Movie Reviews

The Movie Rating Dilemma: Or How I Learned How to Value Ratings

Published

4 months ago

March 8, 2026

The Movie Rating Dilemma: Or How I Learned How to Value Ratings

The act of judging — of assigning value to someone or something based on performance — is probably as old as humanity itself. You can safely assume that even cavemen were sizing each other up: Who hunts better? Who builds the sturdier shelter? Who’s pulling their weight?

Formalized systems came much later. The Roman Empire famously popularized the thumbs up/thumbs down gesture during gladiatorial games — a blunt but effective metric. By the 18th century, academic institutions began standardizing numerical grading systems. The 19th century introduced letter grades. And by the early 20th century, film criticism had entered the chat, with newspapers like the New York Daily publishing some of the earliest recorded movie grades (at least according to a quick Google dive — so take that with a grain of salt).

Fast forward to the 1970s, and modern film criticism as we know it began to crystallize. Roger Ebert popularized the four-star system, while he and Gene Siskel turned the thumbs up/thumbs down into a cultural mainstay on their television show — perhaps subconsciously echoing those ancient Roman gestures.

Now, I could theoretically try to confirm whether the Roman inspiration was intentional. But seeing as both critics have passed on, the only way to do that would involve a séance — and if horror movies have taught us anything, that never ends well. Sure, some people claim they’ve used an Ouija board, and nothing happened. Good for them. With my luck, I’d end up summoning Pazuzu, Candyman, a Djinn, and Satan all at once. So that’s a hard pass.

Jokes aside, in the past decade — arguably since the moment movie ratings were invented — people have increasingly questioned their value in entertainment and beyond. Albums, films, TV shows, books: every score feels like a potential battleground. (I don’t spend much time in Goodreads comment sections, but I can only imagine.)

But where did it all probably begin?

The Rotten Tomatoes Effect

I still remember the first time I heard about Rotten Tomatoes. It was on a radio show I used to catch after school called La Hora Señalada (the Spanish title for “High Noon”), where two veteran critics would break down new releases and revisit older classics. Before every discussion, they’d reference “the Rotten Tomatoes score,” like it was some cinematic barometer of truth.

I didn’t actually visit the site back then. Internet access at home was spotty — dial-up at best, nonexistent at worst — and not exactly a priority when my family had bigger concerns. But even without browsing it myself, I grew up watching cinephiles treat the Tomatometer like gospel. A high percentage meant “good.” A low one meant “bad.” Simple as that.

Over the past decade, that perception seems to have intensified. The site has been around since 1998, but the explosion of high-speed internet, social media platforms like Twitter and Facebook, and the rise of online fandom culture amplified its influence. Suddenly, that big red or green number wasn’t just a reference point — it became ammunition in arguments.

So, how much should we actually care about it?

The answer isn’t straightforward.

First, it’s important to understand what that percentage represents. The Tomatometer isn’t an average movie rating — it’s the percentage of critics who gave the film a “fresh” (positive) review. That means a movie sitting at 80% doesn’t necessarily have critics raving about it. Many of those positive reviews could be modest 7/10s or 3.5/5s. The more telling metric is the smaller average rating number listed beneath the percentage — but let’s be honest, most people fixate on the big, bold score.

Filmmakers have criticized the site for oversimplifying complex critical opinions into a binary fresh/rotten system. And that critique isn’t entirely unfair. When nuanced reviews get distilled into a single color-coded badge, context gets lost.

Then there’s the audience score — which, at least historically, has been vulnerable to manipulation. The most infamous example came during the release of “Captain Marvel,” when organized groups review-bombed the film largely due to backlash against Brie Larson. The score plummeted before most people had even seen the movie. To their credit, Rotten Tomatoes implemented changes afterward to curb that kind of coordinated sabotage. Of course, the opposite phenomenon exists too: fans artificially inflating scores for films they love.

All of this reinforces one simple idea: the site is a reference point, not a verdict.

It can be useful — a quick snapshot of critical consensus — but it shouldn’t live on a pedestal. It can mislead. It can misrepresent nuance. And it absolutely may not reflect your own taste. There are plenty of low-rated films I adore. “Max Keeble’s Big Move” sits at 27%, and I’ll defend that gem every, any, what, where, why, when, and however time.

Another factor people rarely consider: critics are individuals with specific tastes. If a horror skeptic reviews a slasher or a rom-com enthusiast tackles an austere arthouse drama, their reaction may not align with your own sensibilities. That doesn’t make them wrong — it just means taste is subjective.

