This neo-noir should have been better. It could easily have culled an 8 from me. But the writing did not deliver. It's almost as if the writer-director lost a bet, and had to pull out the plot points that meant the difference between this being a good film people would talk about, vs something no one's heard of. Which is a shame, because the writer-director is one of hollywood's most lauded writers going.
I'm soft for desert movies. This one starts out well. Then it moved to L.A. and fast lost its momentum, its pacing, and sill in plotting. And Mark Wahlberg's part? Just filler. Same with Goggins. Literally nothing more than someone for the protagonist to speak to so we don't have to use thought bubbles. In fact, most of the other actors that have talking don't need them, because they don't go anywhere in the story.
If you're watching this in hopes of a twist, then don't bother. There is none.
Otherwise, there's oddly inserted literary references that would only come from a director who was also a writer. Shakespeare, Melville, don't add to the story. They barely even fulfill the purpose of making this story feel more philosophical.
A screenwriter who submitted this script would have been rejected if he was new. Something this flawed could only get greenlit if the writer was already A-list, as this writer was. It violates one of the so called "rules" of scriptwriting -- that every scene, every act, every word, has some role in moving the story forward. This one had too many that didn't.
It's an ages-old conceit that experienced hollywood filmmakers like to make films about hollywood that reveal its meaninglessness, its shallowness, its callous narcissism. This one does all that. Complete with asskissing personal assistants or bedraggled personal assistants. PAs are the lifeblood of the industry, but are rarely depicted in compelling ways. This film is no exception. But not in an instructive nor satisfying way.
Films are too expensive to make merely to make a statement that the film biz doesn't matter. But this one sure works hard at it.
I'm soft for desert movies. This one starts out well. Then it moved to L.A. and fast lost its momentum, its pacing, and sill in plotting. And Mark Wahlberg's part? Just filler. Same with Goggins. Literally nothing more than someone for the protagonist to speak to so we don't have to use thought bubbles. In fact, most of the other actors that have talking don't need them, because they don't go anywhere in the story.
If you're watching this in hopes of a twist, then don't bother. There is none.
Otherwise, there's oddly inserted literary references that would only come from a director who was also a writer. Shakespeare, Melville, don't add to the story. They barely even fulfill the purpose of making this story feel more philosophical.
A screenwriter who submitted this script would have been rejected if he was new. Something this flawed could only get greenlit if the writer was already A-list, as this writer was. It violates one of the so called "rules" of scriptwriting -- that every scene, every act, every word, has some role in moving the story forward. This one had too many that didn't.
It's an ages-old conceit that experienced hollywood filmmakers like to make films about hollywood that reveal its meaninglessness, its shallowness, its callous narcissism. This one does all that. Complete with asskissing personal assistants or bedraggled personal assistants. PAs are the lifeblood of the industry, but are rarely depicted in compelling ways. This film is no exception. But not in an instructive nor satisfying way.
Films are too expensive to make merely to make a statement that the film biz doesn't matter. But this one sure works hard at it.