"You won't let me in," [Florence] mutters under her breath, obviously in response to the other drivers around her but also with some foreboding: her impending relationship with a stunted, self-loathing older man will leave her feeling similarly shut out.[…]
There is something about Ms. Gerwig that seems to bring out a lot of (male) critics’ inner Greenbergs. Her blank, moony performance style has made her the Annie Hall of the mumblecore set, and, accordingly, a lightning rod for all manner of critical cruelty.
— Adam Nayman (Reverse Shot)