New York Post by Kyle Smith

As sensuous as its title, Silk is an exquisitely felt love story that unfolds as delicately as a blooming flower. And as slowly.

The A.V. Club by Nathan Rabin

Sensual but profoundly silly, Silk is ultimately little more than softcore porn with arthouse trappings, a moony, dopily romantic "Red Shoe Diaries" variation for the NPR set.

Chicago Sun-Times by Roger Ebert

Everything is brought together at the end in a flash of revelation that is spectacularly underwhelming.

TV Guide Magazine by Maitland McDonagh

Cinematographer Alain Dostie's stunning, painterly cinematography is the best -- and perhaps only -- reason to endure this stunted epic.

Los Angeles Times by Kevin Crust

Though the film aspires to the epic with pretensions of deeper philosophical meaning, it ultimately settles for being the "Escape (The Piña Colada Song)" of historical romances.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer by Bill White

Failing to make a lick of rational sense, Silk grasps at poetic straws.

San Francisco Chronicle by Joshua Kosman

Beautiful but flimsy film.

Chicago Reader by Joshua Katzman

A visually arresting period piece.

The Globe and Mail (Toronto) by Stephen Cole

Though elegantly staged, Silk is badly written and indifferently cast.

Entertainment Weekly by Lisa Schwarzbaum

Wan, generically pretty adaptation of Alessandro Baricco's 1996 novel.

The New York Times by Stephen Holden

Mr. Pitt is a reasonably photogenic specimen. But this actor, whose typical screen character is a broken, androgynous man-child, is disastrously miscast.

New York Daily News by Jack Mathews

By the end of Francois Gerard's plodding, uninvolving melodrama, his boredom will have nothing on yours.

Variety by Todd McCarthy

Silk is a snooze. Vacuous, arid and terminally dull, this adaptation of Alessandro Baricco's freak bestseller hasn't a trace of real life or energy to it, and is hamstrung by a lethargic lead performance by Michael Pitt.

Village Voice

Silk isn’t just bad. It’s utterly mad. It stutters and hiccups from scene to scene, from country to country, but never once does it make narrative or emotional sense.