It’s like Emerald Fennell fucked a Tenenbaums-era Wes Anderson, and their baby directed this.

The takeaway seems to be: never trust anyone who still listens The Chemical Brothers in 2026.

The parts about rocks are nice. But 20-plus minutes of Michele De Lucchi blabbering about how we should all live closer to the earth while strolling around his 16th-century estate, paid for by designing office lamps and Deutsche Bank buildings, makes you want to join a left-wing militant group.

It’s uncanny how every shot here has Cuarón’s fingerprints all over it, but they comprise something so banal it hurts. Is Apple TV holding his family hostage or what?