Alex Saveliev

While it’s abundantly clear that Farr and his star Dreya Weber, who produced the movie and is an actual aerialist, know that physics-defying world inside-out, they could use a lesson or two in defying a predictable, sentimental story arc.

Buoyed by the palpable mutual respect between filmmaker and subject, this study of Powell’s life manages the feat of being as candid as Powell’s photography of gritty city streets and major pop culture icons like the Beastie Boys.

Sometimes we need to bask in each other’s demons, to exorcise them and achieve a semblance of redemption. Ree traces such a relationship; like an evocative painting, The Painter and the Thief will remain engraved in your memory.

While Castle in the Ground may not quite hold together from a narrative perspective, it’s so atmospheric, so acute in the small, tender moments it captures and is propelled by performances of such power, that it hardly matters.

As it stands, Lorelei is perfectly imperfect. It demonstrates a filmmaker willing to go for broke, examine the dark recesses of our minds that others are too timid to touch.

Diaz wears his heart on his sleeve and elicits affecting performances from his cast, but his portrait of a country in turmoil feels incomplete.

It may not quite reach the heights of Fargo, but if you enjoyed Cold Pursuit or the inferior-but-similar Daughter of the Wolf, then Blood and Money will be right up your dirt road.

He and Côté write an ode to human resilience; they compose a soliloquy about lost identities; they paint a portrait of people seeking meaning, guidance, warmth. The result is a soulful cinematic treatise on the gradual, painful loss of a city’s soul.

The female-centric, lo-fi South Mountain is an excellent example of how little a budget matters when all the other puzzle pieces are in place. We need more cinema like this.

Once attuned, you’ll be rewarded with a sharply funny and oddly heartbreaking, albeit clumsily structured, indictment of our government... Armstrong’s razor-sharp trademark one-liners go a long way in saving this Day.

The Flood nearly sinks under the weight of its contrivances, but is barely kept afloat by its two central performances.

A by-the-numbers underdog story, bolstered by an infectiously joyous spirit and admirable energy. Those with fond memories of 1990’s bands like Soundgarden and Pixies will especially respond to the nostalgic vibes.

An insightful character study, and an absolute must-watch for Saint-Laurent fans – or anyone with a remote interest in the fashion industry.

Unlike its male protagonist, who seems to remain immune to the town’s charms, you will surely not want to leave International Falls.

Were it not for a few missteps, coupled with an abrupt resolution that doesn’t do justice to the preceding depth, Doyle would have had a little gem on his hands. As it stands, I almost love Almost Love.

A languorous and poetic study of faith, grief, love, death and regret, set against the disheveled, but gorgeously framed, backdrop of Lisbon’s ghetto.

Filled with non-sequiturs, abrupt cuts, and nightmarish interludes, The Carnivores is not without its moments of humor.

Manifesting and examining every parent’s worst fear, and bound to spark debate, this M.O.M. packs some acid with your lunch.

If Pachman intended to reiterate the difficult plight of migrant workers, our disregard and abuse of them, then point made, I guess. Yet for a film titled Beneath Us, it certainly never digs deep under the surface.

Young Ahmed may be described as a coming-of-age story, a searing character study, a visceral tale of redemption, a critique of extremism and the society that seems oblivious to and/or helpless against such evil.

As genre hybrids go, After Midnight displays enough nuance and filmmaking savvy to qualify as a success.

An injection of self-aware humor here and there would’ve been welcome. Yet Blood on Her Name is a fine showcase for its star, and a sturdy debut from a director to watch.

It’s refreshing to see romance looked at in such an authentic, yet still entertaining manner. As such, it brings to mind films by the great Nicole Holofcener.

Lonergan announces himself as a talent to watch with Kill the Monsters. He’s just gaining momentum. If he tones down his embellishments and tightens his focus, he could very well reach the leagues of the greats that so clearly inspired him.

There may be a lot going on here, but none of it sticks; there’s no momentum or a sense of purpose. In other words, Swift fails to achieve lift-off, over and over.

None of it is remotely frightening or original, the admittedly good-looking film adding nothing new to this unfortunate horror subgenre.

The movie is a heart-on-the-sleeve, old-fashioned action-adventure thriller. This Balloon may not exactly soar, but it’ll give you a satisfyingly stirring ride.

