The Little Things

What saves the movie is the star. Malek is stuck at surface level, but with Washington you see the soul-deep breakage of a character whom the abyss has gazed back into.

Just an overdose of acting pills, and the rest is just boring.

It's about as fresh as a bloated, bile-tinged corpse dredged from the Los Angeles river, with a markedly similar colour palette to boot.

The main disappointment, other than female characters who only exist to be disposed of, comes from recognising the kernel of something unusual buried in the film's marrow.

It's not a bad film, but it's not the film we thought it would be.

Often enough that there are two ways to respond to The Little Things: you can yawn at its star going through the same old routine, or you can appreciate how he's got it down to a fine art.

Every moment is agitated by the volatility of '90s LA, with a jaw-dropping conclusion.

What exactly went wrong with Mr. Hancock’s ode to ’90s Hollywood crime thrillers? The Little Things is frustratingly bland.

“The Little Things” proudly embraces its gritty neo-noir flavor while leaving the impression that the film could have been plucked right out of the early 1990’s, back when crime thrillers were all the rave.

The whole thing still falls victim to uninspired filmmaking choices that range from mundane cinematography and a dull, repetitive score.