Michael Atkinson‚Äôs devastating review of Neil LaBute‚Äôs new movie ‚ÄúThe Wicker Man‚Äù (thanks, Helen, for spotting it) contends that, in this overly-talky film, ‚ÄúMuch of the discussion, potent or thin, gets mired, in any case, by the latent ’60s-flower-child campiness and a slew of honey-dripping soundtrack folk songs about harvest time and agrarian rituals that [...]
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