In Alma Har’el’s film, Shia LaBeouf plays an avatar of his father as an expressionistic act of self-therapy.
The film’s improvisational feel helps to ground a fable-esque narrative in a discernible reality.
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.
Whereas female sexuality was borderline vampiric in Antichrist, this time we’re in more ambiguous, contextually richer terrain.
Lars von Trier’s pretenses of self-interrogation and cross-examination avail themselves as especially useful when considering his work.
An egregious entry into the pantheon of films about white Americans traveling to exotic lands in search of identity and soul-searching adventure.
A would-be thriller masquerading a long, dry monument to the reliability and comfort of community, blindly cocooned by its own nostalgic self-regard.
This is a necessary package for any fan of the franchise.
What very good company Robert Redford keeps indeed.
The filtering aspect of a filmmaker’s strong personality has the redeeming power that committee-obedient, impersonal filmmakers can never hope to acquire.