Alex Saveliev

It Snows All the Time resembles a prolonged PSA with all the production values and depth of an infomercial.

We Are Living Things unravels gradually, methodically. It could’ve used a bit more tension and slightly higher stakes, for the silences in-between its words aren’t as weighty as the filmmakers seem to have intended. Yet it’s refreshing to see a love story rooted in reality, despite the sci-fi undertones.

At 90 or so minutes, Prey is a lean, mean machine without an ounce of fat on its muscular body. It’s a reminder that this land was populated long before we, the original predators, overtook it, a subtle treatise of “man as predator,” but mostly, a vicious, wildly entertaining flick that’s bound to become the new classic in the series.

Everything is immersed in murky browns and washed-out grays; the film is so devoid of color that it’s almost black-and-white. The by-the-numbers script by Matthew Rogers careens along, every so-called twist and turn predictable. No flair or creativity seems to have been applied to any of it.

So suspend your disbelief, get a little intoxicated if you’re of age (if that’s your thing), and you’ll most certainly enjoy this wildly entertaining piece of trash.

Resembling a gradual immersion into a fever dream, the film slyly pays tribute to surrealist greats like Alejandro Jodorowsky and Dario Argento (“presented by” the latter director, it wears the tag proudly), yet also introduces a unique new talent with a fresh, distinct vision.

American Carnage has its eye on the right target; it just misses the bull’s eye.

An inkling of an inventive concept lurks somewhere deep within the murk. Unfortunately, you'll be hard-pressed to spot it amidst all the meandering diversions, prepubescent humor, imbecilic dialogue, and curious casting choices.

Louis C.K. should’ve applied sandpaper to the movie’s rougher edges; he should’ve adopted the jazzy, purposefully meandering, “anything goes” vibe of his previous outings. The comedic drama starts off like that, then collapses in its last third in a heap of sentimental mush.

Sometimes whimsical, at others quaint, flirting with darkness but brimming with childlike naivety, the plot provides a hell of a tonal whiplash, never finding its rhythm.

Lost Illusions is certainly nothing we haven’t seen before, at least narratively. But it’s done very well. Sometimes, you just feel like having a good ol’ soufflé.

Fortune Favors Lady Nikuko explores what it’s like to be in the shadow of your parent, the lessons imparted by our elders, the value of a support system among women, the power of literature, the appreciation of food (frequently referred to as “yummy”), and the importance of staying true to yourself. Eat that, Pixar.

The filmmaker confidently guides us to a conclusion that really isn’t a conclusion at all but a new beginning. These men may not be all that wild, but Daneskov’s film is just loopy and daring enough to qualify as such in the best way possible.

The filmmaker’s careful modulation of tone and rhythm, how gradually he reveals mysteries, and the mere fact that this is a dialogue/character-driven horror tale make it hard to believe that this is O’Brien’s feature-length debut.

Preposterous but entertaining, Jurassic World: Dominion not only finds new ways to inspire the awe and wonder sorely lacking from previous installments, but it also recaptures some of that Spielberg magic.

The Hensman brothers’ The Prey: Legend of Karnoctus is really not that different from Crawl, whose CGI crocs were just a smidge more realistic than the concealed-in-shadows puppet here. Now I’d love to put my “critic hat” back on and review a movie by the same filmmakers that doesn’t contain an oversized rat.

Alas, instead of a scathing critique of racial injustice, a revamping of the “man seeks revenge after his family is murdered/kidnapped” trope, the director delivers gratuitously violent, vulgar, clichéd, jaw-droppingly sexist, and racist cinematic bile.

Garland is a master at ratcheting tension to an almost unbearable degree, and he flexes that muscle hard in Men. The way he gradually presses the acceleration pedal, allowing the narrative to gather momentum until it almost implodes in its final third, is really quite remarkable.

The film teeters on a fine line between soulful triumph and B-movie cheese.

