The Counselor

Gauche in The Counselor: Bardem’s hair, the advertising interiors, Cameron Diaz styled into a black hole of charm, Brad Pitt looking back and forth while the music insists on petty melodrama. There’s a cocaine enthusiasm to the collection of talents, who are all metatextual failures. After enough viewings, the awkwardness starts to belong to the taste.

The Counselor is buying a diamond and entering a drug deal, his prospective gain a definite amount while his exposure extends through his fiancée. A white American participating in cartel wealth. Eventually the drugs return to cartel hands, and this repairs little.

Around the sewage truck, weapons, distances and vehicles produce short actions with permanent consequences. INSTADEATH: oh, this thing behaves according to rules, and I just fucked that up. There is no undo, and the understanding keeps coming as if it wasn't deserved. 

Melodramatic comedy fuzzes the metaphysics's nobility. The "car fucking" is the triumph of the film.  A mother wakes clutching her heart because the son has died; people live overt cliché. 

It reads as bad filmmaking. Humans approach irreversible consequence through embarrassing material culture and awkward behavior, without acquiring the dignity of the philosophical system they inhabit. Folly is gauche.