Critic Reviews

It is fun, though, 
 to see the younger Hanks play a murderer - it's like seeing Justin Bieber work blue.

The film is awkward, the situations tenuous and underdeveloped, the pacing torturous as a slow drip from a leaking faucet, and the narrative just plods along, with the body count rising for no clear reason.

Pitching uncertainly between cute and creepy, engaging and weird, this farcical story draws energy from a wickedly eccentric Ann-Margret, having a high old time as Ben's doting mother.

Alas, the complications don't arrive nearly quickly enough for the overlong and slow-paced Lucky to really cook.

It gets bogged down in slo-mo indie quirk when it should be faster, more in our face.

Lucky has its moments, but even with good, sometimes exceptional performances, its criminally vile characters are never likable enough to make you laugh at (or forgive) their wickedness.

The film is a collection of consciously quirky indie tropes in place of any meaningful narrative, and you can practically see the notebook the filmmakers may have written in during a brainstorming session in a college screenwriting seminar.

Graynor is a muddle of kooky indie girlfriend and materialistic fortune hunter; Hanks has neither threat nor pathos at his command.

Nothing is bleaker than failed black comedy, which this is.