Vice is as noisy as the media landscape that writer-director Adam McKay holds in contempt.
The film’s satisfyingly tactile action set pieces serve to hammer home just how perilous the space race really was.
The plot takes leaps that feel as reckless as they are refreshing in such a doleful film of terminal prognoses.
As it proceeds, the appeal of its nostalgia wears thin and you may notice that there isn’t much beyond the window dressing.
Brad Anderson’s Beirut shows how espionage might appeal to the sort of masochist who’s also an adrenaline addict.
The more grounded scenes from Death Note anchor a startlingly bloody fantasy of power run amok.
Every creature here that’s intended to burrow into our nightmares is less a wonder of imagination than of size.
The narrative derives much of its tension from the unsentimental ambivalence Jon Watts displays toward the story’s two pre-teen boys.
The film ultimately succeeds as a convincing social plea, but fails as compelling cinema.
The home-video format, which encourages binge viewing, could serve to accentuate the nagging hollowness of the show’s busy-body plotting.