An appalling melange of insipid disaster drama and implausible romance with a bit of dystopian satire thrown in. This is a crass cash-in meant to prey on our pandemic anxieties, not grapple with them.
Audacious, outrageous, bleakly funny. Not since Charlie Chaplin sent up Hitler and invited us to laugh at terrible reality has there been a movie like this.
Hilarious satire about rebooting religion with a goddess in charge this time. A little bit Douglas Adams, a little bit Terry Gilliam, a whole lot irreverent.
Ben Wheatley takes on J.G. Ballard, and it’s a frustrating experience: visually striking but far too literal while aiming for the allegorical.
Subjuvenile and offensive, sentimental and ridiculous. Every attempt at a joke falls flat. Every talent here is wasted. Save yourself.
Sees no need to engage metaphor or dispense with cliché, so when you haven’t seen it before, you can’t believe what you’re seeing. And not in a good way.
Delightfully bonkers stop-motion vacuumpunk madness comes to an abrupt halt in this mysteriously truncated version of Michel Gondry’s latest romantic whimsy.
Terry Gilliam descends into near self-parody with this mess of a mind-frak about a mathematical formula for the meaning of life that has little to say.
Hauntingly grim, full of appalling ironies and awful truths. This is most definitely not the feel-good movie of the summer.
A painfully funny odyssey of personal ineffectualness that is bitterly wonderful in how it revels in the decrepit horror of the everyday world.