Alex Saveliev

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.

Exploring universal themes of seeking familial connection and kindness, Adopting Audrey verges dangerously close to becoming as aimless as its heroine. But because of Malone’s sublime performance, it manages to stay on course. Maybe in the future Cahill could benefit from adopting a different approach.

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.

At 90 minutes or so, with the needless pseudo-artistic embellishments and tautology tossed out, Armand would have been an intense and cerebral little psychological nail-biter.

While The Shade does a decent job examining grief and the complexities of a brotherly bond, it never digs too deeply, relying heavily on its central actor to reveal more depth than it contains.

Andrew Commis and Rick Rifici’s jaw-dropping camerawork is worth the ticket price by itself: Abby’s fingers brushing against the grouper, whales scaling the surface of a deep-blue ocean, the skeleton of a blue whale resting among rocks. These visuals make the abundant preaching throughout Blueback palatable but make you long for a tighter focus and a subtler approach.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

Carion, along with his co-screenwriter Laure Irrman, leave things annoyingly unexplained – which would be fine in a poetic meditation on loss and grief that purposefully raises more questions than answers, but is indefensible in a neither-here-nor-there pseudo-intellectual thriller.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

Too much thought has been put into this one to write it off as a mere, well, write-off. But it’s also too slap-dash to be labeled a classic, nowhere near on par with Peter Jackson’s original trilogy. A curiosity then, worth checking out, especially for the devoted.

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.

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.

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

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.