The film successfully argues that it’s through sensory details that we access the deeper aspects of our lives.
Its allegory for internalized homophobia, a gay man’s perilous attraction to straightness itself, seems in this case deeply persona.
It emerges as an almost wistful hour, to be filed, after a truly disheartening season, under “too little, too late.”
It fails to suggest much more than madness in the method, as the show resumes its retreat into the realm of pure plot.
The fact that it stumbles so badly doesn’t bode well for this shambolic season’s looming finale.
It strings together a series of arresting images, but they’re little more than a placeholder for dramas still to come.
More evidence that Maslany’s is the best performance on TV, but it’s unclear if the show can keep pace.
It may be a measure of how much Orphan Black has won me over, warts and all, that watching Tony sidle up to Felix for a kiss left me so discomfited.
On Orphan Black, Tatiana Maslany runs the show, and the episode wrings ample excitements from her incomparable performance.
The sometimes cloying formalist whimsy of Jean-Pierre Jeunet seems admirably up-front compared to Jean-Marc Vallée’s tactile, supposedly realistic whimsy.
Denis Villeneuve’s blistering artistry humanizes all facets of the postmodern battle of the sexes.