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A same-old tale of apocalypse knows we’ve seen this all before, and so centers human drama over disaster porn. It has nothing new to say, but at least it says it well, with notes of horrific grace.
Cluelessly simplistic rendering of a 1990s media injustice ignores all the context in which it happened and demonizes the one journalist who acted professionally. Fails even as a conservative screed.
The nicest, kindest critique of toxic masculinity imaginable. The makeovers aren’t only about new clothes and a haircut: they’re about men waking up to a new sense of self, and a new participation in their own lives.
Edgar Wright used to send up cinematic clichés with gusto and with huge humor. Here he just embraces them — and his sullen, unengaging hero — unironically.
Take True Lies and Mr. & Mrs. Smith. Remove wit, sexy charm, and satire on marriage. This is a recipe for a movie anyone wants to see?
How did a genre-smashing director make a heist thriller so generic, with characters too unlikable to be engaging but not twisted enough to be intriguing?
Dubious police procedures, by-the-numbers buddy-cop-comedy shenanigans, and characters who hate one another, none of which is as fun as it sounds.
So inept a film, so bland and monotonous, that it fails even to serve as the blatant ad for the certain Christian motivational book it would appear to be.
When movies like this star the likes of Liam Neeson, they open on 3,000 screens. It’s difficult not to see racism and sexism in the disparity.
Feels like a cheap action flick and plays like an unintentional call to end drugs prohibition and the idiotic war between cartels and law enforcement.
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