Alex Saveliev

Perhaps the fact that the film is so inspired has something to do with the established camaraderie between fellow Marvel veterans. The franchise’s influence – the ebb and flow of the film, the swooping camera shots, the scope – is evident; only in this case, instead of the System’s victim becoming a superhero, a potential hero falls victim to the System. In the Russo brother’s capable hands, Cherry will speak to both millennials and older generations alike.

It feels timely and urgent, and its phenomenal young heroine ensures it doesn’t become overly mawkish, preachy, or prosaic.

Consisting of three segments, this hit-and-miss cinematic jumble imagines our world being taken over by the titular otherworldly gateways. Their origins and purpose remain ambiguous throughout, which some may find tantalizing, while others will deem infuriating.

The Parish does not even attempt to avoid sentimentality or predictability. Tony Tibbet’s awkward editing reveals a man doing his best to mask budgetary, directorial, and auditory blunders.

Its cardinal sin is a complete, total, utter, extreme lack of originality. The title does it justice, really. Sacrilege will most likely be viewed as such by horror film aficionados.

Watching the multiple, nonsensical, seizure-inducing sequences, set to bottom-of-the-barrel, thunderous EDM and homemade melodramatic beats feels like being smacked in the head repeatedly by a blaring subwoofer.

If you enjoy being sober around your trippin’ buddies, then Tyger Tyger may be for you, but you’re much more likely to feel left out.

In a miserable year filled with grim cinematic fare, this eminently re-watchable science-fiction comedy provides a much-needed spark of lighthearted exultation.

There are some odd detours, a few prolonged stretches of Holland losing focus. But you know what? Forget the blemishes. It’s a gift that Holland is still producing thought-provoking fare like this.

It may not break new ground when it comes to this genre, one involving betrayal and heavily-accented mob bosses and brotherly love, but when a familiar path is tread with such confidence, you just may want to take another stroll.

The convoluted movie feels like a bunch of grandiose ideas in search of a connecting thread. Perhaps Cahill needs to reconnect with his indie roots to get his creative bliss back.

The dream-like, poetic result is an astonishing visual achievement, an example of what an artist lacking a Hollywood budget can conjure with sheer ingenuity. That said, some may find its impenetrable narrative and purposefully distancing nature irritating. There’s only so long one can stare at an abstract painting.

David Perrault’s Savage State opts for Jacques Audiard’s contemplative mood but fails to balance it out with fleshed-out heroes, a sense of humor, or even a coherent point. What we’re left with is the novelty of a well-worn genre seen through a very French, existential prism; it’s all jaw-droppingly beautiful and sleep-inducingly dull.

Say what you will about Cactus Jack, but the fact that it’s extraordinarily unsettling cannot be denied. If you find yourself relating to any second of its purposefully hateful narrative, you may want to immediately call your local psychiatrist.

The notion of exploring how a young boy views the world through his manipulative older sibling’s eyes – and how poverty affects that developing worldview – is not a bad one. It’s just delivered haphazardly. I applaud McAulay’s efforts, but Don’t Tell a Soul is at its best when it’s simply having fun as a silly B-flick. Shut your brain off, enjoy – and, like with any guilty pleasure, don’t tell a soul you liked it.

Wolfe's movie functions as an ode to Black culture, Black music, Black art; as a scathing treatise on the obstacles Black people have had to overcome (and are still overcoming) to be seen and heard and respected; as a celebration of jazz; as a showcase for two stellar performances and a majestic farewell to one of our greatest young actors.

There’s no denying the filmmaking mastery on display, but perhaps Min-ho could make his future history lessons a little more approachable.

The Truffle Hunters is about sustaining tradition in a world that seems to (d)evolve too fast. It's about mortality, but it's never morbid. It's about fungi, but it's never dull. It takes you away from the hustle and bustle of the contemporary, social-media-driven society and plunges you into the woodsy stillness of Northern Italy. You don't have to love truffles to crave a little bit of that beautiful solitude.

Breaking Surface boasts a verisimilitude lacking in its glossier Hollywood counterparts. Hedén doesn’t resort to gimmicks like sharks (ahem, except for that dog), rightfully trusting that Nature’s elements present a formidable enough foe to his two strong female leads.

Disco is about how toxicity seeps into everything from masculinity to religion to parenting and, yes, even dancing. It’s as beautiful and heartbreaking as watching a dancer pirouette into an abyss.

