The Little Things, which puts a heavy, weary-looking Denzel Washington on the trail of a serial murderer in sunny California, is the kind of medium-sized star vehicle that I’ve missed seeing since the pandemic changed moviegoing for the worse. You can still get plenty of intimate, artsy dramas beamed to your laptop and TV; you can’t get as many of the superhero spectaculars, but then again I don’t miss them very much. But the midcult commercial movie with a workhorse plot and a bunch of big-name stars doing their old familiar things was growing rarer even before the pandemic, and …
This article appears as “Detective Denzel” in the February 22, 2021, print edition of National Review.
Something to Consider
If you enjoyed this article, we have a proposition for you: Join NRPLUS. Members get all of our content (including the magazine), no paywalls or content meters, an advertising-minimal experience, and unique access to our writers and editors (through conference calls, social media groups, and more). And importantly, NRPLUS members help keep NR going.