The feeling came not even ten minutes in. Tom Hanks mugs for the camera, uttering single words in a passably Slavic accent. Stanley Tucci burns through dialogue in a brusquely New York fashion. Ten minutes in, and I knew – this was going to be a terrible movie.
It takes a special kind of awful to gather an incredible amount of talent for a film, and then have that film fail so spectacularly. But fail The Terminal does, and it is impossible to see at any stage how it could have been saved.