I believe the healthiest approach is to treat Rotten Tomatoes as a starting point. Read individual reviews. Seek out critics whose tastes align with yours. Cross-reference with other aggregators like Metacritic, which uses a weighted average system rather than a binary model. (Full disclosure: I haven’t relied on it heavily myself, but many cinephiles prefer its methodology.)

In the end, no percentage can replace your own experience. The most reliable metric will always be the one you assign after the credits roll.

Also Related to Movie Rating Dilemma: The Death of the Opening Weekend: What Actually Defines Success in Film Now

The Value

In preparation for this article, I ran a small poll — and the results were both surprising and completely predictable. Much like politics (and, frankly, everything else these days), people are deeply divided on how much value they place on ratings. What caught me off guard, though, was that after hundreds of votes, the majority leaned toward the “don’t care” camp.

That lines up with a noticeable trend on platforms like Letterboxd, where more and more users are ditching the traditional star system in favor of a simple “heart” — or nothing at all.

So why is that happening?

From the responses and patterns I observed, one recurring reason is fluidity. Many people say their film ratings change constantly in their heads. A movie that felt like a four yesterday might feel like a three-and-a-half next month. Updating scores repeatedly can become tedious, even exhausting. But the bigger issue seems to be perception. People worry — sometimes rightly so— that their ratings will be misinterpreted. For some, three stars is a solid, positive endorsement. For others, anything below four feels like a dismissal. That disconnect can spiral into unnecessary debates — or worse, online pile-ons.

Which brings me to what I like to call the comparison game.

This is where things get absurd. It’s when someone compares potatoes to lettuce. Sure, they both grow from the ground. They might share space on a burger plate. But beyond that? Completely different textures, flavors, and purposes.

Recently, I rated “Dhurandhar” four stars — the same score I gave “One Battle After Another.” A follower asked how I could possibly see those films as equals. But that’s the assumption baked into the comparison game: that identical ratings equal identical value. They don’t. One film might be a potato, the other a lettuce — or an apple. What do they meaningfully have to do with each other?

The root issue seems simple: people take their favorite art personally. If I love X and give it four stars, you’d better love it just as much — or at least rate it the “correct” way. Otherwise, the pitchforks come out. Disagreement isn’t just disagreement; it becomes a perceived attack.

And that’s where ratings shift from being shorthand expressions of personal taste to symbols people defend as if they were moral positions. In theory, a rating is just a snapshot of how something worked for one individual at one moment in time. In practice, it can feel like a referendum on identity.

Which says less about the numbers themselves — and more about how much we’ve invested in them.

When you rate a movie, do you stop and cross-reference every prior rating to ensure consistency across unrelated genres? The only time that kind of comparative calibration makes sense to me is within a contained body of work — ranking a director’s filmography, an actor’s performances, or entries in a franchise.

There are even stranger edge cases. I’ve given “The Room” a perfect score — not because it’s “objectively” great in a traditional sense, but because, for what it is, and what it accidentally achieves, it feels like a specific kind of perfection. Meanwhile, others might rate it a two-star disaster and still love it just as passionately. The number doesn’t always tell the whole emotional truth.

Now, for the positives.

As one commenter on the site put it, “rating forces us to confront the tough question: how much did this film really work for me?” A rating compels clarity. It forces you to distill your feelings into a decision.

In a way, this circles back to the heart-versus-stars debate. Clicking a heart on Letterboxd leaves a lot open to interpretation. Say you heart both “Dog Day Afternoon” and “12 Angry Men.” Great — but do you value them equally? Which one affected you more? Which one would you revisit first? Without a rating (or a detailed review), we’re left guessing.

And that ties into another undeniable reality: we’re living in a low-attention-span era. You can write a thoughtful, beautifully argued review — and many people simply won’t read it. On fast-scrolling platforms, especially, the rating becomes a kind of headline. A shorthand signal. It tells followers, at a glance, whether you found something worthwhile.

Conclusion

Personally, I’ll always champion ratings.

Yes, they’re a double-edged sword. They can flatten nuance, spark unnecessary outrage, or reduce complex feelings to a tidy number. But they can also serve a practical purpose — if we’re willing to understand how to read them. There’s probably an argument to be made that audiences need a bit more education on interpreting ratings as shorthand rather than gospel.

