Despite Mr. Radcliffe's all-too-obvious dedication (his increasingly emaciated body, astonishingly, was not digitally enhanced), he can't rescue a screenplay (by Justin Monjo) that cares more about the condition of his flesh than the contents of his head.
... feels more like a sequence of box-ticking perils than a genuine survival story, and the female characters (sexy traveller, sexy indigenous woman) are painfully two-dimensional.
This is a survival thriller without much in the way of you-know-what, and seems destined to land in the Amazonian bog into which films that satisfy neither grindhouse nor art house are sucked.
Despite the considerable physicality of the movie, with its impressive cinematography and Radcliffe's believable, all-in disintegration, it's more earthbound slog than psychological deep-dive.
