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With its melancholy regret and bittersweet nostalgia, this is far superior to the 1986 blockbuster. But as the sun goes down on American imperialism here, the last-gasp celebration of it unsettles.
Cold War propaganda that is weirdly apolitical. Sunny, breezy homoeroticism that is surely unintentional. What a hoot this is! Mostly not in a good way, but its impact on pop culture cannot be denied.
Everything that is wrong with The Movies today in America is beautifully encapsulated in how this lovely little movie cannot find an audience in the current movie environment.
It’s too bad that writer-director Katherine Dieckmann couldn’t imbue her portrait of the titular state with as much easy, authentic panache as she does her setting.
Fincher rivets us through what could have been an interminable two-hour-and-forty-minute runtime, by daringly jumping through a crime spree that spanned decades with brisk panache, boiling it down into slices of suspense, drama, and fear, with a bit of media criticism thrown in sideways for spice.
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