Critic Reviews

In its wonderfully irreverent way, Wrong makes it clear that this reality is never to be trusted as anything more than a succession of strange moments that coalesce into an abstract representation of the subjectivity that traps us all. This is the essence of new film noir, which challenges our perceptions through a series of compellingly ambiguous moments.

As this wry, dry and glittering near-masterpiece proclaims, life is full of wrongness, but also full of mystery and wonder.

Wrong is more absurd and more laugh-out-loud silly than “Rubber;” it’s also less focused and more pointless.

Wrong never feels dangerous or truly challenging, content generally to amuse rather than amaze.

Truth be told, Wrong isn’t as funny as "Rubber," which played kamikaze games with horror-movie tropes. The tone here is flatter and more meandering, and more than a few of Dupieux’s digressions feel like dead ends. At the same time, there’s a winning confidence to the filmmaking, which is deceptively stylish.

If the premise isn't as attention-grabbing as Rubber's was, the execution should help build the filmmaker's following.

The film's heady buzz is invigorating, and there are substantial pleasures—and laughs—to be found in all its real-life-just-gone-sour strangeness.

It’s a Dada daydream of a movie, but no one who sits through it can complain that they weren’t warned up front.

The movie is flimsy, glib, and occasionally pretty funny.

Fichtner is always good; just trying to sort out his accent here is kind of fun. Plotnick is the key, however. He plays it straight, even as the world around him grows weirder by the minute. Often he seems confused by the proceedings, which is fitting: Join the club, pal. But we’re having a better time of it than he is.