Where the Crawdads Sing

The PG-13-ness of Where the Crawdads Sing buffs every rough edge off this story—the abuse, the abandonment, the betrayal, the sex, and even the alleged murder. It would be better off as trash.

Edgar-Jones’ easygoing allure isn’t enough to bind Where the Crawdads Sing together, though, leaving the film a generic, dull outing.

This film is like the Instagram-influencer version of [Beasts of a Southern Wild] — a Goop post about its beautifying effects.

A flat, flair-free and uninspiring adaptation.

Like the backdrop – marsh or swamp – it’s all a bit soggy.

A fairly engrossing entertainment -- a little bit slick and doesn't go in depth into the marsh.

This stultifying adaptation is the disappointment of the year for fans of Delia Owens' bestselling novel.

What means to be a whodunit that leaves the reveal to the very, very end, Where the Crawdads Sing, directed by Olivia Newman, instead sucks all of the mystery out of a murder trial that offers no alternatives to the theory at hand.

It’s far more concerned with binary portrayals of good and bad, presenting them as overly whimsical or toxic respectively. It’s a promising concept that translates into a frustrating experience of tonal incoherence.

it unfortunately runs the original story through the Hollywood machine, rendering it a surface-level and boilerplate experience that dilutes the emotional profundity of its source material. All the while being a borderline unbearable snooze fest.