Director Anders Thomas Jensen’s empathy for his characters gradually impedes his imagination.
It spends a lot of time considering the fear of knowing, which may explain why Alejandro Amenábar didn’t seem to know what kind of film he was making.
The film can’t reconcile Ron Rash’s apocalyptic tenderness with its own eagerness to revel in romantic star allure.
For all the emphasis placed on the thick bonds among these men, it’s surprising how often they communicate solely through exposition.
This is really nothing more than the story of girls running to and from their daddies, and no matter how you dress it up, it’s inherently retrograde.
It fails both as a study of homoerotic undercurrents in fascist enclaves and as a contemporary portrait of machismo and the closet.