Can't think of many things as cinematically pleasurable as watching Andre Holland and Zazie Beetz talk at a bar.
Cuaron makes it perfectly clear: this is not another Chivo-shot joint. Which, honestly, fine, I'm tired of Lubezki's ubiquitous long takes. However, the director goes so far in the opposite direction that he settles into a repetitive pattern of ponderous pans & fast tracks that tell us... what, exactly? Certainly not much about Cleo, ostensibly the main character here, inspired by the director's childhood housekeeper. But his desire to exert formal control over his memories renders the film emotionally inert. And…