It’s well-structured, handsomely shot, and features some impressive acting. The thing is there’s just not that much to make it stand out from the crowd either.

Babenco’s cinematic farewell isn’t perfect by a long shot. But it’s brave and poetic when it comes to facing mortality and rediscovering life. It is also most eloquent in referring to cinema as one’s lifeline with a wistful view of humanity, of those friends who stick around and those who don’t.

Kill Ben Lyk manages to be entertaining and inconsequential in equal measures. Give it a shot.

Shinkai’s animated feature may sometimes seem like it was dreamt up by a 15-year-old teenager. It may move at a leisurely, awkward pace that threatens to come to a dead halt at points. Yet when it takes flight, it soars.

Stewart commands the screen in a fierce performance, effortlessly elevating the material with a few poignant glances and teeth-clenched determination.

Nothing here is left to the imagination, Pesce running down the list of clichés and ensuring he includes every single one. Once the realization that this is yet another cheap-o retread settles in (about 10 minutes in), the rest becomes agonizingly painful to sit through.

Scenes involving Anne Hathaway in particular land with a painful thud. In an attempt to flesh out the “adoring, supporting wife” role, Haynes shoots himself in the foot, bringing much attention to an underdeveloped character, who, despite all the pseudo-feminist speeches, amounts to, yes, the “adoring, supporting wife.”

I’ll take a bold if misshapen curiosity such as this over safe Hollywood fare any day.

Corbjin avoids delving into Gahan’s dark history (enough docs have done that). Instead, he has created an affecting, at times exhilarating tribute to the band, and to exorcising one’s demons through art… be it by making it or discovering it.

In a brave move, bound to startle viewers used to conventional structures, Shults shifts gears, subtly layering shades of complexity without ever weighing the film down.

Despite its supposedly uplifting concept, the film ends up being somewhat of a melancholic downer, hammering home the point that the whole notion of the American Dream is ludicrous.

Eastwood once again takes a sharp stab at America’s penchant for attacking first, asking questions later.

The two actors are bound to be showered with awards, as is the production design, the polished script, etc. But there’s no intrigue, no real substance beneath all the gloss.

At barely over an hour, Deerskin packs quite a punch, and is bound to get under your skin.

Malick’s masterpiece makes a great argument that it’s the little-known heroes, as opposed to the ones we trumpet as such, that truly form the ethical foundation upon which our society still creakily rests. Malick is a true cinematic maestro, conducting the orchestra of life. A Hidden Life is breathtaking in every aspect.

Don’t come in expecting high-stakes melodrama, soul-twisting resolutions, or fiery exchanges. This is one of those meditative films about a fragment of life, wherein we find distinct familiarities. It demands that we slow down and appreciate its leisurely pace, its elegiac/humorous tone – and primarily, its lead performance.

What really buoys the feature is the acting from its two leads, whose chemistry absolutely sparks.

Lee’s film never escapes its B-movie roots, nor does it try to, embracing its own pompousness.

It’s all been-there, done-that stuff, diluted further by forgettable characters, plot holes, and a desire by the studio to “get back on track” that transcends earnestness and becomes borderline-insufferable.

Mrs. Lowry and Son has an appealing old-school charm and two performances that make it worth seeing.

A cautionary tale, a story of salvation, sad, lyrical, funny and even brutal at times, Bloody Marie is a shot of adrenaline in a landscape filled with cinematic clones. It may not be perfect, or for everyone, but it sure is spicy as hell, and it gets most of the ingredients just right.

Paradise Hills has pacing issues, and a made-for-TV feel it can’t quite escape. A firmer grasp of tone would’ve benefited the narrative. Yet its creators’ boundless imagination carries it through the rougher patches.

Despite the involvement of some skilled filmmakers, Portals is a cinematic black hole – vacuous and barely perceptible in the vastness of space lit with far brighter stars.

Everything is one-note, dull and, worst of all, pretentious to the nth degree.

Political intrigues, potential murder plots – oh, and Putin’s rise-to-power and consequent 18-year-reign – Gibney serves it up, warts and all.

As a heartfelt ode to an important historical figure, it works just fine. Just don’t expect the film to mirror Virginia’s success, come award season.