Some critics have come up with creative systems that embrace that shorthand in interesting ways. Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel boiled it down to the now-iconic thumbs metric — elegantly simple, instantly readable. Dan Murrell leans into a more textual breakdown, while Cody Leach blends a numbered score with contextual explanation. Different approaches, same goal: distilling a reaction into something digestible without (ideally) stripping it of meaning.

It’s not easy. The more you think about cinema as art — deeply personal, highly subjective — the more assigning it a number can start to feel reductive. For some critics, the very act of rating becomes a burden, as if they’re forced to quantify something that resists quantification.

Are ratings imperfect? Absolutely. Are they reductive? Sometimes. But they’re also efficient, clarifying, and — when used thoughtfully — a meaningful extension of the conversation rather than its replacement. In a media landscape built on quick takes and endless content, ratings function as a kind of necessary evil. They’re a snapshot, not the whole portrait. When used responsibly — and interpreted thoughtfully — they don’t have to replace the conversation. They can simply be the entry point to it.

Published

8 hours ago

June 27, 2026

Press Room

‘House of Criticism’ Review: A Pensive and Touching Portrait of Married Art Critics Jerry Saltz and Roberta Smith (It Is Only, at Moments, a True-Life Christopher Guest Movie)

If you wanted to be funny about it, you could say that Jerry Saltz and Roberta Smith, who occupy the center of the documentary “House of Criticism,” are like characters out of a Christopher Guest movie. Both are venerable New York art critics — but the thing is, they’re married New York art critics, whose lives revolve entirely around art and art criticism and talking about art and art criticism. They eat, breathe, sleep and dream it. In the Guest mockumentary of my imagination, the two would be played by Bob Balaban and Parker Posey, and they would be blissfully cracked egghead eccentrics who think that art is the most important thing in the world because it’s the most important thing in the world to them.

At moments, “House of Criticism” does throw off unintentional comic sparks of art-world insularity. But I’m kidding, ultimately, since underneath that it’s a pensive and touching documentary, and it happens to be about two writers I greatly admire. Roberta Smith, the co-chief art critic of the New York Times, and Jerry Saltz, the art critic of New York magazine, are writers of sway, elegance, legend. They’re two of the last powerful legacy critics in America, and both are fantastic writers. For them, the love of art is a mission, at once sophisticated and childlike. Roberta calls art “the most advanced operating system that our species has devised to explore consciousness, the seen and the unseeable.” The way art connects (and saves) these two on a daily basis is its own rarefied story, and it speaks to a certain vanishing culture of passionate New York literary brainiacs that used to be thought of as almost the essence of the city.

Early on, Jerry stands before Picasso’s epochal Les Demoiselles d’Avignon at the Museum of Modern Art and does a head-spinning riff on it, describing how 500 years of art history collapsed in the late 19th century (through Manet, the Impressionists, Van Gogh, Cezanne), leaving the blank slate for Picasso to fill. He compares the way the painting remade the world to the cataclysm of 9/11 (“When we believed in one course of history, and obviously there was another course of history, and they shattered”). Now that’s criticism.

As “House of Criticism” shows us, Jerry Saltz and Roberta Smith are luminaries and survivors who enjoy an idealized life together. Roberta is something of a contradiction, both the haughtier and more vulnerable of the two. She can be imperious in that Timesian way, but there’s a tremulous insecurity about her. Beneath a certain Midwestern patrician rigor, she’s full of self-doubt about her writing and is in constant need of encouragement, which Jerry is more than happy to provide. He’s blustery and big picture-oriented, while her insights are more delicate and intimate, blooming out of her holy communion with the work.

Jerry is a contradiction as well, a man who writes like a demon and looks like a dentist. But don’t let his fubsy aura fool you — he’s the social butterfly and loose cannon, plugged into social media (which he plays like a violin), and the audacious thoughts pour out of him. The most telling aspect of their relationship is that as writers they should be competitors, but instead they’re spiritual collaborators; they turn what could be a competition into a romance. They help each other on word choices, and even when they’re reviewing the same show, they’re really competing with themselves, with their own cultivated and highly different ideas of perfectionism.

Their relationship is built, to a large degree, around Jerry’s belief that Roberta is the superior critic — but this, for Jerry, is a form of chivalry, the flower of their love story. “Your writing is so condensed, right on the object, focused,” he says. He’s intensely supportive, but Jerry, who won the Pulitzer Prize for criticism in 2018, is arguably the greater writer (his poetic showmanship flies higher), and it’s my reading that deep down he knows it. It’s his perpetual self-deprecation and devotion that keeps the marriage balanced.

