The reviews split down the middle, and the disagreement is about temperature rather than craft. Almost everyone credits Soderbergh’s control, the dislocated editing and photography, and the performances of Clooney and McElhone; several also single out Cliff Martinez’s melancholy score for setting the mood. The quarrel is over what that mood adds up to. The admirers, led by Time Out and The AV Club, find a tender, philosophically serious film that in their view improves on Tarkovsky’s version, and The Guardian agrees it stands on its own. The doubters find the same picture cold, hermetically sealed and short of emotional heft, with Screen Daily and the Los Angeles Times both saying the central relationship never becomes personally involving. Slant goes further and calls the psychology facile and pretentious, while Eye for Film complains of no chemistry between the leads. The spread is wide, with few sitting in the middle; most critics either warm to its restraint or freeze in it.
Soderbergh directs a large-scale studio project with unusual intimacy and restraint, translating Lem's book into a tender, quietly emotional experience with strong philosophical underpinnings. The film comments brilliantly on the slippery nature of memory.
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