Plot so thin, it passes unnoticed.

Overrated and overhyped

It is interesting even when nothing much happens, which is for most of its 3-hour running time. Read full review

A film of deceptively outspoken contemporary relevance, this is cinema at its most alert, alarming and alive.

A diverse look at a niche I didn't know was so cool! Looks at so many unknown aspects of how the typewriter manifests itself in the current world, from collections, to repair shops to making music from them. This documentary is not just about the typewriter but about people and progress in a technological age.

As with every other pop culture investigation of the 'typewriter renaissance', this documentary focuses almost entirely on vapid artists and obsessive collectors pontificating on their irrelevant emotional connections to typewriters, and of course the cliche of the incredibly skilled typewriter technician on the verge of unemployment. A comprehensive discussion of the machines themselves would make for a far more useful production, but instead they go for the same old wistful, depressing tone I've come to expect from technically inept documentarians trying to discuss historical technical subjects. They don't really understand the subject matter, so they film the only thing they know: feelings. Any self-respecting typewriter collector will spend two hours pointing at the screen saying things like "I have two of those" and "I have that one but mine's green instead of red", but that's about the extent of the enjoyment. The star of the show should be the typewriters, but they are secondary to pointless musings and a sense of loss.One final note of caution: the 'band' that plays 'music' on typewriters is pure cringe-worthy torture on every level. They alone are reasonable justification to avoid watching this film.

I watched this movie because it had a high rating and Tom Hanks. This was a waist of time! I'm no expert, but unless you have a love for typewriters, skip this movie! BORING!!!

Ideas are not birthed, they are captured. Elusive and fickle, thought frolics like a kid straight out of school. Machines did not equip us with ideas; they merely help us capture them. Spear them down with safety pins, a grotesque abdomen of exposed entrails. Our thought is repulsive but honest, instinctive and pure.The typewriter is the remaining bastion of expression hunting. Not reliant on electricity, the mechanical cornucopia smashes its appendages on a miniature canvas, splattering emotion in precise linear shapes. The machine asks no questions and is supremely subservient to its owner.Documenting ideas has become more efficient as technology trudges into the electronic age. The typewriter challenges efficiency by introducing an element of savoring. The process tactile and the sensation tangible, keys clatter with purpose. There are no aids, only obedient marks summoned by an uncensored consciousness.Those bathed in admiration of the typewriter prefer a partner in their creation, and not a lifeless red squiggle or an absolute backspace bar. Mistakes are reduced to creative quirks and ink elevated to spilled blood. A dialogue forms between person and machine, and incubation of meaning initiates.Obsession always has noble causes. To outsiders a person's passion might seem overtly sensual or nonsensical, but admiration's roots grow deep in sentimental soil. Faced with a chaotic existence, a focal point for creativity provides a saving grace for those manic and compulsive. Being particular is becoming less praised in a multitasking world. Satisfaction slowly aligns with speed. A hollow qualification of accomplishment, completion overrides process. The typewriter stands stoically in the stream of this devolution. The journey is the creation, and the creation is the sum of one's creative missteps. Concrete are the symbols of this machine's language: Romantic and dying.