Carolina Cavalli's "The Kidnapping of Arabella" is a film about a woman who abducts a child she believes is her younger self.
The movie surprises you constantly—plot beats arrive without warning, tones shift, the premise itself sits somewhere between thriller and fable. And yet reviewers keep calling it both "quirky" and "slight," as if those words describe separate problems rather than the same one.
The film gets praised for formal unpredictability while dismissed for thematic emptiness. Nobody seems to notice these are the same accusation. A movie that surprises at every turn should be doing something with those surprises.
Instead, what's happening is this. The film uses formal chaos as cover. Tonal whiplash and plot reversals become excuses not to commit. The darkness of the premise—a woman stealing a child because of a delusion about her own past—could become genuinely unsettling, could explore how trauma fragments identity and how obsession masquerades as love. Instead it plays it as whimsy.
Reviewers have learned to mistake formal restlessness for intellectual depth. You see this now in indie cinema constantly—a film that won't commit to its own premise gets called "surprising," a character who refuses psychological consistency is described as "unpredictable." The reviewing class has developed an entire language for praising the avoidance of meaning as if it were a form of meaning itself.
It's easier to say "unexpected at every turn" than to ask why the turns don't add up to anything. It's easier to note Pine's Italian than to ask what the film is actually saying about identity, theft, or maternal obsession.
The contradiction isn't a flaw in the review. It's the flaw in how we've learned to talk about cinema when we no longer want to demand that art mean something. We praise the nervousness instead of asking what it's hiding from. And we do this in our own work too—mistaking motion for momentum, surprise for significance, the refusal to commit for a kind of intellectual honesty.