The film does Nicholas Winton a disservice by reducing his heroics to the stuff of facts.
The film never feels as satisfying or as haunting as its bow-tying epilogue strives for.
The film’s visual construction is spare, drawing power from its locations and quietly matted miniatures, though ultimately it succumbs to powering a series of cheap thrills.
As you’re swept up in all the decades-spanning poignancy, it’s easy to overlook the film’s numerous flaws.
It takes some getting used to Romola Garai as Emma, especially in the early scenes.
The film is filled with good-on-paper moments that build up and slowly tighten like a knot but usually end in a whimper.
Wright’s Atonement insipidly rewards those who blush whenever they think about a lady’s jewels.
Joe Wright overlooks the class divisions that haunt the nooks and crannies of McEwan’s novel.
The film is proof that liberal filmmakers can make movies that aren’t desperate manifestations of their political guilt.
It’s tempting, one must admit, to mangle the title of Woody Allen’s latest trifle and let it stand as a review.
Christian Volckman’s Franco-noir Renaissance is, in purely technical terms, something of an evolutionary step up from Sin City.
Mira Nair’s stately costume drama does little to desecrate Thackeray’s opus.
The revolution didn’t break the backbone of a naïve Cuban population, it merely put an end to interracial shagging.