Its future setting is an empty pretext for a banally convoluted and sentimentalized show of emotional restoration.
Den of Thieves displays a reverence for the taut and moody tension-building tactics of Michael Mann’s Heat.
If there’s any ambiguity to be found in the film’s prolonged last gasps, which reach for tragedy, but only sow more epistemic confusion, it’s of a mawkish and unpalatable variety.
The best that can be said for Mr. 3000 is that it does the schmaltz of the baseball movie genre justice.
It’s a team sport, but the story belongs to the individual, which gives Mr. 3000 its meta-celebrity subtext.