It’s disappointing that so much of the film feels like mere tilling of the soil.
The series ultimately becomes nothing much more than a paean to the myth of the wild, ingenious badass chef.
Like the characters, the Tristan Patterson film’s exterior flash can’t conceal a glaring emptiness.
For all the emphasis placed on the thick bonds among these men, it’s surprising how often they communicate solely through exposition.
In the wake of the ostentatious atmospherics summoned by the likes of Shutter Island and American Horror Story: Asylum, the film feels unnecessarily restrained.
It ascribes to the falsehood that a rarefied milieu inherently infuses a film with intelligence, as if inept execution can be covered up by pretty lensing.
The highlight of Juan Solanas’s film is the moment Jim Sturgess’s Adam inadvertently pisses on the ceiling.
21, in which Kevin Spacey lecherously sizes up a line of female strippers at a Vegas casino, now serves as the greatest testament to the man’s talent as an actor.