Sam Rockwell did more on the campaign trail to legitimize unlikely redemption than anything Martin McDonagh gave him to work with.
The impudent, unruly streak that so often gives Guillermo del Toro’s films their pulse has been airbrushed away.
Rob Reiner’s film fails to do justice to both the man and the fraught times he so fundamentally influenced.
The Shape of Water’s setting yields an inherent coldness that Guillermo del Toro must work to overcome.
The film’s ruefully honest tone is periodically drowned out by the blare of stagey coincidences.
Bone Tomahawk is skittish about its racism, self-conscious in a manner reminiscent of Django Unchained.
Garrett Hedlund’s performance throbs with an anguish that’s far more honest than the sentimental euthanasia subplot at the center of the film.
Throughout, it becomes difficult to know whether we’re meant to empathize with these characters or laugh at them.
As a film about social issues, and simply being yourself, it’s commendably progressive, going so far as serving as a kind of coming-out story.
Roland Emmerich makes love of country into a thing of unabashed hokum, which bleeds through every nook of this overstuffed jumble and leaves no character untouched.