"A film that seems absolutely tortured by J. C.’s two contradictory impulses: a desire to give the audience and funders what they want, and bitter disdain for the kind of violent, sexualized entertainment that would entail (Cosmo Vitelli vs. Mister Sophistication). I think this is why the gun and fight scenes are so illegible, so badly staged. And while there are bare breasts, they’re never sexy in any way. He can’t bring himself to give us the money shot. Because of this, I don’t know what to do with the film’s moments of pure pictorial beauty. Most of the time, you can barely see what’s going on, but then somebody turns on a light or opens the door, and the light itself is a shimmering, seductive presence. Is the ugliness the price we pay as an audience (or the technical precondition) to get those radiant images? Or is the pretty stuff a brief surrender, an embarrassing concession to the idea movies should be nice to look at? I think both. And it’s a personal question, because we light our films the same way."