In "Dawn of the Planet of the Apes," gestures and body language communicate more than spoken words.
There are some movies you see because you actively seek them out, and some you see because just giving up and buying a ticket seems easier than resisting the tidal forces that conspire to pull you into the box office. It was in this latter spirit that I saw Dawn of the Planet of the Apes: my friend and I had missed the showtime for the movie we wanted to see, and found nothing but apes for the rest of the afternoon.
Sinister lighting, innocent child, creepy closet full of demons... check, check, and check!
I’ve always appreciated horror as a genre full of little experiments. If a director’s goal is to scare, disturb, or unsettle the audience, she has to manufacture a Rube Goldberg-like system of tense silences and jump scares to find success.
It was a strange choice for a summer blockbuster. A weepy film about a girl dying of thyroid cancer who meets her boyfriend in a support group and then travels to Amsterdam so she can meet the author she idolizes before experiencing the ultimate heartbreak.