Arizona (2018)

This 85-minute, "Ten Little Indian"-style comedy-horror mash-up is basically a cameo-studded muddle that may have looked good on paper, but movie screens aren't made of paper.

Severely wasting the talents of Rosemary DeWitt, who really, really deserves better material, Arizona is as arid and barren as the state that provides its title.

Danny McBride is at his funniest and scariest in "Arizona," a darkly comic film noir that works well as both a violent thriller and as a ruthless satire of over-extended American dreamers.

Bad things happen, punchlines land hard enough to pop your eyes and Judeo-Christian principles are torn away like bark being ripped off old trees. It's a lot of fun.

A nihilist garbage fire with a fake female-empowerment bow on top.

A well-done but chilly and essentially unlovable black comedy...

The pressure was on first time director Watson to let McBride loose. It's a shame. I'm not suggesting that he couldn't carry a picture, but here McBride is terribly one-note-a lunatic with zero redeeming qualities to shape him.

Arizona is a madcap, nasty delight, directed with swift efficiency by Jonathan Watson in a directorial debut.

[The movie] wants to be a serious thriller and a demented comedy, but it never achieves a good balance between the two.

If your sense of humor is warped in just the right way, the film's sheer willingness to go to such dark places might just elicit some guilty laughs.

Death comes swiftly and often in this dim, mean-spirited comedy-thriller.

"Arizona" doesn't benefit from passes at intensity, doing just fine as a character study of unhinged types drowning in financial ruin while stuck in the middle of a town that was meant to represent paradise.