Jack Russo’s review published on Letterboxd:
Bizarre how we’ve come to the cultural understanding that the only purposeful way to depict true crime is to ground it in literalist realism, so miserable and dour as a virtue, a domain for actors to craft trauma into something warranting applause as the empty landscapes use their spatial negativity to invoke unearned perspective of an otherwise unspoken massacre - all while simultaneously distancing itself from the complexities of its actual depiction. This does not equate to the work of an artist, but a coward. One firing off biographical exploitation then burying the outrage in a misleading post-script that lays blame on the government for the necessity of such a meaningless film's existence.
The ending of Remember Me had more dignity than this lmao.