It took me two watches and the entire seven hours to begin to unpack Brady Corbet’s sprawling epic and its hard to say I’ve drawn any strict conclusions, but it’s awe-inspiring to witness something that’s delivered with such artistic muscularity and personal intimacy at the same time. With such a vast narrative, the entire pre-intermission runtime functions as a first act leaving you buzzing with its potential trajectories. There’s an undeniable electricity that hums along as creative identity, immigration tribulations, and perverse financial intentions collide in a manifestation of the rotting core at the center of the American dream. Brody is inevitable, Pearce is goofy yet magnetic, but Felicity Jones is the aching heartbeat that grounds the intimate devastation behind the imposing scope. Even at its extensive runtime, the finale still feels a bit rushed and leaves a few threads still too vague, but it’s a monster of a project with a clear identity that hasn’t been witnessed since possibly There Will Be Blood. A definitive touchpoint in American filmmaking that leaves you cold and detached at a wildly cynical time in history.