With its silvery sheen and sexy lure of celebrity actors being naughty, the film recalls the decadent, self-consciously chic art it parodies.
The Oath seems to say that the worst part of a full-fledged American dystopia would be the ruined holiday dinners.
Mark Perez’s screenplay maintains just enough plausibility to prevent the film from veering into sheer absurdity.
The film is indebted to Alexander Payne’s social comedies, which dwell in the backwash of the American dream.
Its fourth-wall-breaking wags a finger at the perceived facile nature of celebrity-driven mass culture even as it ultimately condescends to audiences.
Only rarely does Steven Spielberg observe how queasily at odds our patriotism is with our humanity.
This PG-rated romp is, refreshingly, less notable for its happily-ever-afters than its oh-no-they-didn’ts.
More gag-friendly than idea-based, relying on the considerable charm of its leads to ground its supernatural conceit.