Caleb Hammond

Juror #2 stands out as the best late-career Eastwood film, from an era with its fair share of gems.

For those willing to meet Wilson on his wavelength, The History of Concrete is a joyous ride full of his now-trademark detours and persistent, underlying sadness at both the state of New York (his first and true love) and, on a secondary scale, the world at large.

With a cavalcade of hilarious bits, inspired cinematography, and a willingness to earnestly be about something, The Moment serves as a bold reinvention of a mockumentary genre that, until now, was content to stick with pithy jokes.

It’s cleverly constructed, features the film’s best use of that patented O’Connor smile, and is exhilarating to watch unfold. That its ultimate conclusion feels perfectly attuned to the preceding narrative and its characters’ arcs, while also being impossible to predict, is no small feat.

Eschewing self-righteousness, Free Time merely presents a collection of observations on how modern life often plays out like an absurdist comedy. Burgess then steps in to provide the inarticulate mouthpiece for a generation of people who are mad as hell and not going to take it anymore, but unsure what the step beyond yelling about it entails.

Eephus delivers an experience that lingers, successfully capturing a deeper melancholy that can’t be shaken.

This is a compelling, cleverly constructed comedy-thriller with plenty on its mind. It satirizes the movie industry and authoritarianism while never pushing the comedy into outright farce. And it isn’t afraid to get real when necessary.

By and large, Buddy proves that high-concept, short-form premises can be expanded to a feature format effectively, so long as the final film isn’t too winky and its stakes feel grounded.

After masterfully plotting the slow build of dread, the climax feels rushed and derivative of other, better horror movies. Yet moments in the climax do succeed; the explanation for that banging-on-pipes sound is unnerving.

The Apprentice is a film that delves into the figures who shaped Trump’s worldview while never becoming a hall pass for the bad behavior of men like him.

Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance is a film whose style might get in the way of the substance, but it still ensures the filmmaker will have a legion of new horror fans waiting for what she does next.

I Want Your Sex is not quite the comeback for Araki that’s been advertised, but it holds bright spots.

More airport paperback than theological treatise, Conclave is undeniably silly throughout, but its last-second reveals choreograph the sensibility too openly, undercutting much of what was masterfully unfurled up until that point.

Oh, Canada is a more reflective work from Paul Schrader with plenty on its mind that still falls short of his best works.

Bird ultimately reads as Arnold “playing the hits” with a narrative she fundamentally knows how to stage in her sleep. Ultimately it feels too familiar, even with the welcome magical realism additions and a hallucinogenic slime secreting toad. Arnold fans will no doubt find plenty to latch onto with Bird, but it’s unlikely to convert non-believers.

There are a host of avenues the film could’ve explored that might have given audiences more to chew on and make Cecilia’s journey more engaging; Immaculate opts for a straightforward approach that delivers the violent ending it seeks but squanders the potential of its promising setup in the process.

The class-satire elements within a classic insider-outsider narrative act as familiar comfort. It’s when Fennell must forge her own path in the final act that she falters. To put it simply: landing the plane is hard.

Woefully underwritten, Ackie does just enough with her frequent close-ups to grant the slightest impression there might be more under the surface of her starstruck exterior. It’s an uphill battle Ackie fights admirably.

More Velvet Buzzsaw than The Square, The Gallerist suffers from piling on the references and refusing to give audiences a chance to breathe.

The Bikeriders is at its best when it’s a loose look at an inconsequential motorcycle club in ’60s Chicago. In our current era, where real subcultures are generally extinct from the Internet’s monopoly on shaping culture, a straightforward, fun, albeit idealistic look at what public community can offer men would’ve been enough of a statement for audiences to consider.

This centuries-spanning journey is a shallow, inconsequential one.