Alex Saveliev

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

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.

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.

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

Who wants to be subjected to water torture for 2 hours?

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.

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

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.”

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.

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.

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

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.

Shabbily structured, with barely any tension, characterization, scares, or thematic depth, Consecration, due to its utter lack of inspiration, loses the audience’s concentration within minutes, and may even lead to constipation (okay, maybe not the last part, but you get my drift).

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

The ambiguity in this glacially-paced but atmospheric and at times striking little film doesn’t so much tantalize as frustrate – only because the filmmaker duo approaches something so much deeper, wiser, and subtler.

This shameless excuse for children’s entertainment would be a blemish on any hack’s resume.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

If the directors scaled back on the needlessly-complex tale and tightened the reigns, and if screenwriter Michael Arkof sharpened his dialogue (“I’m a deputy, not a vigilante!” Norm yells shrilly, before absconding to his trailer), they may have had something truly special here.

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.

The dialogue is biting, crisp, smart, and frequently heartbreaking. It’s disappointing, then, that the narrative drags in places, particularly in the middle stretch. Brevity is key here; it all just becomes too much.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

Game Changers does a formidable job of patiently tracing the history of game shows from their very inception to the current deluge of such shows on TV.

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.

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.

In its favor, the film is competently edited, and the low production values aren’t too apparent – thankfully, it’s at least decently assembled.

Among Wolves is a subliminally powerful – if perhaps a tad too minimalist – statement on achieving redemption in a seemingly doomed place.

Welcome to Acapulco – at least partially – warrants your investment. It may not reach levels of great trash, but it sure aspires to such, and is always watchable, if only for the sight of thespians hamming it up for a buck. Here’s (vainly) hoping that Welcome to Acapulco will put those fallen legends back on the map.

It may not be perfectly executed, or original in its approach, or particularly memorable, but McGuire’s poignant film possesses an arguably more important trait: it’s totally honest, wearing its heart on its thick parka sleeve.

Sobibor may not fully do justice to the Russians’ involvement in WWII, yet it certainly serves as a powerful reminder that the nation, so ostracized by the US these days, has plenty of heroes of its own. Hopefully, it makes enough of a dent Stateside to help the less-aware think outside the box.

Nothing To Do doesn’t really do much of anything.

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

For a film that purports to endorses equality and female empowerment, its female characters are so uniformly idealistic they’re borderline interchangeable.

One thing that works well is Catalina Saavedra’s performance as the tormented Olga. The actress finds truth in an underwritten character. She reminds us that cinema needs more well-acted, nuanced films about those who are still inexplicably shunned. Sadly, Marylin brings little to that table. It purports to say a lot with a little but ends up saying very little with, well, a little.

The life-like thriller, eccentric comedy, and outlandish horror elements don’t quite gel as well as intended, clumsily getting in each other’s way.

Fun and chilling, this bed-and-breakfast gets an extra star for its committed hostess.

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

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

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.

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’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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

A twangy soundtrack, a dying protagonist, spelled-out themes of family reconciliation and facing death… Look, if that’s your thing, you may as well add a point or two to my review and enjoy the hell out of Here Awhile.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.