It comes as no surprise that Rasmussen worked on productions like Lars von Trier’s Melancholia, a clear visual and stylistic inspiration for Ghabe. Coupled with Ehsan Kalantarpour and Ida Sundqvist’s otherworldly score, Castro and his team intermittently achieve a transcendent effect.

A soulful soliloquy about the fragility of memory and starting over, Brian Cavallaro’s 32 Weeks sails along smoothly until a storm of an ending sends it sinking into melodramatic—and oddly gruesome— depths.

I’ve Got Issues brings to mind the zaniness of Quentin Dupieux, with a dash of Todd Solondz’s existentialism and the off-kilter freestyle nature of David Cross and Bob Odenkirk’s stuff. If you find one of the bits redundant, its brevity ensures another one is coming right up.

Mehta skillfully navigates both the tender sequences and the more devastating ones. Aided by Howard Shore's rousing musical score, she portrays a beautiful country ripped apart by social violence. Her film serves as an ode to those who either died or were forced into exile for having the courage to express their true identities.

Panek doesn’t sugarcoat anything in his beautifully-shot, grim tale, but ultimately, it’s his belief in human kindness that prevails. There may not be any lycanthropes in Werewolf, but they’d most likely seem like puppies next to the true evil he depicts.

At 75 minutes, Ottolenghi and the Cakes of Versailles goes down easily but lacks a distinctive flavor.

In a parallel dimension, perhaps, most movies are this well-made. Watch Parallel, and then watch it again to untangle all of its little nuances.

As it stands, it’s not much of an indictment. As honorable as her intentions may be, Bibeau ends up blowing the whistle so incessantly, it sort of leaves you deaf.

What does come as a surprise, somewhat, is Fincher’s departure from his clinical precision; he adopts a looser approach here, no less precise, but much warmer than, say, the steel-blue, fierce indictment that is The Social Network. “Photographed in Hi-Dynamic Range” to approximate the look and feel of a late-1930’s feature, Mank is incredibly dense, lush, and extravagant.

Polsky packs a lot into the film’s slim 80-minute running time. It’s dense but never overwhelming, presenting facts and anecdotes in a coherent, intuitive, supremely entertaining fashion.

It’s all deeply unsettling, a glorious massacre you can’t look away from. Kill It and Leave This Town dares you to avert its gaze. You may not be able to describe it, but good luck forgetting it.

Survival Skills has so much going for it, one may feel tempted to go along for the ride, bumps and all.

There are worse ways to pass 90 minutes for those willing to disregard the film’s numerous, glaring flaws. Call it a Chinese Mission Impossible, minus Ethan Hunt’s budget and brains.

Perhaps Landon could step away from mixing slasher horror with classic comedies and create his own thing. Or maybe this is his thing. In which case, I look forward to The Breakfast Club on Elm Street, especially if it stars Vince Vaughn.

A hope for pleasure is almost as enjoyable as the pleasure itself,” a character quotes Shakespeare at one point. I didn’t derive any pleasure in hoping for pleasure while watching Esau – and man, did I hope.

Apart from the two leads, there’s little warmth or humanity to be found here, the film purposefully cold and distancing, much easier to admire than to love. That said, there’s plenty to admire in this sad, contemplative journey into the heart of darkness.

Though Farewell Amor is not a “dance movie", it’s primarily about that moment when we dance - when everything else falls away, Amor takes over, and we bid our troubles farewell.

Like the inferno it depicts, Laxe’s film casts an entrancing spell.

It’s an easy target that’s been cinematically dissected many times, with the recent Nocturnal Animals and Velvet Buzzsaw coming to mind... Yet Grant manages to explore the subject from some enticing angles. The resulting painting may be a bit too busy to qualify as genius but contains brushstrokes so vivid it’s certainly worth scrutinizing.

Morris utilizes psychedelic neon colors, bold titles, and a hallucinatory score to emphasize the craziness of her life. He has devilish fun piecing together Joanna’s fractured past. It just feels like, in his search for Truth, he’s lost his way a little this time.

Although Penn is the focal point of Citizen Penn, the real citizens of this story are the Haitians. They are resilient, optimistic, and refuse to be labeled as victims. I do wish that we got to meet some of them a bit more intimately, that Hardy delved a little deeper into Haiti’s sociopolitical history. As it stands, it functions as a perfectly serviceable call to action, an extended, heartfelt PSA that neither glamorizes nor demonizes the actor.