Yes, it’s that kind of movie: ludicrous but seemingly unaware of its own pretensions, never quite so-bad-it’s-good, but rarely good enough to rise above bad. The filmmaker seems confident that he’s assembled an “elevated horror,” minimalist masterpiece. Unfortunately, the result is just minimal.

A bit too somber and detached for its own good, Human Factors nevertheless marks another strong entry from a filmmaker who – after several shorts, a documentary, and one other feature – is just getting started.

I Love America doesn’t delve too deeply, or at all, into things like the American dream, the implications of aging in contemporary society, cultural/generational differences, or the lasting marks one’s parents leave on their offspring. As it stands, the film is a cute little love letter to the City of Angels, bound to evaporate from your mind sooner than a meal at the In-N-Out.

A warm heart beats subliminally throughout the narrative, a tinge of hope that may be gasping for air but remains vibrant, especially when juxtaposed against the disheveled, rotten backdrop.

Viewed as an epic fantasy, Imakake’s basked-in-golden-hues fever dream of a film is inspired and highly artistic, if overly complex and at times kind of ridiculous. Viewed as an endorsement of a cult, The Laws of the Universe: The Age of Elohim is more than a little creepy and didactic. Any way you view it, it’s pretty damn fascinating.

Does it lose focus from time to time? Sure, and its cumulative effect suffers because of it, but Drljača nails the little moments that matter.

"To elevate, to celebrate, to inspire,” another character states about the function of art. Rana and Warin’s film may not be perfect, but it does all three of those things rather effectively.

Islands is as effective, familiar, and quiet as a microwave.

Its ambition cannot be faulted, but I’ll Find You gets lost in its own nostalgia, ultimately drowning in mush.

Luckily, the story of Waterman is so riveting and the hero so charming that it’s hard not to grow nostalgic along with the filmmaker.

Nightride promises to take you on a ride, which it does; a bumpy one, filled with detours and ennui-inducing stretches.

The plot lurches from one awkwardly-staged, heavy-handed, poorly-lit, bathed in eye-scorching soft-focus sequence to another with little regard for tonal shifts or narrative fluidity.

Yang seems to have embarked on his own writer’s odyssey, going for broke, with a substantial studio budget to help visualize his dreams. There’s no doubting the creativity he displays in A Writer’s Odyssey; he could, however, work on coherence and restraint.

The Shepherdess and the Seven Songs contains many such moments of scintillating, mysterious splendor yet doesn’t entirely fulfill its lofty ambitions.

Gripping and mercifully short, it doesn’t quite achieve the status of cinematic gold. Perhaps it’s for the best, or Hayes may have fallen prey to his ambitions.

When morals and ethics become muddled, when right becomes indistinguishable from wrong, when there is nowhere to run, and the world closes in on you, what options do you have left? Though Abu-Assad’s equally muddled Huda’s Salon poses more questions than answers, they are compelling enough to warrant a recommendation.

Gerbase studies how loneliness brings out the worst, and sometimes the best, in us. She examines how some of us are more adaptable than others; how we are the products of our environment, creatures of habit. The film can also be viewed as a parable about autocracy, ruthlessly dissecting the abide-or-die mentality. Whatever you take from it, the drama is bound to hover over you for days.

The Fam sensitively deals with a tough subject and serves as a striking introduction to a roster of formidable talent. It certainly feels like the cast and crew have become a true family during the shoot.

The individual sequences, along with the confidence with which the two lead actors navigate the sometimes-turbulent currents, elevate the film into the realm of art. After all, sometimes it’s okay for the whole to be less than the sum of its parts.

Coupled with a few inspired moments and an earnestness that’s hard to dismiss, the film manages, just barely, to stand out from the rest.

Fabian: Going to the Dogs is poetic, ugly, romantic, tragic, and side-splitting. Some sequences approach the edge of sanity, take a glimpse into the abyss, then the plot reassembles itself – but the threat of derailing remains, and it’s quite exhilarating.

