Call me downturned crabby, but I can’t bear 90% of the current spate of British costumers. Restless leg syndrome began tapping out an SOS just moments after the condescendingly- captioned photoplay credits hit the screen. Pictures of fancied up actors reciting Jane Austen’s prose, lit by a team of Allied Vans, and set to the beat of Whit Stillman’s snarky metronome made for the longest 92 minutes of the year. Though shot in Dublin and directed by a Yank, the film somehow managed to renew in me a desire to dig Francois Truffaut out of the grave and give the critic-turned-New-Wave-architect a big French kiss for having once arrived at the perspicacious conclusion, “British cinema is an oxymoron.” Yes, there’s plenty of good acting at its finest to go around, but please don’t gush on about “beautiful cinematography” when the reverse angle lighting doesn’t match during intimate two-character dialog scenes. Give this one four D’s for being dry, droll, dreary and drained of romance. You’re gonna love it! (2016) — Scott Marks
This movie is not currently in theaters.