Ozon knows his camera placements, musical cues, and, of course, actors, and here he barely steps wrong, pulling us into the narrative, even while dialing back on his usual extravagance.

Hardcore gorehounds will be disappointed by the lukewarm scares. Fans of throwback films will groan at the lack of tongue-in-cheek references. Anyone who’s seen a film will groan at the stupidity of it all.

Supremely entertaining and hilarious, First Love will melt your brains, punch you in the gut and leave your hearts a-flutter.

Goi and his screenwriter Anthony Jaswinski must have thought that simply stuffing the film with as many shock tactics as possible would suffice. It doesn’t. This ship goes down with her captains.

Pretenders pretends to be Bertolucci’s The Dreamers in its meshing of a saucy young love triangle with an impassioned ode to cinema of yore. Alas, Mr. Franco’s not quite there yet.

The film’s no-nonsense approach is a neat tribute to 1980’s action flicks of yore, where badass heroes said and did badass things.

The film’s messages are spelled out in big, bold letters. The tone and pace are, at times inconsistent, making for a somewhat-meandering flow. Nineteen Summers could have easily been 30 minutes shorter to avoid those dips in momentum. However, newcomer Emonjay Brown shines as DeAndre, by turns affectionate, resolute, angry at the system and himself.

You’ll chuckle at a few moments.... You’re more than likely to wince at many more, as each remotely-genuine moment is rapidly punctuated with a forced musical cue or cheesy sentiment.

Clumsy and meandering, Imprisoned seems unsure of whether it’s a story of personal revenge, an outcry against a corrupt regime, or a study of the Puerto Rican justice system.

What keeps you rapt is that permeating, subtle feeling of sadness, of bitterness and regret. Whether it was an intentional choice in a “comeback” documentary remains debatable – but that’s what truly works about it, is its driving momentum.

It’s a strong, confident debut, with something original to say. We all have a hidden darkness, a lurking depravity, which we suppress, push away, ignore. Violence and sexuality lie side-by-side in the recesses of our minds. Seeds masterfully explores what happens when one cannot stop the dam from opening.

3 Days with Dad touches upon subjects like familial differences, living up to your parents’ expectations, sibling rivalry, and generational differences. Too bad it’s all been done before, and better. Its flaccid visual approach and meandering, morose plot may make you pull the plug on your TV set.

It’s not an easy watch by any means, and is bound to divide critics – but there’s no denying its forceful, searing power and the long, crimson-red shadow it casts.

The fact that pretty much nothing makes sense renders the dull narrative that much more difficult to bear. So many questions arise regarding the laws established in this film’s universe, I frankly don’t even know where to start. So I won’t

The young romance sub-plot may be a tad unnecessary, and the film ends up rather slight and anticlimactic despite the hefty subject matter. There’s no denying Huston’s mastery though, both behind and in front of the camera. Here’s to the filmmaker adding more vivid gems to his already-impressive portfolio.

An ode to the artist and his city, Jay Myself may just make you stop and recognize beauty in a random light pattern, or in the way dust blankets an old photo.

Yes, it’s all uber-violent, in-your-face, completely lacking sophistication – but I’ll be damned if it’s not entertaining.

Freaks subtly subverts the superhero formula under the guise of a hallucinatory, cautionary tale of paranoia, delusion and extreme parenthood.

With an authenticity rarely seen in contemporary cinema, it examines the lives of those that struggle to survive in ecosystems that function according to their own decrepit principles.

Some of the navel-gazing in Use Me verges on gratuitous. Certain scenes lag momentum and pacing. Yet Shaw touches upon compelling themes: the futility of our pursuit of the American Dream, the fragile line between “fetish” and “addiction,” and the effects of society’s digitalization.

For all its claims to be rebellious, Good Boys is surprisingly tame by today’s standards.

Gelfer may have missed the mark with this one, but she displays enough technical skill and empathy for her characters to deserve another shot.

Them That Follow is a dark and richly atmospheric experience. Despite its missteps, this is one snake-infested cinematic pit worth investigating.

Its dismal grey/brown color palette doesn’t help the film’s sluggish pacing, making The Operative one of the most head-scratching, aggravating experiences of the year so far.

