Michel Hazanavicius co-opts Jean-Luc Godard’s personal life for cheap prestige-picture sentiment.
Joachim Lafosse’s film is at its strongest when it lets its actors’ faces and bodies do the talking.
Brady Corbet reaches for a dreary self-importance akin to Michael Haneke’s The White Ribbon.
It’s as though Hazanavicius, fresh from the international success of his award-magnet The Artist, had every intention of proving to the world that he really is one.
Asghar Farhadi navigates his complicated narrative thicket with an apparent ease, but he isn’t able to blend the brushstrokes as he has in prior films.
Candy-colored to a potentially cavity-causing degree, the film is a bubbly regurgitation of retrograde romantic comedy tropes and reactionary sexual politics.
It’s more than just a little politically chancy but still unavoidable to look at Octavia Spencer’s sunny Oscar odds though the filter of co-star Viola Davis’s ascendance in the Best Actress category.