Damon’s nicely understated performance is Hereafter’s only strength, otherwise it’s just a load of sentimental hogwash.
Slow, ponderous and as shallow as it thinks it is deep, lifted only by an impressive opening and fine work from Damon and Howard.
It takes ages for writer Peter Morgan (The Queen, Frost/Nixon) to braid the strands of the story together, which is unfortunate because his plotting is so schematic that even without a oujia board the audience can predict the characters' destinies.
The start of each story promises so much. Yet the more often we ask "yes, and then?", the less often Morgan and Eastwood stump up a convincing answer.
The problem is not so much Eastwood's ponderous direction as Morgan's script, written, he says, shortly after the sudden death of a close friend. It is sincere, well-meaning and, I'm sorry to say, quite transparent hokum.
A fate only slightly preferable to death.
It's one to forget for all concerned.
So bland it is instantly forgettable.
With a screenplay by Peter Morgan (The Queen), Eastwood directing and Spielberg producing, Hereafter promises much but delivers disappointingly little.
I wouldn’t quite call Hereafter a near-death experience, but it’s a terribly close brush with total shambles.
It's astonishingly poor stuff, a work of staggering complacency, soundtracked - you'll be pleased to know - by another of Eastwood's retirement-home-friendly jazz scores.
Despite stand-out moments both epic and intimate, Clint’s latest is a film about death that’s likely to put many audiences to sleep.
There's actually a third of a decent film in this glossy vacancy, with Matt Damon.
Scripted by Peter Morgan in a manner that is marshmallow to the hard treacle toffee of his Frost/Nixon, this is a consoling, romantic, inspirational movie in the mid-1940s manner of Portrait of Jennie and A Guy Named Joe.
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General release. Check local listings for show times.