With A Taste of Hunger, it is clear that Boe loves food. The film celebrates the culinary arts, as the cinematography lovingly displays exquisite dishes that please the eye as much as the taste buds. He studies how light and sound may affect taste. His approach to gastronomy is as meticulous as the dishes his protagonist prepares.

With the keen eye of a seasoned documentarian, the filmmaker captures all the depression, anxiety, boredom, love, loathing, and insecurity of seemingly apathetic teens, her gaze never mocking or judging.

It never attains the balance between gloomy allegory and Disney-like adventure, the former element too challenging for the wee ones, and the latter too infantile for their parents.

Like its Russian hero, it aims for the stars and at times reaches exhilarating moments of weightlessness.

Jared Leto's performance as Maurizio’s cousin, Paolo Gucci, is so over-the-top that it bursts right through the top and swallows up the film whole. Unrecognizable under layers of make-up, speaking in high-pitched, heavily-accented intonations, he’s a live-wire but also a caricature that borders on nasty stereotyping. He out-gagas Gaga (who’s at least partially of Italian ancestry), which is no small feat.

Cruz effortlessly holds the screen in a tricky performance: phlegmatic and ambivalent, radiating charisma and sophistication, making you feel for her despite some morally dubious acts.

This is one intensely-flavored meal that begs to be swallowed in a single bite. Compliments to the chef.

With unprecedented access to overfilled, frenzied hospital rooms, as well as quarantined homes, Heineman makes one cringe at every prolonged beep of the vitals monitor, delves right into the patients’ eyes, their very souls. He imbues the documentary with the same sense of urgency and empathy that were evident in his previous docs Cartel Land and City of Ghosts. A tough watch but a necessary one, The First Wave marks the finest cinematic account of the COVID-19 pandemic yet.

Hit the Road is a gut-punch of a film, strikingly gorgeous, as tender as a mother’s touch, as uncompromising as an aggrieved father. Panahi is acutely, painfully aware of the infinite nuances of family, how humans interact, and how to slow down the pace for things to sink in, or simply take a breather, or even sing a song. It’s the best film I’ve seen this year.

The true-to-life repartee between the leads – at times tender, at others snappy, one minute heated, brutally cold the next – is a joy to behold.

Almost every scene impresses, has something to say. How refreshing is that? It’s been a while since a major studio production entertained and enlightened to such a degree, with nary a wrong step, for over two hours. If you can stomach the violence, you’re in for a hell of a ride. Here’s to the Western revival. I’m all about Jeymes Samuel leading this gang.

Bolstered by two formidable leads, the film is bound to resonate with anyone who has tried to make a fresh start, rediscover themselves, but also maintain a grasp on the past that keeps slipping away.

The exposition-heavy, cluttered finale, wherein the plethora of thematic elements collide and threaten to implode, almost undoes the painstakingly built-up sense of melancholy/paranoia. Yet it’s refreshing to see a wide release aspire to be something more than just another creature feature, slasher, or zombie gore-fest. Antlers has something to say. It should’ve just spoken less, and more eloquently.

Mailer’s glossy film contains all the expected melodrama that hardcore fans of sports movies have come to expect. Others may wince at the predictability of the plot but are bound to find at least some respite in Shannon’s magnetic performance.

Boasting a formidable cast and a keen eye for detail, Killing Eleanor makes it easy to forgive its flaws. Marks deserves major props for making an old story seem fresh again. Here's hoping her next tale won't be so old.

The director speaks to the beauty and longevity of cinema and the power and resilience of our past. But it's that interplay between sound and sight that proves the most penetrating. No talking head, or eloquent analysis, could be as powerful as that uncanny synthesis.

By turns horrific and hilarious, touching and repulsive, it showcases West Africa as an emerging force in contemporary cinema.

Ben Whishaw’s raw central performance keeps one glued to the screen, but the cold and distancing result doesn’t quite do it justice. Shame, as Karia, displays a knack for building tension and maintaining an almost nauseatingly melancholic atmosphere. If only he dug a little deeper.

