Decades and hairstyles whiz across the screen in this restless
biography of former drug trafficker George Jung, but it's never made
clear why he might be worthy of our time. Depp, blankly inhabiting a
blank, isn't bothered, and Demme is so busy fiddling with his
sub-Scorsese narrative framework that he forgets to put anything
inside. It's bookended by relationships with Potente, short-lived
but alluring, and Cruz, who scarcely merits her second billing for a few
scenes as a screeching harridan. Old hat, and empty with it – there's no
rush to the recreation, and no lessons about the trade that Traffic
hasn’t already taught us.
