Rosamund Pike is perfection in this intellectual romance, an unsentimental portrait of a woman striving to be appreciated for her mind at a time even more anti-woman than today. Feminist and flinty.
Gentle kook and visual frolicking bury emotion in this tale of a man mired in grief. Little of its head-scratching whimsy makes a melancholy landing; most just floats away on wisps of insignificance.
A 90-minute shootout that never makes us care who lives and who dies. In attempting to send up a cinematic cliché, this only becomes a tedious example of same.
A Mr. Collins of a movie: fatuous, self-important, and nowhere near as smart or as elegant as it thinks it is. There isn’t a lick of wit to be found here.
If you didn’t know that Jack Kerouac’s novel was a seminal influence on postwar America, you would never, ever guess it from this lifeless, soulless, pointless adaptation.
Very much looking forward to this one. I loved Walter Salles’ Motorcycle Diaries, and this has a similar look and feel, so that’s promising. Also: Jack Kerouac.
Call this a thriller of emotional suspense, and one that’s wickedly unsettling, in which we’re never sure who’s feeling what, or why, or to what extremes they’re capable of going.