Arrive at this meal with a bib on: it’s fucking messy, grotesque, sloppy and like a cinnabon with extra frosting: it shouldn’t exist, it’s not subtle, logically falls apart (or rather, barely coheres and looks at you asking for forgiveness before you’ve finished sinning), but like cinema with force, it must be engorged, experienced. And it’s deliberately bad, turns out, which is both a problem and a saving grace. Also, a great joy will be had re-watching this pot of potboiler with a keener eye on Ruffalo, of whom, alas, there is not enough. B+
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