These two actors are dynamos, but this is the most embarrassingly bad, painfully shot, poorly edited film they could have ever been thrown in together. It has the incongruous visual style of the latter Bourne movies, and all the sensitivity of a drunk uncle during Christmas dinner.
It gets bonus points for the few scenes where it just has these two lovely actors talking, arguing, and, you know, acting — without the camera calling attention to itself or the scenery.
Every Anthony McCarten movie I’ve ever seen has been an exercise in style over substance. I don’t know why that is. He’s the writer. His mere presence shouldn’t affect all these directorial decisions. And yet it does.