The Little Things

What saves the movie is the star. Malek is stuck at surface level, but with Washington you see the soul-deep breakage of a character whom the abyss has gazed back into.

Just an overdose of acting pills, and the rest is just boring.

It's about as fresh as a bloated, bile-tinged corpse dredged from the Los Angeles river, with a markedly similar colour palette to boot.

The main disappointment, other than female characters who only exist to be disposed of, comes from recognising the kernel of something unusual buried in the film's marrow.

Often enough that there are two ways to respond to The Little Things: you can yawn at its star going through the same old routine, or you can appreciate how he's got it down to a fine art.

The Little Things stands on its own feet...well worth watching and I will not be surprised if Leto receives another Oscar nomination.

Interestingly, it pulls an unexpectedly thought-provoking ending out of the bag, which makes me suspect that Hancock’s intention was to subvert tropes all along.

The way in which the serial killer operates by placing his victims as a great staging and the investigation by a contrasting police duo, who differ in ages, work methods, social class and cultural ethnicity, automatically refers to the '90s...

Every moment is agitated by the volatility of '90s LA, with a jaw-dropping conclusion.

What exactly went wrong with Mr. Hancock’s ode to ’90s Hollywood crime thrillers? The Little Things is frustratingly bland.