Talk about targeted content, Jesus: This was produced primarily for people born in the year 1983 who lived within 30 minutes of the Caldecott Tunnel between the years of 1988 and 1993, and I am somehow all of those things—which makes this intentionally inaccurate yet strangely specific musical send-up “Extremely My Shit,” as the kids say in 2019. I can only imagine how this would fit into my personal pantheon, etched upon the concrete face of Mount Davis, if Sandberg,…
AD: "Auteurs Direct, this is John, how may I help you?"
DOR: "Returns, please."
AD: "Which Auteurs Direct product are you looking to return today?"
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…