Bill Goodykoontz

Part of the fun of watching Mountainhead, the entertaining first feature film from “Succession” creator Jesse Armstrong, is marveling at the antics of the tech bros who already run a good chunk of the world, and want to run more. Part of the horror is how realistic it all seems. Part of the disappointment is how far it falls into “Three Stooges”-level farce.

With attacks on diversity and inclusion more abundant and dangerous than ever, “Deaf President Now!” is more relevant than ever.

I like movies like “Rosario” — creepy little horror films with enough scares to keep you on edge and enough of a story to keep you invested.

Too often in this long, long slog of Marvel movies, we are expected to have an advanced degree in Marvel-ology to understand even the trailer for a twice-removed TV offshoot. Until the very end, Thunderbolts* is free of this intellectual-property tyranny, content to carve its own funky little way.

Director Lorcan Finnegan is relentless in his pursuit of disquiet. But “The Surfer” is not just an exercise in making a hard-to-watch movie. It’s also a commentary on toxic masculinity and the absurdity of bro culture that poisons X and podcasts and other forms of media.

It doesn’t all add up; it doesn’t even all make sense. Which befits a story involving a man lost in loss, desperate to regain what he cannot. Reality isn’t as important here as feeling something. If you give “The Shrouds” a chance, you will.

Sinners is a fascinating movie, overflowing with creativity and bold ideas.

Don’t think about the details too much. Just enjoy the exquisite agony of watching people squirm, and you’ll like “Drop” just fine.

The ideas are there. Or at least mostly there. The performances are first-rate, particularly those of Vikander and Olsen, waging a war of wills — the tension is palpable. Maybe the payoff just can’t match the build-up.

On Becoming a Guinea Fowl is not the first film about family secrets coming to light through grief, but it may be the most original.

The Alto Knights is a good movie, but one that feels like it could have been great. And for what it’s worth, although I’m still not sure why it’s here, De Niro’s Pesci imitation is killer.

Black Bag, Steven Soderbergh’s outstanding new film, is sleek, cool, polished, smart, smooth — if Soderbergh were a thief, he’d leave no fingerprints.

Mostly “Novocaine” is just fun. And mostly, that’s enough.

Maybe the Manson murders are not meant for easy explanation, which in part seems to be what Morris is getting at. Maybe we’ll never really know the answers. But we don’t seem to be able to stop looking for them.

The movie has its moments (some of the songs are fun, as always), but like Plankton’s efforts at taking over the world, it’s ultimately a disappointment.

Hausmann-Stokes won’t let the film get sappy; Martin-Green and Harris ensure it. Instead, it’s an unflinching look at a health crisis, a film that arrives at what it’s trying to say through unconventional means, and is all the more effective for it.

There is a hazy, gauzy quality to all of this, which keeps things just out of reach. Certainly, it looks like a lot of fun to be young, beautiful and rich in Naples. But Parthenope is also out of reach, almost an idea as much as a character. What that idea is I’m not quite certain.

You just have to hope for some fun along the way. The movie delivers that every now and then, but not nearly enough. Bigger! Dumber! Something! I’d settle for just better.

It’s surprising how much you miss the star power of the original Avengers bunch. Or maybe it’s not surprising. Whatever the case, watching this movie too often feels like you suspect there’s a better party going on next door, but you can’t get in.

One of the things that really makes “Companion” more entertaining than it might otherwise have been is the strength of the supporting cast. Gage and Guillén are particularly good as a mismatched couple who discover more about each other during the admittedly eventful stay at the cabin.

It’s good, it’s intriguing, but in the end it’s nothing to howl about.

It’s 3 hours and 35 minutes long (including a 15-minute intermission), and while it’s full and complete, it never drags or feels padded. It is, simply put, a great movie.

It stands on its own as another in a long line of attempted explanations of what made Dylan Dylan. The more the merrier.

There is an edginess to Babygirl, an uncomfortableness that is part and parcel of the subject matter. But it’s somehow accessible. Maybe that’s a plus, maybe that’s a minus; perhaps it depends on your taste for this sort of thing. But there’s undeniable power in Kidman’s performance, one of the most interesting and, along the way, best of the year.

Even at its most disgusting, and it does get disgusting, the film is engrossing. It’s not that you can’t look away. It’s that you want to look and look again. That’s the lure of the vampire. And it’s the lure of “Nosferatu,” Eggers’ best film (at least so far).

At 2 hours and 17 minutes, the film is a little bloated, though the expansiveness and inventiveness of the filmmaking make that sound like complaining about too much dessert.

There’s a danger in critiquing the movie you wish a director had made instead of the one they did, but in this case, Heller did make a horror film and then backed off from the horror aspects.