Critics reviews

As the film’s title would suggest, Velvet Buzzsaw isn’t especially cutting – or devilish – as a satire. The art world is already quite good at satirising itself.

I’m just going to come right out and say it: Gilroy’s third feature has the basic shape of a Scooby-Doo episode. And even if the mashup of self-consciously pretentious drama with bargain-basement scare tactics is the point of the enterprise—hybridizing genres for kicks, or more cerebrally, to point out their basic incompatibility—the results are, at best, self-defeatingly clever. At worst, they’re just boring.

The film exudes a slick, seen-it-all glibness that’s typical of self-pleased deconstructions of Los Angeles.

The majority of Velvet Buzzsaw is fraudulent and tin-eared, not least because the script encourages the kind of bitchiness—not unlike that of Yorgos Lanthimos’sThe Favourite—that feels like an approximation of wit, rather than the real thing

Gilroy’s pacing is adept, and the movie creates a what-will-happen-next tension, even as he continues to lather bile on his target.

The film, whether viewed at a mountain ski resort or on Netflix (coming this Friday), feels like a glamorous corporate event that should be fun but isn’t. All the party favors are there, but these never gel into a sense of vivacity. It doesn't have a mood of its own—it's just got an auctioneer's flashy upsell.

Gilroy’s aptness for piercingly witty dialogue and morbid humor lace every one of the exchanges among these rabid purveyors and tastemakers.