checkpoints that Strong tasks himself with hitting were clearly instrumental in shaping his subject, the decision to hustle in montage-style fashion through Salinger’s life reduces the man’s development to facile cause-and-effect relationships. Making liberal use of inner monologue to give form to Salinger’s feverish stop-and-go writing process, Strong ties the epiphanies and crushing disappointments of the author’s life to key passages within his body of work, leeching the artist, his process, and his creations (Holden Caulfield especially) of any mystery. Lund


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Roman J. Israel, Esq.

In his latest bid for Oscar glory, Denzel Washington plays an idealistic attorney seemingly on the autism spectrum who gives up pro bono defense to work at a firm where his salary will allow him to lead a lavish lifestyle for the first time in his life. Indulging in all sorts of nervous ticks and goofy eccentricities that are utterly extraneous to his character, Washington overacts in every scene as if to make up for the film’s incoherent screenplay and confused morality. Neither Washington nor director Dan Gilroy seem to acknowledge that there’s no actual moral struggle at the heart of this story. There’s a real, inexcusable misunderstanding of the basic notion of civil rights on the part of the filmmakers, making their efforts to characterize their protagonist as a hypocrite totally nonsensical. Though Israel spends considerable time preaching his vision of political activism, it never becomes entirely clear what this vision actually consists of. This is because he speaks in a kind of grandiloquent, moralizing legalese that could almost be a parody of better legal dramas if his words were either funny or witty. Instead, they’re mostly just senseless, the wild utterings of a man completely disinterested in meaningfully communicating with his interlocutors. Similarly, Gilroy seems equally uninterested in conveying Roman J. Esrael, Esq.’s purpose to his audience, hiding whatever larger political or philosophical points he wants to make behind Israel’s meaningless pseudo-philosophical jargon. Oleg Ivanov

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The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

The Snowman

Tomas Alfredson’s The Snowman is so haphazardly assembled that it’s stunning to see Thelma Schoonmaker credited as one of the film’s editors. Alfredson himself has blamed the film’s failure on being unable to shoot the entirety of the screenplay, but even without his caveat it’s clear that The Snowman is missing so much basic connective tissue as to be rendered almost completely inexplicable. The premise involving the unfortunately named Harry Hole’s (Michael Fassbender) investigation of a missing woman is simple enough, and the film moves with a deliberate pace that gives the impression of a steady hand at the wheel. But the structure falls apart as soon as it’s erected. Flashbacks jarringly disrupt the narrative flow, flinging the story back nine years for a look at one of the early murder cases being researched by another detective (Val Kilmer, in a baffling performance of heavily overdubbed dialogue groaned through clenched teeth). These superfluous scenes exist solely to set up a flat twist, but even the main story is similarly distracted in how it unfurls and abundant in lose threads, chief among them the serial killer’s calling card of building snowmen at crime scenes, a psychological quirk that, because it goes wholly unexplained, is too absurd to ever engender discomfort. Jake Cole


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri

Lauded in many quarters for its ostensible engagement with the thorny issues of our troubled contemporary moment, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri is “about” racism, sexism, police violence, and small-town corruption in roughly the same way a game of chess is about the problems of feudalism. For writer-director Martin McDonagh, these aren’t issues to be interrogated; they’re pawns in a schematic narrative game, to be strategically utilized for a laugh line, a bit of character development, a narrative contrivance, or an applause-baiting speech. McDonagh’s contraption-like plot is instigated by local shop owner Mildred’s (Frances McDormand) audacious stunt to shame the local sheriff (Woody Harrelson) into solving the rape and murder of her daughter. Lacking any cognizable visual style, McDonagh’s aesthetic m.o. is to make sure nothing gets in the way of his chronically ostentatious dialogue. The script’s many acid-tongued speeches pander relentlessly to the film’s target audience of white liberals, allowing them to get off on the cheap thrill of hearing a well-placed slur while simultaneously giving them a chance to applaud their own sense of moral righteousness. Nowhere is the film’s manipulation of liberal sensibilities more cynical than in its capricious treatment of racist police violence. Hick cop Dixon (Sam Rockwell), we’re told, once tortured a black man in police custody, an expository detail McDonagh alternately deploys as a joke, as a complexifying character trait, and as a device to lend Mildred’s crusade a veneer of intersectional solidarity. What McDonagh never does with this horrific deed is to actually deal with it—to consider the depravity of a person who could do such a thing, to explore the terror that knowledge of this act must instill in Ebbing’s black residents. Instead, the film simply drops the issue when it becomes inconvenient, offering up redemption without reckoning. Watson


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Whitney Houston: Let Me Be Me

More a glorified, extended episode of Behind the Music than a fully realized portrait of a superstar’s supernova, Whitney: Can I Be Me’s most defining flaw centers around the decision to build itself almost entirely around grainy footage shot by Rudi Dolezal (credited as the film’s co-director) while Houston was touring through Europe on behalf of 1999’s My Love Is Your Love. Dolezal’s footage highlights the physical and vocal decline that would later become the grisly centerpiece of TV’s Being Bobby Brown. In journalistic terms, it’s a “get.” In terms of illuminating anything relevant to the film’s quest to provide its subject with a fully rounded biography, it’s a distraction. Houston’s death at 48 inevitably invites inquiry into the idea that the singer’s entire life must have been one great tragedy. But director Nick Broomfield doesn’t seem interested in exploring that tragedy other than within simplistic, pop-psychological terms. The hundreds of millions of albums sold, the truckloads of Grammys won, the mile-long string of hit singles—none of it stands for anything other than a magnificent waste of potential. The quintessential Bush 41-era moments of Houston captivating the New Silent Majority arguably complicate her legacy every bit as much as her allegedly self-destructive marriage to Brown. The difference? They’re moments of unabashed triumphalism, so it’s no surprise Broomfield finds little use for them in his dogged fixation on the humiliating swan dive. Henderson


The 20 Worst Film Follies of 2017

Wind River

Another breakout indie that uses the rape of a woman as a cudgel to promote a hackneyed strain of world-weary cynicism, Taylor Sheridan’s Wind River isn’t an outright calamity on the scale of Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, but boy does it labor to foster a gruff, Manichean worldview. Jeremy Renner (often seen snowmobiling through the landscape in a puffy suit of white camouflage) plays a Fish and Wildlife officer who circumvents the film’s ethnic tensions by muttering stoic platitudes, and Elizabeth Olsen is the green F.B.I. officer who recruits him to solve the murder of a native woman abused and left to die in the snow. As you can imagine, purity and vigilance are the blunt, prevailing themes here, and Sheridan’s goofy screenplay never hesitates to underline them. Groaners like “You survive or you surrender” and “This is the land of you’re on your own” are ubiquitous, the work of a J.D. Vance who thinks he’s some sort of humanistic Cormac McCarthy. The film’s dull, flat landscapes do little to bolster Sheridan’s ambitions to position the middle of the country as the new locus for the American crime saga. Christopher Gray

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