A bit more pragmatic, rambling, less lyrical, and not as laser-focused as Herzog's previous documentaries.

The Father is about the suffering of old age, the importance of connection, the sick encroaching of an affliction, and ultimately, death. It doesn’t sugarcoat things, despite its sugarcoated exterior. Like its French counterpart, Michael Haneke’s Amour, it’s not an easy watch, but it’s a necessary one, a film that examines the very essence of our humanity.

The filmmaker performs an astounding feat of maintaining the perfect balance between self-awareness, alienation, warmth, comedy, and pathos. Apples is a singular experience.

The idea of a fusion of these two prodigious talents, the mere notion of Wood’s multi-instrumentalist skills and love of art complemented by Figgis’ distinct visual style and jazzy vibes, is exhilarating. So it’s that much more disheartening that Figgis’ documentary, Ronnie Wood: Somebody Up There Likes Me, somehow ended up so damn perfunctory.

Here’s a film so quietly visceral it can sear through metal, “quietly” being the keyword. Don’t come in expecting a no-holds-barred assault on the senses. Nor is this a metal music extravaganza. The bulk of the film is silent, deliberate. We are thrust inside Ruben’s mind to hear what he hears, a pulsating, muted nothing, which is then jarringly contrasted with everyday sounds when we’re yanked back out of his head. The sound mixing and editing are nothing short of phenomenal in Sound of Metal.

Really Love subtly explores and juxtaposes the numerous obstacles Black people face when it comes to discovering their identity, transcending stereotypes, overcoming familial influence, being in charge – and it studies those issues through the colorful and forlorn and often lovely prism of Art.

In surer hands, Shadow in the Cloud could have been a demented allegory about female empowerment; instead, it’s just demented, albeit damn entertaining. Here’s hoping Landis gets his head out of the clouds and writes something that casts lingering shadows next time.

No one would rationally expect the man behind Disneynature fare such as Penguins, Elephant, and Diving with Dolphins to make his directorial debut with a demonic horror feature.Yet here we are, witnessing David Fowler perform a 180° swivel, from anthropomorphizing animals to slaughtering human beings in Welcome to the Circle. The results clearly demonstrate that he should’ve stuck to voicing chimpanzees.

Lee has created a cinematic microcosm – atmospheric, containing powerful scenes, driven by some committed performances – that forgets to make a coherent point. The titular curse seems to be that of narrative ambiguity.

Gripes aside, if you’re looking for a low-key, old-school, charming-as-a-basket-of-kittens lark, give Then Came You a shot. It serves as a great reminder of Gifford’s prodigious talents – and as a hint that she may yet have more to reveal.

In a feature filled to the brink with needles being inserted into – ahem – a variety of teenage orifices, an injection of humor would have certainly been welcome.

Attack the Block this is not. Shortcut is too violent and foul-mouthed for kids, yet too tame and juvenile for adults, bound to leave horror aficionados indifferent. You’ll be better off watching Jeepers Creepers 2 instead, and that’s really saying something.

Teenage Badass will not set your world on fire, but its empathetic characters, sense of rhythm, knowledge of band jargon, and, most importantly, its music are sure to at least warm your heart.

While the sequences involving Robert attempting to confront his dying wife are certainly heart-rending (perhaps a tad too forcefully), the movie’s most sublime moments happen in the present, when Putnam focuses on the man’s recovery. The bits where Robert encounters the insects he’s after are as magical and ephemeral as said butterflies.

A grueling affair, purposefully so, bringing to mind Steve McQueen’s similarly relentless 12 Years a Slave. There’s not much respite to be found in those bloodied waters, nary a buoy to grasp.

Fatima has excellent production design. A lot of care went into getting the period details right. There’s some beautiful cinematography and decent performances all around. It’s just all so mushy and predictable. Faith vs. science, tragedy testing one’s faith – those themes have been explored before, more enticingly. Pontecorvo turns a fascinating bit of history into a by-the-numbers affair, and that may be Fatima’s greatest sin.

The filmmaker casts an unflinching eye at his broken-down subject baring his soul, atoning for his sins, and lamenting the past. There’s no way back for him. This is a trip down a rabbit hole that’s as devastating as it is transfixing.

