Alex Saveliev

An elegiac, minimalist fable, Utama is about many things: global warming, survival, our connections to each other, our priorities. It’s the silences that propel the narrative forward, the wide-open spaces that sear themselves into the mind. But hope prevails.

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

Resembling a gradual immersion into a fever dream, the film slyly pays tribute to surrealist greats like Alejandro Jodorowsky and Dario Argento (“presented by” the latter director, it wears the tag proudly), yet also introduces a unique new talent with a fresh, distinct vision.

Kudos to Max for conjuring genuinely unsettling, Boschian images with a limited budget.

Never Gonna Snow Again says so much with so little: how thinly shielded these people are from the encroaching doom, how said doom is brought about by utter ignorance (an extended shot of a tree being devoured by metallic jaws scars the soul), and how this distance from the realities of the world manifests itself in their distance from each other.

This is one intensely-flavored meal that begs to be swallowed in a single bite. Compliments to the chef.

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

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.”

The film effortlessly examines hefty themes like freedom, toxic masculinity, privilege, familial bonds (and the need to escape them).

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.

Under the guise of a straightforward love story, Sethi’s film reveals itself to be an incisive look into the long-running Indian tradition of arranged marriages and its implications, set against the backdrop of a rapidly spreading COVID-19. If that sounds heavy, it’s anything but, the writer-director ensuring that things don’t get bogged down in ponderous polemic or pretentiousness.

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.

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

The Mad Women’s Ball avoids caricature or stereotype, though the grounds it walks may seem somewhat familiar. Laurent treads them with skill and passion, immersing us into a period wildly different and dishearteningly similar to ours.

It’s Plemons, who’s always stellar, that proves to be the real revelation.

A low-key, warm-hearted-but-razor-sharp study of ambition, friendship, and humanity’s inherent differences – be it between two friends or two cultures – The Saint Bernard Syndicate leaves a lasting impression and is eminently rewatchable.

Syms’ debut is anything but desperate; au contraire, this is the mark of a relaxed, confident filmmaker with a long, bright future.

When it comes to survival tales, Society of the Snow sets a standard that will be difficult to top.

The narrative may prove a bit indeterminate and slow-moving to jaded audiences. Yet it remains an incisive and unusual little tale, which we could certainly use more of these days. That is something I personally think about all the time.

At 90 or so minutes, Prey is a lean, mean machine without an ounce of fat on its muscular body. It’s a reminder that this land was populated long before we, the original predators, overtook it, a subtle treatise of “man as predator,” but mostly, a vicious, wildly entertaining flick that’s bound to become the new classic in the series.

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.

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

Disco Boy is not your average war drama, or sociopolitical study, or character dissection, or psychedelic trip. It’s all of those things, and Giacomo Abbruzzese wouldn’t have it any other way.

Uproarious. Disturbing. Melancholic. Shrewd. All adjectives that the marketing teams behind Andrew Gaynord’s terrific dark comedy All My Friends Hate Me are welcome to use for promotional purposes.

Those individual, deeply felt, beautiful moments sadly fail to add up to a deeply felt, beautiful whole. As such, Revoir Paris gets a B- for effort.

The filmmaker confidently guides us to a conclusion that really isn’t a conclusion at all but a new beginning. These men may not be all that wild, but Daneskov’s film is just loopy and daring enough to qualify as such in the best way possible.

Nichols carefully avoids either demonizing or overly romanticizing his protagonists’ lifestyles. He portrays events just the way he imagines they would unfold.

Basir doesn’t shy away from glaring into the gaping maw of despair. But he skillfully counterbalances it with an energy that propels the film forward; how refreshing: this filmmaker has something to say.