A carefully crafted, but utterly pointless exercise of a film.

Rating: 7/10 (16 May 2009)

I think people--especially critics--are easily fooled by the mannered, arty devices heavily deployed throughout this tedious project: the intrusive avant-garde music by *gasp* a Radiohead member; the looooooong purposeful shots of Daniel Day Lewis glaring menacingly at things and slowly pronouncing words with that ponderous accent that must have taken months, hell, years, to perfect; the endless pauses in which nothing happens and nobody speaks for long periods of time; the complete lack of plot, action, romance, good dialogue, laughs, feelings, and tangible themes or meanings--things that that normally constitute what we call a narrative film--hell, without any of that stuff, this movie--sorry, film--MUST be a masterpiece.
Basically, this film is 2 1/2 hours of waiting around for Daniel Day Lewis to finally say, "I drink your milkshake!" Cuz, let's face it, that's about the only thing people remember about this flick; that one line is this film's legacy to the world of cinema.
I hate to say it, but Paul T. Anderson is overtaking M. Night Shylaman as the most pompous, overrated director--sorry, "auteur"--of the last decade.
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