With his latest, S. Craig Zahler doubles down on the best and worst elements of the pulp film.
While the scares don’t quite work, Jungle revels in a different aspect of horror-thrillers: the gross-out.
It’s a pity that no one else involved in the making of the film had Dwayne Johnson’s sly intuition.
If director Aleksander Bach’s choices are any indication, he cares less about characters and actors than about dubious surface dazzle.
Joss Whedon’s film struggles against the rigid formula that typifies the Marvel universe, but only does so up to a point.
The material and resources are certainly substantial, but the filmmakers clumsily weave separate stories together without detailing anything beyond a tangential relation.
Its blind reverence toward the Russian mythos is so grandiose that it becomes impossible to rescue it from self-importance.
Individual moments linger, but Gonzalo López-Gallego’s film is merely a rough draft of a thriller.
The film is dispiriting because there’s virtually no sign of Dario Argento in it, nor of any novel motivation to mount yet another version of an oft-told tale.
Who needs a director’s commentary with this much bonus material?
Kind of like a roller coaster ride—on a Transsiberian cross-country train—without any of the amenities.