At its worst, the film dangerously repackages the queer experience using language invented by those originally deployed to break it apart.
If all a movie needed was a boy with abs and a gun (or slingshot), then Beyond the Reach would be a masterpiece.
The lighting and deciduous trees are a canvas for bracing drama, but the film undoes itself by imparting revelatory history lessons.
It ends up cheapening its sense of empathy in its final mad rush to subject audiences to every incarnation of the jump scare imaginable.
Red is the kind of lazily written, thankless curmudgeon role that uses the trials of advanced age for cheap laughs rather than harnessing a veteran actor’s talent to engage our empathy.