I once wrote a fan letter to Anthony Lane — he who writes film criticism for the New Yorker. Here, from his July 8 and 15 New Yorker review of the film “The Way, Way Back,” is why:
Whether the filmmakers have the courage of their own melancholy, this time round, I’m not sure. We see the water park on a rainy day, as redundant as a sun bed in a desert, but not for long enough; we really need the camera to linger there awhile and let the pathos soak in. Another problem comes with the territory; if I’m going to see young people near a beach, on a public holiday, anywhere on the coastline from Martha’s Vineyard to Plymouth and beyond, I demand that at least one of them should be eaten by a great white shark. I’m sorry, but that’s the law. If their thighbones are still connected to their hip bones by the end of the film, I want my money back.