If this film were merely an aberration, I wouldn't care very much about the ninety minutes wasted by sitting through it, but it is, unfortunately, becoming the norm for modern film-going when practically NO ONE seems to know how to fashion and tell a proper story.
More and more there seem to be those who get the notion in their heads that they have a story to tell, when they actually have NO story, the end result being that those with the misfortune to sit through their eventual handiwork have to pay for their delusions.
"Like Crazy" (the title should apply to its makers' above delusions) is a bland, shapeless, pointless excuse for a movie. It betrays an utter lack of understanding of dramatic construction and a director so concerned with film-ic "technique" (however he defines it) that is, in fact, so inartful and overbearingly designed to display what a genius he is, that he ignores even the most rudimentary demands of story-telling.
He is no director of actors; if he were, he would have seen from the outset that his cast is utterly unbalanced and mismatched. Brit Anna (Felicity Jones) -- articulate and expressive -- seems as though she's forty, while her paramour, Jacob (Anton Yelchin) seems as though he's twelve, so devoid is he of any discernible personality -- six cubic feet of empty space.
Jones probably has a career ahead of her, if she can find better material and directors who can wipe the memory of this vapid exercise from its unfortunate viewers, while Yelchin has none -- if we're lucky.
The film's chronology is muddled, rendering the normal dramatic mechanism of cause-and-effect inoperable and the characters' motivations (if any) inscrutable. Nothing actually happens in the film for the first thirty minutes of its running time. When an event of consequence -- the denial of Anna's visa to re-enter the U.S. -- nothing much else happens for the balance of the movie, which is broken up by numerous, wordless and gag-inducing interludes of the young lovers' romantic interludes that hark back to the worst excesses of the late 1960s and early '70s when such slow-motion sequences were de rigeur fashionable cinematic expression.
In short, this film as as ghastly a piece of inept, self-indulgent dreck as this reviewer has ever had the misfortune to sit through (and I got to see it for free. A note to its makers: Please don't do me any more favors).
IMDb allows reviewers to a numerical value on a scale of one to ten; the only conceivable injustice greater than having to sit through this movie is that there is no rating of "zero."
More and more there seem to be those who get the notion in their heads that they have a story to tell, when they actually have NO story, the end result being that those with the misfortune to sit through their eventual handiwork have to pay for their delusions.
"Like Crazy" (the title should apply to its makers' above delusions) is a bland, shapeless, pointless excuse for a movie. It betrays an utter lack of understanding of dramatic construction and a director so concerned with film-ic "technique" (however he defines it) that is, in fact, so inartful and overbearingly designed to display what a genius he is, that he ignores even the most rudimentary demands of story-telling.
He is no director of actors; if he were, he would have seen from the outset that his cast is utterly unbalanced and mismatched. Brit Anna (Felicity Jones) -- articulate and expressive -- seems as though she's forty, while her paramour, Jacob (Anton Yelchin) seems as though he's twelve, so devoid is he of any discernible personality -- six cubic feet of empty space.
Jones probably has a career ahead of her, if she can find better material and directors who can wipe the memory of this vapid exercise from its unfortunate viewers, while Yelchin has none -- if we're lucky.
The film's chronology is muddled, rendering the normal dramatic mechanism of cause-and-effect inoperable and the characters' motivations (if any) inscrutable. Nothing actually happens in the film for the first thirty minutes of its running time. When an event of consequence -- the denial of Anna's visa to re-enter the U.S. -- nothing much else happens for the balance of the movie, which is broken up by numerous, wordless and gag-inducing interludes of the young lovers' romantic interludes that hark back to the worst excesses of the late 1960s and early '70s when such slow-motion sequences were de rigeur fashionable cinematic expression.
In short, this film as as ghastly a piece of inept, self-indulgent dreck as this reviewer has ever had the misfortune to sit through (and I got to see it for free. A note to its makers: Please don't do me any more favors).
IMDb allows reviewers to a numerical value on a scale of one to ten; the only conceivable injustice greater than having to sit through this movie is that there is no rating of "zero."