Here

Another deeply flawed, tech-forward endeavour for Zemeckis in which glimmers of human emotion only occasionally break through. Like Cloud Atlas for baby boomers experiencing late-middle-age malaise.

Here may be a prodigy of hyper-choreographed trickery, but its folksy self-importance suggests a less fleet-footed variant on Zemeckis’s Forrest Gump...

It's not mawk-ish; it's mawk. It's just the most saccharine, sentimental, fatuous, surface-scratching non-sense.

This garish tomb of a film insists it’s full of life.

It’s like watching the Sims get dementia, and all it says as art, despite the grossly saccharine intentions of the film-makers, is that life is cruel, empty and beastly short, and we’ll probably spend most of it trapped in a house.

It’s an alienatingly ugly technique and a mawkish tear-jerker choked up with synthetic sentimentality. You start to envy the dinosaurs their extinction event.

The experience played out is inert and mawkish, and the movie is in the end mainly a technical experiment: a film of a book that traps the quality cast in a stage act.

If these walls could talk they'd be asking to be demolished after being held captive alongside generations of boring humans engaged in cliched simulations of nuclear familial dysfunction.

Conceptually, the film’s attempt to tell a familial drama on a cosmic scale is fascinating. In practice, though, the script is overloaded with so much sentimentality that it harms the intimate story this film wants to tell.

There’s a chance Here will wear down your cynicism, but a far greater chance this mega-clunker will wear you down to your very last nerve.