Why the Coens or Clooney could possibly care about suburbia enough to tackle it in such a way is beyond me, but what it resulted in is a film whose clear incompetence betrays its haphazard sense of self-importance.
“You can write anything once someone is dead; you can write a whole book of lies, and there's nothing we can do,” ruminates shock provocateur John Waters over the credits of the off-beat analysis of seminal Hollywood starlet Jayne Mansfield's final days.
The question of what exactly went wrong with the winter serial killer fiasco The Snowman will, I hope, puzzle critics and audiences alike for years because, even after seeing it in all its ludicrous glory, there is no satisfying answer.
If we were to go off of the film's mundane ruminations over the experience of knocking at death's door, the afterlife is an eternal purgatory of being forced to relive the most middling of direct-to-DVD horror films scene by scene.
The Golden Circle still has its set pieces and its jaw-dropping moments of high-octane action and choreography, but I was stuck on whether or not we needed this much more of it in the grand scheme of things.
Far from revolutionizing, Creation (much as Wan's The Conjuring did initially to set off this series) refines the approach itself to the point where even the most telegraphed of scares never lose their jolting impact.