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Where the Crawdads Sing isn’t exactly a bad film, just a slow one. One that prods along and rarely, if ever, picks up any traction. One that feels rushed and not entirely thought through, but also painstakingly slow and unmoving. One that, when it’s final sombre nail is put into the coffin, leaves you feeling confused whether that film really said anything at all, whilst saying a lot about it’s author.