With a little more filmmaking flair, or drive, or a fresh perspective, East of the Mountains could’ve been a real gem. Instead, it’s a decent little character study about a man facing death, worth a look for the magnificent central performance alone.

Eastwood is a formidable filmmaker, a force of nature, whose films like Mystic River will forever remain in the pantheon of Great Cinema. Alas, Cry Macho may likewise be forever regarded as a perplexing glimpse at a different side of the man, one who's created this macho persona and who now attempts to absolve himself, to only – pardon my crude use of the idiom – dig his own grave.

The Mad Women’s Ball avoids caricature or stereotype, though the grounds it walks may seem somewhat familiar. Laurent treads them with skill and passion, immersing us into a period wildly different and dishearteningly similar to ours.

Wan has style to spare, his direction brimming with confidence and his by-now-familiar trademarks.

Kai Luke Brummer is a revelation in the central role, his introverted performance buoying the plot with nuance and charisma. We navigate through the horrors right alongside him, and we root for him, and in the end, despite a striking and sad realization, we gaze at the ocean and wonder if there’s hope for humanity yet.

You may think you know what to expect from Nebbou’s gem, but as it unfolds, the tragic, hilarious, deeply cynical, and oddly uplifting film proves to be as multidimensional and expectations-defying as its formidable protagonist.

It’s a thrilling, poignant accomplishment, as uncompromisingly bleak as it is epic in scope.

Clearly a deeply personal project for the director, it radiates utmost sincerity, rendering the more baroque parts palatable, if not as affecting as they were clearly intended to be. Within 90 despondent minutes, Dante encapsulates a plethora of themes and ideas, and that by itself merits plaudits.

Spare and laconic almost to a fault, the film nevertheless haunts with its indelible imagery and enigmatic vibes.

he feature’s laid-back, lo-fi, semi-improvised approach and brevity ensure that it never lags. Although never quite reaching revelatory status, Leonard, a keen observer of the human condition, pieces together scenes that are bound to strike a resonant chord – especially with expecting couples.

The result is tonally-uneven and predictable, down to its lame stabs at exploring xenophobia.

At first glance, the feature, which Johnson co-wrote and co-produced, may seem like yet another granola indie about a middle-aged man reassessing his life. And it is. But there’s magic to it.

Never Gonna Snow Again says so much with so little: how thinly shielded these people are from the encroaching doom, how said doom is brought about by utter ignorance (an extended shot of a tree being devoured by metallic jaws scars the soul), and how this distance from the realities of the world manifests itself in their distance from each other.

The actors do what they can, but even the talent assembled here can’t help getting swallowed up in the Shyamalan vortex of nonsense.

With Settlers, Rockefeller and his crew have created a striking little treatise on our misguided ambitions.

We may not learn about Casanova the gambler or the spy, but we get to see a vulnerable side previously unexposed.

Although Soderbergh complicates his cinematic dish with too many flavors, No Sudden Move still offers plenty of bites to savor.

Hadaway indicts this country’s misguided preoccupation with being first, scrutinizing America’s twisted values via the prism of her uber-competitive protagonist. As a result, The Novice officially claims the title of The Best Film About Rowing Ever Made.

It may not be a perfect confection, but this cake’s got layers.

While it may raise more questions than answers and not quite cohere as a whole, the film nevertheless is poetic and at times breathtakingly beautiful, anchored by a superb cast.

Uproarious. Disturbing. Melancholic. Shrewd. All adjectives that the marketing teams behind Andrew Gaynord’s terrific dark comedy All My Friends Hate Me are welcome to use for promotional purposes.

Under the guise of a straightforward love story, Sethi’s film reveals itself to be an incisive look into the long-running Indian tradition of arranged marriages and its implications, set against the backdrop of a rapidly spreading COVID-19. If that sounds heavy, it’s anything but, the writer-director ensuring that things don’t get bogged down in ponderous polemic or pretentiousness.

