A.V. Club review. Obscenely boring abuse of a brand. Must there be three more of these?
Both relieved and a little disappointed to discover that I wasn’t the only one to see more Shyamalan than Kubrick or Tarkovsky in this imperfect space odyssey. The clunky dialogue and thin characterizations, the undeniable formal pleasures, the secondhand Spielberg family dynamics, the gooey New Age spirituality—all feel like vintage M. Night. And the twisty climax is swing-away-Merrill ridiculous, overpowering any emotional truth with the sheer power of its absurdity.
I’m right down the middle on this one, to the…