Critics reviews

For all the intrigue of multiple traitors working to undermine Marc, Capital never adopts the more paranoid, constricting language of the dramatic thriller that it otherwise is, instead falling back on an arthouse-friendly de-genrefied grammar of shot/reverse shots filmed in cold, lifeless palettes.

Plotted like an airport-bookstore novel, the movie jets between boardrooms, fancy restaurants, and mansions. Characters are continually arriving at their offices, getting in and out of limos, and talking to each other using webcams hooked up to big-screen TVs. The imagery is cliché, and therefore ineffective; the characters don't seem to operate in the world of finance, but in the world of financial thrillers.

...The declarations served up by these shots are unmissable, but the casualness of Costa-Gavras's approach creates a jittery and alarming delay in the mind. Watching these gimmicks outrun their corollary indignations poses the question: If you must leave Capital disgusted, is it better to get there via comedy or outrage?

Director and co-writer Costa-Gavras, whose political bona fides stretch all the way back to 1969's Best Picture nominee Z, isn't beating around the bush here, and while the film is persuasive and detailed in its depiction of financial corruption, it's also essentially a two-hour lecture, dry and academic.

Things go slack when the screws should tighten, and Capital ends up being neither a high-stakes thriller nor a cutting commentary on real-world bad behavior. It's just CEO exotica, all dressed up with nowhere to go.

Capital is a parable about France selling out to keep up with America's "cowboy capitalism," but the film's portrayal of soulless suits is so obvious and silly—typical dialogue: "CEOs write checks, fire people, and eat well; watch your waistline"—that it's hard to muster more than a yawn and a giggle... Little feels fresh, from the generically pulsing score to the chilly grays of Eric Gautier's cinematography to the long-suffering wife character.