There’s something fun about predicting the world of the future. We know our guesses will be massively off, but through our visions clouded by our favorite works of sci-fi, we think forward and see a world dramatically different from our own.
Murder on the Orient Express winds up on that mid-level ground: mixing vivid visuals with a obligated script, quick line readings with sluggish storytelling, and a crackerjack caper with an uninspired mood.
I stand in awe at Geostorm, a film so ludicrously broken, so haphazardly smashed together, so unrepentantly clichéd, so brutally incoherent, so hilariously self-serious, that it crosses the boundaries of terrible, smashes through the meager definitions of good and bad or right and wrong, transforms itself in the interim, and becomes phenomenal.
The first half of Soy Nero is a good movie about a young, undocumented immigrant who navigates a labyrinthine system in a quest to achieve citizenship. The second half is an efficient, bracing war film about a small band of soldiers who are ambushed and have to navigate a desolate, dangerous desert.