Walker-Pearlman’s sloppiness as a filmmaker would seem to be an outgrowth of his general unfamiliarity with plausible human behavior.
Structurally indebted to Pulp Fiction, the film lacks Quentin Tarantino’s sense of humor and knack for dramatic rhythm.
The film reconfigures Stanley Kramer’s creaky race-relations drama Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner as a farcical comedy.
There’s a queasy uncertainty to The Terminal, a thematic discord apparent in the film’s consistently restless mise-en-scène.
Without a sense of humor or fondness for camp, Crossroads, in the end, suggests a Britney ego trip.