The film is so clichéd and scattershot as to make Copycat look like Peeping Tom by comparison.
The film never manages to reconcile the enormity of the Holocaust with how ordinary a bureaucrat Eichmann was.
One may wonder whether Per Fly would have been better served by making a documentary about the oil-for-food scandal.
Yes, deep down, even brutal war criminals like the one played by Ben Kingsley are people too.
This is a cerebral, 25-year-old film that follows the blueprint for today’s endless glut of superhero movies.
Writer-director David Michôd’s film renders existential crises of American entitlement dull and tedious.
More conspicuous than its rote melodrama is the way the film elides the concurrent genocide of ethnic Armenians by Ottoman forces.
It’s difficult to begrudge a film that has the good sense to put so much stock in Ben Kingsley’s hammy theatrics.
Disney’s exceptional, gorgeous update of Rudyard Kipling’s adventure classic is one of the studio’s best films in a generation.
Favreau draws heavily on his film’s animated predecessor for plot, characterizations, and more, but doesn’t know how to fit these familiar elements into his own coherent vision.
In order to make the walk, and in order for it to matter to him, Philippe Petit has to comprehend it as real and impossible.
Instead of using the titular metaphor as a means to seek deeper, darker ends, Isabel Coixet proceeds to restate it over and over again.
A relentless stream of twists and turns that exude neither imagination in their craftsmanship nor moral revulsion in their implications.
This third and supposedly final edition in the franchise is nothing more than an uncomfortably transparent contractual obligation.
It doesn’t take long to realize that Ridley Scott’s adaptation is only aiming for certain forms of credibility, and callously eschewing others.
In the wake of the ostentatious atmospherics summoned by the likes of Shutter Island and American Horror Story: Asylum, the film feels unnecessarily restrained.
The flippancy toward thematic concerns and character construction suggests that the film, like the boxtrolls’ myriad gadgets and inventions, was largely built from used parts.
Mark Jackson’s direction strips much of the agency from any character’s grasp by insisting that their dilemmas can only be revealed with stone-faced austerity.
The film exhibits strong character interplay and resides in an unconventional milieu, in effect turning rote material into something that feels decidedly eccentric.
Gavin Hood relays a vague sense of what it’s like to live in duty, and yet at a distance from one’s home, but this vision of the future never rouses, never asks to be remembered.