You may not wish to kiss the ground when you finally leave the cinema, but I did: The Goldfinch reviewed

The Goldfinch is an adaptation of the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel by Donna Tartt that centres on a great work of art, unlike this film, which isn’t. A great work of art, that is. This is more a flat, forgettable, colour-by-numbers job, plus it is long (150 minutes, for the love of God) and drags so listlessly it seems even longer. It’s a film with nothing to say, and boy does it take its time not saying it.

This had all its ducks in a row, credentials-wise. The director is John Crowley (Brooklyn), the screenplay is by Peter Straughan (Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy) and the cinematographer is Roger Deakins, who could make your colonoscopy look beautiful, for heaven’s sake. But I suppose you just never know (it can work the other way: Casablanca and Singin’ in the Rain, for example, came off their respective film studios’ conveyor belts and were never intended to be marvellous.