You can either read Justin Chang's review of Megalopolis in The New Yorker - chockablock with praise along the lines of "a laborious but lively enough contraption," "a declamatory epic... with baldly allegorical intent" - or ask him to blink once for yes and twice for no.
"Justin, should I, as a normal person, see Francis Ford Coppola's new flick?"
Blink, blink.
You could be forgiven for thinking Chang liked Megalopolis. After all, it's the product of "one of the great dreamers in American cinema." If its "debaucherous sprawl" isn't enough for you, you have to grant it exists amid "sustainingly poignant pleasures," while the entire work "comes to us as an astounding repository of the past." How about that!
There's plenty more where that came from, and I suppose there may be several dozen people in the United States who would conclude from the verbiage that Megalopolis is the shit. But the average Joe, if he can wade through it, might decide the left-handed compliments, the ponderous description of the ponderous story, and the vague allowances given to Coppola for his excess and ambition, may not be enough to rip him from Netflix.*
Here's guessing Chang is conscious of all of this and, taking him at his word that he liked Megalopolis personally, has written a bad review for the rest of us in code. Almost no one wants to see something that's "laborious," no matter how "lively" it may be, but Chang can't bring himself to say so outright because he respects Coppola, who has spent 50 years producing great flicks, even if their greatness hasn't always been apparent upon initial release.
I hope Megalopolis is one of those misunderstood masterpieces. I'm just not sure Justin Chang thinks it really is.
*Not that Chang's prose is entirely vague. He gives a list of items that fall under the rubric of "everything" - people, cars, clouds - and if anyone's hazy about what a cloud is, he assures us that they are those things "in the sky."
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