Even the depiction of how they waver during Wimbledon final fails to tie into the larger portrait of their rivalry.
Dito Montiel’s silly plot machinations waste a solid performance from Shia LaBeouf.
This is a patchwork dystopia of white poverty whose facets are difficult both to deny and to prove exist as depicted.
At maybe half or a quarter of the length, American Honey might’ve gotten by on this surface-level vision.
Some songs deserve a second chance. And sometimes they get it.
The film itself is a lumbering tank of a movie, chunky, loud, and clumsy, mulching down men into meat as proof of its dramatic seriousness and gloomy worldview.
The sex in Nymphomaniac is inhuman, mechanical, boring, and predictably viewed through the (male) scrim of someone who characterizes women solely as withholders.