Silas Howard’s film feels like a scenario from a textbook about handling a child’s gender nonconformity.
Jonathan Mostow luxuriates in the pure surface pleasures of the his many taut, formally dynamic action sequences.
Despite its gestures toward nuance, the very broadness of the dichotomies in the film prove to be its undoing.
The sense of a film school student doing movie karaoke with his influences is evident throughout Dreamland.
It delivers the same misogynistic, faux-modernistic jolts of trashy humor and labored plotting that typify the films of Michael Bay.
For the most part, however, the episode unspools as a dreary, clichéd story about Louie’s first exposure to pot.
Enough can’t be said about how the late James Gandolfini comes so close to saving writer-director Nicole Holofcener’s latest articulation of white suburban anxieties.
The film remains engaging, for the most part, but most of the big narrative turns feel both predictable and forced, and at odds with the natural charms of the cast.
The movie is notable for its aggressive miserablism, but also for its stellar photography, which this great transfer dutifully reveres.
Are the Coens jokers who tread on despair, or tragedians with a penchant for death’s-head humor?