Like the film, Dave Bautista’s Knox is a copy of a copy, shorn of the details that distinguish a true original.
Its future setting is an empty pretext for a banally convoluted and sentimentalized show of emotional restoration.
Throughout Avengeners: Infinity War, rapidity (of dialogue and drama) is mistaken for actual rhythm.
Blade Runner 2049 is so terrified of disreputability that it renders itself dead from the waist down.
Cary Murnion and Jonathan Milott’s Bushwick is a genre film with a refreshing sense of political infrastructure.
The film at one point offers the finest sustained act of emotional storytelling to grace a Marvel production.
A beautiful presentation of a weird, sporadically exciting film that merges the tropes of the James Bond series with a startlingly expressive aesthetic.
Scott Mann’s film gets by on chutzpah, growing more diverting with every ludicrous plot twist.
There’s much to admire here, from its symbolically sickly aesthetic to its clearly shot action sequences.
It inflates the meta conceit (already overblown) of a pop-obsessed, sex-negative serial killer to excessive but trite proportions.
For every scene that soars into the dizzying heights of the pop sublime, there’s another that crashes back down into the mundane troughs of studio-mandated formula.
For a film about a killing machine who can see at night, it’s ironic that Riddick itself is, both narratively and visually, a dark, muddled mess.