Crescendos are only as good as the tension accumulated beforehand. With Prisoners, I felt like my neck was being slowly squeezed for the first three-fourths of the film. Gyllenhall's reserved performance. Jóhannsson's foreboding score. I don't remember a single primary color in Deakin's shot list. But then, in the final act, all ingredients converge as Gyllenhall finally lets himself go, speeding to a hospital, yelling to keep the little girl awake in his backseat, carried by an uncharacteristically uplifting Jóhannsson arrangement, struggling to navigate - through rain, traffic, and a blood-caked right eye - streets exploding with colorful light.
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The Irishman 2019
Where it lacks vitality, it makes up for in nostalgia - but if you're ranking this up there with the best of Scorsese, or even the best of 2019, you might consider an MRI.
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