The runtime could have been halved if characters just moved and spoke like normal people. Every movement, be it a kiss or a car chase, feels unrealistically, achingly slow. Nothing says sleek like jumping off a building, snagging a parachute on a bridge, getting hit by a bus then bouncing along the pavement like a discarded coke can. It’s no fault of his that director Matt Reeves wanted sombre and sluggish over suave and swift. But there’s nothing wrong with Pattinson’s performance, nor his chiselled jaw or inevitably gravelly voice. His tech is lo-fi and clunky, his boots thicker soled than Trinity’s. Pattinson’s Batman is a greasy straggle haired emo, a scarred wreck of a man, his aesthetic more misanthropic, washed out rocker than billionaire playboy. – noir, low lit and low key reimagining of the caped crusader might be too ponderous and grimy for its own good.
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