Don’t come looking for scares either: possessed narcissistic actors choking themselves over and over isn’t all that frightening. The script, by Luke Baines and Nick Simon, just can’t find any new, intriguing ground to cover. As a comedy, however, the feature is infinitely more effective.

With unparalleled verisimilitude, Hirori captures both the helplessness and the resolve it takes to see past it, to hold on to a glimmer of hope, faint as it may be. Sabaya will leave you scarred, its images scorched forever into your mind.

An eccentric local priest spouts nonsense, blood gushes out of the shower, bodies twist and contort at impossible angles, and creatures from hell crawl towards the camera. By the time the convoluted, shrieky finale arrives, it all blends together into nothing more than dull background noise. Your investment in the story will be indirectly proportional to its running time.

We’ve seen it all before: the obsessive cop with emotional baggage, the small-town folk being interrogated, the lovey-dovey subplot, the tonal dreariness. The filmmaker isn’t aiming to avoid tropes, and what the film does, it does splendidly, though an injection of humor would have certainly been welcome.

Into the Darkness serves as a keen portrait of a deeply divided country, unsure of where its allegiance lies. Heavy-handed and slow-moving at times, further bogged down by extended speeches about the future of Denmark’s economy/industry, this behemoth nevertheless impresses, simply due to the sophistication of it all.

Few seasoned filmmakers can boast the lightness of touch, the comedic timing, and proficiency with an ensemble cast that the 21-year-old Lindon so nonchalantly possesses. The film would’ve been a treat if it were made by an established auteur; the fact that a complete newcomer concocted the entire thing makes it even more impressive.

Whether you’ll have a blast with this beat has nothing to do with your affinity for metal music and everything to do with your tolerance for “heart-on-the-sleeve” independent filmmaking.

Akin to a bus that provides temporary shelter from the cold, Drunk Bus is cozy and familiar, but 100 minutes proves to be just enough. I was ready to pull the cord towards the end of this fun, somewhat bumpy ride.

Beautiful and atmospheric but essentially empty and pointless, Berlin Alexanderplatz hits you with the bluntness of a sledgehammer.

It's jaw-dropping how slapdash Sheridan's approach is to what's supposed to be the heart and soul of the story – the bonding between Hannah and Connor. The characters are so cardboard, it's a wonder they don't catch fire.

When the film isn’t deafening you with the sounds of bullets and screams, it revels in silence, in birdsong, in the buzzing of flies, in the tranquil sounds of nature. These sequences are captured beautifully by cinematographer Andrew Commis, Arnhem Land’s emerald ponds and breathtaking vistas forming a stark contrast to the bloodshed and fire and chaos.

Papers Spiders is everything you want out of a teen drama, more Lady Bird than The Fault in Our Stars. That’s not to say fans of the latter won’t respond to Shampanier’s genuine gem. Don’t let this one slip under the radar.

Rather unexpectedly, the result is gripping and immersive, bolstered by a committed cast and some remarkable visuals.

Perhaps the worst thing about the writer/director/star’s feature is that it basks in the excess it purports to condemn, confident that pounding the viewer into submission is the way to go, in addition to ending on a hypocritical note that defies everything that’s occurred up to that point.

While admirable in its ambition, the end result just doesn’t quite gel. Cool poster, though.

Like its central performance, Hope manages to convey and dissect so much with (seemingly) so little: the way real struggle makes us realize how much we love, truly see, and trust each other; the hidden reserves of human perseverance in the face of certain death; the healing power of art; and hope, of course. Hope and despair give life meaning, one unable to exist without the other.

If you happen to be in the mindset for a long, leisurely, spiritual cinematic rumination about the fragility of life, the futility of our professional pursuits, the power of femininity, and the sheer bliss of living in the moment, then delve right in. The writer and director’s aim is not to shock or devastate, nor elicit any strong reaction, but to make one ponder the Meaning of It All.

For a sci-fi feature, it’s certainly not visually-stimulating; perhaps it would’ve worked better as an audio-book.