Alex Saveliev

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.

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

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

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.

Sometimes, the seemingly smallest fracture that separates the sublime from the maudlin is actually, well, a great divide.

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.

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.

Barron was the only light in my life,” a character yells at one point. “What am I now – just another dog in your army?” Barron’s Cove could have been a light in the current cinematic landscape, but instead, it’s just another dog in an army of duplicates.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

An unnecessary addition to the middling pantheon of pot flicks, Breaking Habits, like mid-grade schwag, is unlikely to get you buzzed.

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

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.

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

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.

There’s something missing in this concoction: self-aware humor, a courage of its convictions, a driving force that propels the plot forward . . . Perhaps it was all just too steep a hill to climb.

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.

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.”

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.