The end-all be-all twentysomething/mumblecore movie? Intellectual hipster screwball action masterpiece. Didn’t know Baumbach had it in him, but he takes chances here in a masterfully effortless way. His brilliance, like Whit Stillman, is that, love or hate their characters, you can laugh your ass off at them. Noah transcends that here, aiming for the gut with a machine gun and packing more into 86 minutes than lesser filmmakers dream of packing into their careers. This is his funniest and most intensely intimate work yet. Gerwig explodes effusively on repeat as Frances. She’s on another plane of consciousness. The writing and editing are seamless compliments to Gerwig’s centerpiece, combining to unleash a refreshingly overwhelming rush of a movie. Atypical musical choices and hilarious superjump-cut montages of Frances’s trips out of NYC are the cinnamon sugar and caramelized bananas on top, respectively.

Total fucking boredom. No redemption. Nothing to say. Nothing new. Nothing risky. Joke’s on you.

Anyone who employs James Franco can die and go to hell.

Harm: go back to whatever you were shootin up in ’95 ya hack hipster burnout. Or just fuck off.