It's been two months since I watched this, but I doubt that a week has gone by when I haven't thought about the scene where Ron dances with Patrice to "Too Late to Turn Back Now" by Cornelius Bros. & Sister Rose, and the camera just floats with these two young people who are vibing on the moment—singing along to a pop song that speaks to them, to their experiences, to the world they're trying to make real. There aren't many…
This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.
A little too much going on, but also not enough. McQueen's exquisite formal control gives the action sequences a feeling of muscular brutishness, but he doesn’t care to revel in the tradecraft, only in the violence (physical and emotional), which makes Widows less le cinema du Michael Mann than le premium television du Jean-Marc Vallée.
Gillian Flynn, adapting a British teleplay, organizes the storylines into neat streams, but their trajectories are telegraphed a little too easily, like Colin Farrell’s Chi-cah-go…
AD: "Auteurs Direct, this is John, how may I help you?"
DOR: "Returns, please."
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DOR: "I ordered one Scorsese '70s Starter Kit, but I was sent the Ted Demme version instead. I'm looking for the Scorsese, the vintage model."
AD: "I'm afraid your previous orders suggest the Scorsese '70s Starter Kit isn't compatible with your toolset, so that's why we sent you the Ted Demme. You've purchased the Remedial…
Noble mediocrity, of the most self-consciously humble order. Co-writer and director Tom McCarthy starts with an unnecessary flashback and tip-toes through the chronology of events with the literal-mindedness of a 7th-grade book report: Convenient facts, laid out in a row, delivered with the shrunken vocabulary of a child. It's a work of service-journalism that wants to be judged on its clear-eyed morality; it deserves to be seen as an artless, charmless piece of homework that refuses to challenge its audience…