The two have no children and no apparent hobbies outside of their unrelenting obsession with art. They slip in and out of gallery openings, where they’re treated like royalty, and they attend 20 to 30 shows a week. By all rights, they should have a social calendar that rivals Andy Warhol’s in the ’70s. But here’s the joke: They adore their life together but are so devoted to their work, so monastic about it, that they never go out. Jerry calls them “happy losers” and describes their spacious apartment off Fifth Avenue in Greenwich Village as “the house that criticism built.”

In the morning, he pours deli coffee over ice into a 7-11 Big Gulp cup, and he’ll consume three of those a day. It’s fuel, as is the food he eats. When his friend Adam Platt, the New York magazine restaurant critic, asks Jerry what his favorite food is, Jerry replies: the grilled chicken at Gristede’s (a slightly downscale New York supermarket). “That’s the life of the mind!” says Platt. “You’re as happy with prison food.” He’s not kidding. I live in the same neighborhood and use Gristede’s as a convenience store, and I would never consider buying the grilled chicken there. But as Jerry explains, popping a bag of spinach into the microwave, he and Roberta are so consumed with work that they subsist on this drone food. The two barely go to restaurants (though we see them having breakfast at their favorite diner). Do they drink? If I was them, I’d need a cocktail by the end of the day, but the movie never says.

“House of Criticism,” directed by Alison Chernick, has a sketchy but rather controlled vantage. There’s a lot you don’t learn (I would have liked to see more about the politics of the New York art world), and plenty you do — like the fact that Lena Dunham is their goddaughter. Late in the movie, she comes over to visit them and provokes a penetrating exchange on the subject of why they never had kids.

People don’t often think of critics in humanistic terms, but these two invest criticism with soul, and there’s something disarming about how they were both damaged people who came together by seeing, in each other, a mirror image. She was born in New York and raised in Kansas, moving back to Manhattan in her early twenties to be part of the art scene (her mentor was the artist and critic Donald Judd). She found her way to criticism as a role in life, yet there was something metaphysically lonely about her.

It’s Jerry who comes from trauma. His mother, who committed suicide when he was 10, was erased out of his life (she was never spoken of again). He tells a haunting story about how she dropped him off for a solo visit to the Art Institute of Chicago just two weeks before her death, and it was there, on that visit, that the art lightbulb went off: He realized that every painting is a story. He wanted to be a painter, and tried (he had some talent), but thought that he lacked the proper schooling. What he really lacked was confidence. In photographs from the time, Jerry looks like he could be Richard Dreyfuss’s sad-sack brother. He wound up becoming a long-distance trucker, driving 10-wheelers full of paintings (he did this for 10 years), and he confesses that at moments he would go back into the truck and stomp on paintings and damage them. That is seriously sick behavior (his self-hatred was off the charts), and it’s amazing that he became the menschy person he did.

These two have thrived as critics by evolving. Jerry says of critics, “We have to adapt to the times, or we’re bullies and geezers.” He’s right. The film culminates in Roberta’s ultimate evolution — her decision to retire from the New York Times. The time feels right, but the question hovers: Without that job, what will her identity be? In a moving moment, she tells Jerry, “You’re my infrastructure.” “You’re mine,” he says. (That’s the critic version of “You complete me.”) And seeing each other through the prism of art is both of their infrastructure. These two are standard-bearers for the glory of a culture that once was. It’s a culture where criticism is about judging things, but more than that it’s about exploring things — experiencing things, bringing you closer to life.

Movie Reviews

Movie Review: SUPERGIRL – Assignment X

Published

19 hours ago

June 27, 2026

Press Room

By ABBIE BERNSTEIN / Staff Writer

Posted: June 26th, 2026 / 08:03 PM

Rating: PG-13
Stars: Milly Adcock, David Corenswet, Eve Ridley, Matthias Schoenaerts, Diarmaid Murtagh, Jason Momoa, David Krumholtz, Emily Beecham
Writer: Ana Nogueira, based on characters created by Jerry Siegel & Joe Shuster
Director: Craig Gillespie
Distributor: Warner Bros./DC Studios
Release Date: June 26, 2026

The new SUPERGIRL doesn’t have that “Eureka! This is how you do this now” spark that galvanized its immediate franchise predecessor, last year’s SUPERMAN. Director Craig Gillespie and screenwriter Ana Nogueira, basing the film on characters created by DC Comics’ Jerry Siegel & Joe Shuster, probably wisely, aren’t going for that.

