Even scenes that sound great on paper—as when two private military contracting companies accidentally start a firefight at a Baghdad gas station—feel strained and uncomfortably buffonish. Everybody’s mugging when they should’ve just tried acting.
I don’t know how anyone can watch that beautiful, impossibly gifted young child performing next to the sick, depressing weirdo that he grew up to be and not feel downright heartbroken.
It’s the kind of earnest-o-rama where the evil racists are either frigidly indifferent to the black experience or shrill, hissable monsters. Meanwhile the black characters are by and large nobly suffering.
Like its antihero, Revanche spends most of its length stalling for time, all the while allowing the film’s ideas to burrow into our minds, driving us crazy with anticipation.
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