While decent in capable directorial hands – or as a supporting character – based on the evidence on display here, Carano doesn’t seem quite capable of carrying a film yet, let alone pull a dreary feature like Daughter of the Wolf out of the murk.

Unpredictable, impassioned (despite the cold tone), and highly artistic, Ladyworld might contain a few amateur touches here and there, a few lags in momentum (and an utter lack of mainstream appeal), yet it’s cerebral and forceful, and will have you deliberating its themes for days after.

Designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator, in equal parts juvenile and offensive, Purge of Kingdom is the worst film I’ve seen so far in 2019. If a fart gag makes your sides split with laughter, go right ahead – otherwise, avoid at all costs.

It may tread familiar territory, but Skin does so with relentless energy, confidence, and passion. I can’t wait to see what Nattiv has in store for us next – and for Bell to get under another character’s skin.

One of the many things that makes Ritu Sarin and Tenzing Sonam’s drama The Sweet Requiem so special and refreshing is that it doesn’t resort to easy political speechifying. The filmmakers deliver a taut, lyrical story that leaves a shadow, that of sadness in which a tiny spark of hope determinedly lingers.

This is a low-key, indie take on a well-worn genre; one that frequently resorts to scatological humor and easy targets, making for an odd mix of the sophisticated and crass.

At almost 100 minutes, Lieber’s ode to surfing and overcoming obstacles stretches itself thin. Like the wildest waves Bethany seeks, Unstoppable needed to be more unpredictable, dangerous and, well, gnarly, dude.

Nihilistic and offensive, it leaves you with more than a sour taste – nausea, perhaps, or a need to bathe in Listerine.

Scodelario carries the film with an energetic, no-holds-barred performance. She’s in almost every shot, planning out escapes and outwitting the reptiles, and she gives it her all.

Foul-mouthed, unapologetic, visceral, and authentic, Firecrackers also happens to be sharply edited, its narrative complemented by Casey MQ’s gorgeous electronic ambient/drone score.

The film vacillates so wildly, it spins out of control. As for the love story sub-plot – the less said about the poor, vacuous hole of a character that is Marie, the better.

A reminder of the importance and intimacy of literature, a meta-study of art vs. fabrication, an indictment of cultural appropriation/racial stereotypes, our increasingly digitized world and entitled generation, The Plagiarists is also an ode to how much can be done with very little. Parlow and his crew knock it out of the park.

Slight but likable, Changeland deals with moving on and the healing powers of travel and friendship. Forgetting Sarah Marshall’s low-budget cousin, it’ll hopefully finally establish Green as more than just the “Zip It!” guy.

Shaft attempts to hide its own prejudices by simply acknowledging those issues, without so much as a trace of depth or substance.

There’s a great story buried somewhere deep within the desert that is Head Count – about a brotherly bond, about jealousies that assume anthropomorphic shapes, about a demon that literally reflects our insecurities. Ellen Callahan hints at those stories but ends up telling the most basic version.

Do has created a tense, heartbreaking ode to a tragic time; a deeply personal story, superbly visualized.

It won’t necessarily blow your mind, but it’s refreshing to have a gentle, hopeful ode to our oceans, in contrast to all the “doom and gloom” environmental docs that come out these days.

Unlike the films it aspires to – Heathers, Election, American Psycho or even The Voices – Lowi’s feature’s all sizzle, no steak.

Matt Bomer and Alejandro Patiño, who play the two leads, have a chemistry that brings to mind Tom McCarthy’s superior studies of seemingly disparate characters bonding against all odds, The Station Agent and The Visitor. That unlikely companionship – the heart of Butler’s film – goes a long way to make up for other lags: underdeveloped secondary characters and a few misjudged sequences that unwittingly titter on the brink of “racist.”

Nary a moment rings true, nary a moment elicits anything close to chills or dread – or, at the very least, unintentional laughs.

While not as insightful as his previous work, Halston doesn’t blemish Tcheng’s resume either, providing a perfectly enjoyable – if inconsequential – portrait of a larger-than-life public figure. Fashionistas will surely gulp this up, while the rest of us may ultimately dismiss it as yet another glamorized, facile look into a glamorized, facile industry.