Instead, the SUPERGIRL makers are intent on providing a lively adventure, getting to the point quickly and letting the action unspool with unquestionably strong motivation, abetted by plenty of punch-ups, kicking and frequent explosions.

Supergirl, aka Kara Zor-El (Milly Adcock), is from the now-dead planet Krypton, just like her cousin Clark/Kal-El/Superman (David Corenswet). However, where Clark has chosen to remain on Earth, where the yellow sun gives him superpowers that allow to help Earth’s residents, Kara likes to party on planets that have a red sun, where she has no unusual abilities.

This is because Kara seems to have taken to heart a dictum from a different comic book universe – with great power comes great responsibility – and decided the inverse is true: with no power comes no responsibility.

We get insight into exactly why Kara is so duty-averse over the course of SUPERGIRL, and it’s probably not a spoiler to say that she re-examines some attitudes as events unfold.

Kara plans to celebrate her twenty-third birthday on a backwater red sun planet. The bar where Kara chooses to drink is entered by preteen Ruthye Knoll (Eve Ridley), whose family has been murdered by brigands, led by the horrendous Krem (Matthias Schoenaerts). Ruthye is out for revenge. Kara thinks Ruthye is a bit young and pure-hearted to be on a murderous quest.

Even on a planet with a red sun, though, Kara is still handy with fists and feet. Ruthye sees what Kara can do and concludes she is the ideal ally. Kara absolutely refuses to help. Then something occurs that credibly rouses Kara to do whatever it takes to achieve her aims, which sort of line up with Ruthye’s.

No explanation is needed for why Kara feels such urgency, which we easily share. Her concern for Ruthye is understandable and her connecting to larger purpose is shown rather than spoken.

Intriguingly, the aesthetics of SUPERGIRL are largely those of STAR WARS, with some MAD MAX and BLADE RUNNER thrown in. The filmmakers have a good time with all sorts of utterly nonhuman alien people and figuring out how to make interplanetary versions of familiar items like vending machines.

The pace is pleasingly brisk and the structure doesn’t require much exposition. When they hit a hard-to-answer question like why Kara is Supergirl while Clark is Superman, they acknowledge it and then get out from under without irritating anybody.

For anyone wondering about the veracity of the recording from Superman’s parents that appeared in SUPERMAN, a quick line of dialogue here confirms it (sorry, Jor-El supporters).

There is the expected amount of CGI involved, including a great motion-capture performance by Kara’s dog Krypto (modeled upon executive producer/SUPERMAN director James Gunn’s dog), but a lot of the stunts and makeup appear gratifyingly practical.

Adcock is fine in all of Kara’s moods, from wasted to resistant to determined, with a delightful reaction to feeling her body’s response to the yellow sun. Ridley is an appealing young hero, and Corenswet offers wholesome support. Schoenaerts lets Krem revel in his own soft-spoken vileness, and Jason Momoa enthusiastically portrays an intergalactic bounty hunter. David Krumholtz is affecting as Kara’s scientist father.

SUPERGIRL isn’t going to redefine superhero movies, but it’s a perfectly enjoyable example of the form.

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Movie Reviews

Film review: ‘Tuner’ mixes classical music, crime, and Dustin Hoffman | The Jerusalem Post

Published

1 day ago

June 26, 2026

Press Room

Film review: ‘Tuner’ mixes classical music, crime, and Dustin Hoffman | The Jerusalem Post

Tuner, now playing in theaters throughout Israel, is an offbeat, interesting drama and crime caper, with some funny moments.

It co-stars Dustin Hoffman in a story of a young piano tuner, Niki (Leo Woodall), a former music prodigy with perfect pitch who suffers from hyperacusis, a condition that makes him extraordinarily sensitive to loud noises.

In a series of events that are a bit improbable but that seem quite credible while you’re watching, Niki discovers his finely tuned hearing gives him a great talent for safecracking, which brings him to the attention of a crime gang.

It features a clever, often surprising screenplay, co-written by its director, Daniel Roher (who won an Oscar for the documentary, Navalny) and Robert Ramsey. There are also wonderful performances from the cast, which also includes distinguished actress Tovah Feldshuh of Nobody Wants This and Fauda star Lior Raz.

