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The film veers back and forth between the obvious and the ridiculous.
An undeniably entertaining watch, Suburbicon stumbles when it tries to recycle effective old ingredients into something new.
The Hollywood Reporter by
Suburbicon is just too obvious in its satirical depiction of the dubious morality and social inequality behind the squeaky-clean façade of postwar American life, though it's watchable enough, and a distinct improvement for Clooney on his last directorial outing.
Screen International by
Suburbicon is a solid, pleasing piece, even if it never quite reaches the bleak heights its set-up promises.
The Playlist by
Uneven though it is, the film is peppered with enough cherishable dialogue tics and dummkopf punchlines to make it a enjoyable watch.
Clooney only shows flashes of comic moxy, and everything is drowned in a now tiresome fetishizing of the 1950s aesthetic, with gizmos and supermarkets, office furniture and hairdos glossily remade.
It’s a movie that reels the audience in and keeps it hooked: with smart little kicks of surprise.
The Telegraph by
It’s a hectic, sour and muddled film – a flailing counterfeit of satire that keeps slipping on its own banana skin supply, and never remotely gets to grips with what it thinks it’s sending up.
The Film Stage by
The meat of Suburbicon is certainly Grade-A, but no expense has been spared on the trimmings either. Even the briefest supporting players are fully formed and often quite memorable.
The Guardian by
Suburbicon is too lightweight and mannered; it lacks proper fury. Watching it is like having your trouser-leg savaged by an energetic small dog.
A radically ordinary story.
He made a bet. She made history.
Soon the first snow will come, and then he will kill again.
Deal with her.
Some stars shine forever
Domestic bliss requires sacrifice.