Chloë Moretz—meh.
Juliette Lewis—yeah!
Blake Lively—bleah!
Eddie Redmayne—neh.
There's no likable main character. A bunch of random stuff happens. It's a pointless tale in the end.
I'm very appreciative of all the smaller, more intimate, indie films I was lucky enough to catch in theaters when I was in college in the '90s. This was when there were many more arthouse and rep theaters in the San Francisco Bay Area. Cold Fever is one that stuck in my head over the decades. It's bleak, quirky, and simply and gorgeously shot. It's like the best Icelandic Jim Jarmusch road movie that Jarmusch never made.
Would you like to go on a road trip with a dysfunctional family?
"A funny dysfunctional family, like in Little Miss Sunshine?"
No, a basic, regular, everyday family: a couple and their two young daughters.
"Where are they going?"
From Mexico City to Tamiahua.
"Is it in a fast, cool vehicle?"
No, it's a Toyota RAV4.
"Do they get lost and attacked by inbred cannibals or monsters? Or do they get caught in a disaster, like a volcano or a…