DUSTIN HOFFMAN (behind) and Leo Woodall in ‘Tuner.’ (credit: Forum Films)

The characters have a nice, funny raport

When Tuner opens, Niki is working in a piano-tuning business in New York with a former musician, Harry Horowitz (Hoffman).

The beefy, laconic, young man treats the garrulous, wisecracking Harry with respect, listening patiently to all his jokes and stories about the good old days when he worked with jazz greats.

These two have a nice rapport, as Niki drives Harry all over the New York area in an old van and eats in diners with him.

Niki does the work while Harry sits on a sofa, critiquing him.

The two stick out like sore thumbs in the many mansions where they work on spectacular pianos that haven’t been played in decades, for clients who ask them if they can also repair toilets and modems.

Harry, who never made much of a living despite his talent, has fallen on hard times, and he and his wife, Marla (Feldshuh), are barely scraping by. Niki is also broke.

Recognizing what a great musician Niki is, Harry tries to cajole him into playing again, but the younger man refuses, living an isolated life and trying not to draw attention to himself.

The three incidents that set the plot in motion

Harry has forgotten the combination to his safe and needs to open it. When Niki goes on YouTube to look at a video on how to do it, he discovers that his sensitive hearing makes him a genius at safecracking.

Harry becomes ill and, due to a mess with Medicare, suddenly falls into a huge debt; and Niki meets Ruthie (Havana Rose Liu), an extremely ambitious pianist and composing student, who is astounded by his perfect pitch.

Soon, Niki’s talent for safecracking draws the attention of Uri (Lior Raz), an Israeli who runs a bogus security company, where he uses his knowledge of his client’s homes and passwords to steal what he contends are minor trinkets, but which add up to big money for his gang, much like Jon Hamm’s character in the Apple TV series, Your Friends and Neighbors.

Raz hams it up as a character who fits the stereotype of the obnoxious Israeli in the US, and lords it over his supposedly bright accomplice, Yoni (Gil Frank), and his much dimmer nephew, Benny (Nissan Sakira).

Much of the comedy in the movie comes from Uri browbeating the two, and if you can understand the Hebrew, it’s even funnier than the subtitles.

Criticisms of Tuner

Niki’s romance with Ruthie, which develops quickly, feels a little convenient at times, though the screenplay paints a realistic picture of the competitive world of high-level music students. You know, for most of the movie, that eventually Niki will reveal to her that he was once a great pianist, and when it comes, it’s something of an anti-climax.

After Hoffman’s character gets sick, he disappears from the rest of the movie except for a couple of scenes, and that’s too bad. It’s great to see Hoffman having fun as Harry, and the scenes where he and Niki banter help humanize the younger man, making him more likable and less self-centered.

Woodall is one of the most in-demand young actors. He played a hunky love interest in both Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy and the Netflix series Vladimir; he also appeared in the second season of The White Lotus.

He has a buff body and conventional leading-man good looks, and generally plays confident, happy-go-lucky guys, which means he is cast against type here.

Niki is the kind of role that might seem better suited for actors like Josh O’Connor, Jeremy Allen White, or Timothée Chalamet. Woodall has to work hard to convince us he is withdrawn and feels out of place in all the mansions where he tunes pianos, but his charm wins out, and soon, you come to accept him in the role.

Mixed music and mixed genres

The soundtrack features a mix of classical music and jazz, and it’s clear it was made by a director who appreciates both.

Tuner settles neatly into a mini-genre of movies that feature plot lines that combine piano-playing characters and crime, that include James Toback’s Fingers with Harvey Keitel, and Jacques Audiard’s remake of it, The Beat that My Heart Skipped with Romain Duris; Francois Truffaut’s Shoot the Piano Player with Charles Aznavour; and Eugenio Mira’s Grand Piano with Elijah Wood. It also recalls the spirit of Bob Rafelson’s Five Easy Pieces, which features Jack Nicholson in one of his best performances; here as a piano prodigy who has rejected his oppressive family and become an oil field worker.

Tuner shares some of the bleakness typical of 1970s films, like Fingers and Five Easy Pieces. At times, the movie moves jarringly between brooding, almost noir-like darkness and scenes with the chatty Harry or the bumbling gangsters.

It might have been a stronger film if Roher had gone in one direction instead of mixing genres, but it would likely have been less entertaining.