Oppenheimer

While Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer is undoubtedly ambitious in scope and stylistic choices, its acclaim may overshadow some significant shortcomings. The film, while visually impressive and bolstered by strong performances, often becomes so enamored with its own gravity that it neglects emotional accessibility. For many viewers, the relentless intensity and timeline-hopping editing style dilute the human element of J. Robert Oppenheimer’s inner conflict.

The pacing is another common critique. The film moves briskly in some parts and drags in others, especially during the extended post-bomb political fallout sequences. For a movie marketed as a biopic of the man behind the atomic bomb, a surprising portion of the narrative becomes bogged down in courtroom drama and bureaucratic maneuvering, which may lose viewers expecting a more tightly focused story.

Additionally, Oppenheimer leans heavily on Nolan’s reputation rather than making its case through universal appeal. It assumes a certain reverence for the historical subject matter and intellectual themes, which can come off as elitist or exclusionary. For all its prestige, it arguably doesn’t leave a lasting emotional mark or break new ground in the biopic genre — it just presents its content with maximal volume and gravity.

Titanic

Titanic is often hailed as a masterpiece of romance and spectacle, but strip away the lavish production and you’re left with a fairly conventional love story. The central romance between Jack and Rose is undeniably iconic, yet it hinges on a formulaic dynamic: a poor but charming man and a rich but trapped woman. Their relationship, though passionate, unfolds with little nuance or complexity, relying heavily on cliché tropes.

Furthermore, the film’s length and melodrama can make it feel bloated. The dialogue is frequently overwrought, and the characters often fall into archetypal roles rather than developing into fully realized individuals. The final act, while technically impressive, relies on spectacle to create emotional payoff, rather than deeper character development or thematic resolution.

Perhaps most critically, Titanic’s historical framing is both its strength and its weakness. The real human tragedy of the Titanic disaster becomes secondary to the fictional romance. James Cameron’s film trades the opportunity to explore a broader range of human experiences aboard the ship for a love story that, while moving to many, overshadows the diverse realities of one of history’s most infamous tragedies.

Get Out

Jordan Peele’s Get Out is often praised for blending social commentary with horror, but its acclaim may inflate its true merit. While it tackles themes of race and liberal performativity in an original way, the execution feels more like a high-concept sketch extended to feature length. Once the twist is revealed, the narrative becomes more about shock and survival than nuance, leaving its commentary feeling shallow or overly simplified.

Stylistically, the film borrows heavily from classic horror and psychological thrillers, which some viewers see as homage and others as derivative. For all the talk about originality, Get Out doesn’t fully transcend its genre influences. Its use of horror conventions — like the “sunken place” or hypnosis — risks reducing serious issues to mere gimmicks for tension, diluting the deeper message it wants to convey.

Moreover, the critical reception and cultural conversation around the film sometimes outpace its actual content. It’s become a kind of cultural artifact — praised not just for what it is, but for what it represents. This pedestal can make any genuine critique feel taboo, yet it’s fair to argue that Get Out is more memorable for its social significance than its actual storytelling depth or cinematic innovation.