Freddie Highmore is an underwhelming lead, his affable and unchanging facial expression etherizing any emotion that might otherwise exist in a scene. It’s as if he ended up on a movie set by accident.

Tahar Rahim, as Slahi, gives as commanding a performance as ever was committed to film.

There’s a lyrical quality to “Minari,” in that certain repetitions—lush greens and frail yellows, water and the lack thereof, religious and non-religious faith—accumulate and add layers to the Yis’ journey.

Neither Malcolm nor Marie actually has much to say; for all its glamour and stylishness, the movie leaves us indifferent.

The execution of Balram’s ambitions is rich with intrigues and grave acts, forcing us to reconcile our instinct to root for the underdog with his underhanded tactics and premeditated violence.

If the retirees’ own comments suggest disillusionment in the twilight of their lives, the movie’s look and feel exacerbate the feeling.

Even when we can’t easily comprehend the images before us, we give in to their striking composition and the sheer breadth of their scale.

Despite a rambling quality to the storytelling, all the flashbacks and party chatter and drunken rants suggest a greater whole, an irregular tessellation anchored by Mank the man and branching ever outward into the political, the social, and the ethical.

The action is flat, and often amped up from molehill to mountain before you can say “declined credit card.”

The movie has a meditative feel, but muddled with a sour note: there’s no magical stimulus that will bring back memories that have faded.