Margaret

completely torn on this one. it’s brilliant, but it’s equally insipid; the pace of edits, in which scenes lap up against each other or crash into one another with equal precision, is brilliant, but everything is beige; the perspective is unbearably blinkered, but it’s just reflexive enough about its own blinkeredness to be convincing, in the moments of highest drama. so it falters in the interstitial space between dramaturgical performativity and quotidian daily rhythms, in the plain unadorned performance of ordinary experiences, when the spell wears off and this epic of destructively transferred adolescent grief transforms back into a thoroughly unconvincing liberal metaphor for post-9/11 new york (i find Spike Lee’s 25th Hour much more palatable as a take on the same fundamental impulse, to be honest). i find myself incapable of resolving that gap, of understanding this movie in a way that allows me to set it on a shelf as worthy or unworthy, good or bad, which is, embarrassingly, quite fitting

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