It’s exactly the film that May and Taylor wanted, and it’s a complete bore.

An endless parade of clichés and logic issues that ruin an otherwise potentially interesting plot.

First Man attempts to bring color to a man who embodied the dull grays of the very surface to which he will forever be anchored.

Attempts to walk a very fine line between campy and creepy, between reality and dystopia.

Two-and-a-half hours of nonsensical jibber-jabber interspersed with adrenaline-inducing special effects.

It’s too long where it should be shorter and too short where it should be longer.

The film ultimately collapses under its own weight.

It holds the tension with the empathy and effectiveness of a large metal vise.

An experience every bit as chaotic as the exploding island of Isla Nublar.

Foster sports the look of a no-frills grandmother with a deadpan gaze that could stop a bullet.

This is one flat Ocean. That might make for smooth sailing, but not so smooth for a film.

A film bursting with potential that slowly deflates like an overfilled balloon.