
Jack Reacher (review)
Like a midseason episode of a basic-cable detective show you’ve never heard of.

Like a midseason episode of a basic-cable detective show you’ve never heard of.
For all the satisfying ironies that are dished up, some of what we’re served is hopelessly naive.
Len Underworld Wiseman’s least hacktackular movie yet, which isn’t to say that it’s quality entertainment, but it is some solid B-grade processed-cheese-product movie junk food.
The boss-from-hell story gets whipped up, Parisian-style, into a wicked bonbon of oh-so-delicious nastiness…
Bursting with equal parts exasperation, despair, cultural criticism, and black comedy…
A gloss of edgy noirish elegance cannot disguise the fact that this is yet one more tiresome example of the thriller subgenre that posits that the most interesting thing that a woman can be is out of her mind.
Finds dark humor in brutal bloody murder: a delightful surprise of wicked, outrageous hilarity…

What we witness here is the destruction of the old Bond mystique, and the creation of a new one. This is the sneaky cleverness of the film: it is, at last, going to tell us why Bond still matters.

Insanely grand… My god, I love this movie. It’s every movie. It’s the ultimate movie.
I was literally in tears for parts of Argo, a purely physical reaction, not an emotional one, to deal with the tension. The only other option would have been to moan out loud, the film is almost that unbearably nerve-wracking.