Utilizing never-before-seen archival footage, expertly-rendered animated interludes, and unprecedented access to those involved in the crisis, Kopple strings it all together into a gripping and emotional whole, like a true master craftsman. I will not be surprised if the living legend brings another golden statuette home this year.

The filmmaker goes for broke, deliberately setting sequences against painted backgrounds or giant black-and-white photographs. There’s a moment when Tesla belts out Tears for Fears’ “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” into a mic. Such embellishments could’ve potentially led to a mess, but in Almereyda’s capable hands, they somehow coalesce into a dreamlike whole.

A warm hug of a film, The Outside Story may occasionally stumble and resemble an extended TV pilot, but – largely thanks to its charming protagonist – is bound to (however briefly) reaffirm your faith in humanity.

Those looking for a message are missing the point. Grennan’s goal is to literally ravage your senses, leave you breathless and ashamed of humanity.

By simply witnessing the grandeur of the sea, by allowing us to glimpse that symbiosis between ocean and universe, the film ends up resonating powerfully, a feast that will stimulate both the eye and the cerebral cortex.

Despite all the flaws, Sputnik has one chief thing going for it: it holds your attention, from the first (and arguably best) twenty minutes, to the last (and arguably worst) twenty.

Big Fur may be rather slight, but hey, if you ever yearned to know what the “huge difference” between a standing bear and a Sasquatch was, you’re in for a jolly good time.

From its unimaginative opening, involving a dumb tourist falling to her death to the anticlimactic day-lit finale (if you get this far, you deserve some sort of Steve Irwin award), Black Water: Abyss will make you want to Crawl back into Lake Placid. To reiterate: if you’ve come for the croc, you’ll be sorely disappointed. If you’ve come for anything else… well, why did you come at all?

It’s a reminder of human resilience that manages to be both powerful and deeply flawed.

Go with the somewhat far-fetched concept, get past the overt sentimentality, and you’ll find a true crowd-pleaser.

With splendid assistance from cinematographer Mohammad Reza Jahanpanah, the filmmaker immerses his viewer into a milieu both relentlessly grim and breathtakingly gorgeous, endlessly vast and claustrophobic, evoking a vibrant halo in the midst of hell.

The film is buoyed by Charlize Theron’s fierceness and a few shining moments of true inspiration. Roll with the inherent silliness of it all, and you may just have a good time.

Perhaps most compellingly, it’s a reminder to open our eyes, to notice the bigger world around us for what it is, to see who we really are. Toussi never preaches, gently luring you into an utterly tranquil state, wherein you may just find yourself booking a ticket to Colombia.

On all accounts, filmmaker John Swab’s gratuitous and grave Run with the Hunted fails to live up to the promise of its premise. Instead, it comes off as a lunkheaded exercise in self-aggrandizing mental masturbation.

A commendable subject matter does not a good movie make. Tape is inherently misguided, a queasily voyeuristic project, rendered nearly-unwatchable by its pseudo-artistic tendencies and patronizing tone.

In its attempts to mirror the abbreviated sentiments of the current social media culture, the doc becomes an abridged version of a statement.

Seahorse’s presentation, while intimate and well-pieced-together, comes off a bit flat, considering how truly lyrical and groundbreaking it could have been.

Visceral, visually assured, and thematically sound, Tainted functions as a great calling card for its skilled filmmaker. If you’re in the mood for yet another treatise on our penchant for savagery, delve right in.

Marona’s Fantastic Tale gently and poetically deals with heavy themes like mortality, solitude, and loss, but manages to be suitable viewing for the entire family. It reiterates that the love our dogs have for us is unconditional and that we shouldn’t regard them as accessories or temporary means of respite. It’s also a phantasmagoric feast for the eyes. Seek it out.

Aviva is a palindrome, reflecting the film’s ouroboros-like narrative. It’s also a Hebrew name, which translates as “spring-like” or “fresh”–both adjectives applicable to the sensual and passionate Aviva. Love it or hate it, it’s… well, it’s art. I loved it, warts and all. Perhaps Yakin has finally discovered his style.

The filmmaker’s sophomore feature fails to generate any semblance of momentum or suspense. It’s filled with laughable lines of dialogue and jarringly poor editing. Mario Van Peebles single-handedly imbues it with enough gravitas to make it somewhat watchable.