The Gold Rush collars you, plays quickly upon your emotions and leaves you in that mood where you can't laugh without a sob tearing through, or sob without a laugh bubbling up from the depths of the understanding of laugh. [17 Aug 1925, p.79]
The film slowly, slowly blossoms into an emotional wildflower by the end, leaving us with a scene that is kind of spontaneous road baptism, an unsure note of spiritual birth.
Director Stefano Sollima, who cut his teeth on Italian TV mob dramas, is good at building suspense. He fills the screen with striking images, too -- night-vision raids, heat-signature tracking, eye-in-the-sky surveillance.
Admittedly, Travolta, who produced, is sure having fun. What ham wouldn’t? Chewing on the scenery like it was a meatball hero, he swaggers around in shiny suits and silver wigs, barking orders.
The special effects remain startling, and in your face. But there's nothing new here, and what's old feels like less. The corporate villains seem to have wandered over from "Rampage." The humor has vanished.
Both charmingly retro (dig that swingin’ score!) and confidently modern (girls run the world!) it’s a hip heist movie with a few laughs and some lovely fun.
