Sitting through this pointless, dreary, nearly incoherent mess of a movie is a painful endurance test I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I tried to sneak out of a sneak preview, but didn't want to offend the cast and crew. I should have offended them anyway -- gone home and done something creative -- like taking out the garbage. The fact that this lackluster snore-fest won the Grand Prize at Sundance and good reviews from major critics is the latest proof that "serious" (read: "tedious") reality/verite-style European film-making is the only type, apparently, that American reviewers and judges deem worthy these days (audiences, thankfully, know better).
How far we've come from the days of great cinema! I can't imagine what Welles or Hitchcock or John Ford would have thought of this tripe. Even the founding fathers of neo-realism would have taken a nap long before the last reel creaked through the projector.
I never thought I'd be thanking God for Spielberg until I stumbled away in a daze from the trance-inducing catastrophe named (pretentiously, of course) "Forty Shades of Blue."
How far we've come from the days of great cinema! I can't imagine what Welles or Hitchcock or John Ford would have thought of this tripe. Even the founding fathers of neo-realism would have taken a nap long before the last reel creaked through the projector.
I never thought I'd be thanking God for Spielberg until I stumbled away in a daze from the trance-inducing catastrophe named (pretentiously, of course) "Forty Shades of Blue."