Carlos Aguilar

A mixed bag of eye-catching imagery and formulaic writing, Goat disappoints because it follows every expected path toward a triumphant conclusion.

Sure, the case can be made for this contrast between scatological humor and serious insight working as a mirror for how quickly a person’s reality can shift from joy to sorrow, but the overall effect is puzzling.

Less vibrant and proficiently pleasant, the new “Lilo & Stitch” only serves as a reminder to revisit the superior hand-drawn version.

Nonnas repeatedly drives home its point about the unifying force of a homecooked meal as an embodiment of community, and even as it overcrowds its narrative pot with too many unnecessary condiments that get lost in the mix, the result is ultimately palatable.

The King of Kings is a serviceable if uninspired take on a story told countless times in just as varied formats.

This sequel doesn’t merit a sing-along and does little to expand on what we already knew about Moana and her friends.

More effective as an aspirational exercise than as a piece of inspired cinema, Say a Little Prayer fulfills the promise of showing Latinos under a different socioeconomic light from what has existed in mainstream media in the past, but not much else.

Pimpinero grazes the chance of becoming a great film but repeatedly lets it slip from its grasp, settling for being just slightly above average.

The contrived third act notwithstanding, expect audiences in movie theaters to engage with The Front Room in audible gasps, one nauseating stunt at a time.

The sum of all these components results in a film that’s delightful to look at, though not as compelling narratively.

While “Absence of Eden” lacks narrative originality, it often dazzles visually.

Like a comedy sketch that overstays its welcome, “Society” undermines both its caustic intent and its romantic-comedy subplot.

While Wish is enjoyable, this new Disney fairytale doesn’t measure up to those that came before.

That Bagiński’s Knights of the Zodiac amounts to a well-intended disappointment doesn’t mean it has zero merit as a work of entertainment, but it will neither satisfy the fandom’s demands for a true-to-the-bone homage to their childhood favorite, nor will it transmit to outsiders why this tale of blind courage in the face of insurmountable odds has inspired such decades-long devotion.

Across the eras, wardrobe changes, short-lived smiles and bitter tears, and eventually the addiction and scandals, Ackie’s portrayal of Houston stands out not only for lip-synching so precisely and convincingly it makes one wonder if she is in fact singing, but because rather than imitate she seems to simply be trying to channel the cornerstones of her personality.

As stark corroboration that this country was built on hatred and death, Emancipation successfully rattles you, but it can hardly be described as revelatory. Still, some could argue that today, as segments of society willfully wish to ignore the past and to prevent new generations from learning about it, a ruthlessly straightforward reminder is needed.

It’s neither successfully terrifying, nor shockingly grotesque, or even campy enough for one to revel in over-the-top derangement. And while it’s not entirely without its silly pleasures, indifference is the foremost sentiment it elicits.

Notwithstanding the embellishments, this undoubtedly remains a Tyler Perry film — occasionally for better, but often for worse.

Zemeckis’ Pinocchio prompts one to wish upon a star that Disney would stop diluting the legacy of its beloved animated features with these soulless knockoffs.

Though The Invitation doesn’t land in the “worst of the year” territory given its lead performance and notable flares of style, it’s neither particularly scary, nor sexy enough or as intellectually progressive as it wants to be.

Aside from how unnecessary remakes tend to be, what’s imperative is to consider whether a story with such a simplistically offensive depiction of disability as an enchanting characteristic can have a place in today’s world, as we collectively try to move away from unchallenged amusement that thinks it’s uplifting even as it punches down.

In exploiting this anecdote about an impostor hiding in plain sight for its entertainment potential, My Old School feels dismissive toward Lee’s real motivations and gets caught up in the simplistic moral judgment on his questionable actions.

As lackluster as this scattered-brained saga is, the animation team of “The Rise of Gru” does excel at constantly reminding us that we are in the 70s via its production design.

Following Pixar’s two most refreshing releases in years, “Luca” and “Turning Red,” both of which were deemed unworthy of a full theatrical release, it’s difficult not to perceive “Lightyear” as a far less compelling and safe bet. How tiresome it is that most studio productions must now exist as part of a larger multiverse in order to merit exposure. In the end, “Lightyear” reveals that today, given Disney’s business model, “to infinity and beyond” really only means to the inevitable sequel.

It feels derivative and only superficially invested in its big ideas about second chances and the conundrum of appropriating the bodies of individuals whom society has deemed irredeemable.

Oren Gerner’s emotional and narrative aptness to direct his father in such an effectively subdued performance gives one reason to not dwell on the film’s anticlimactic resolution, as it lacks a substantial evolution for the character.

Anyone who’s sat through enough of those Christian films and watched them with a critical eye (and not for the mere indoctrination) can easily tell that the basic craftsmanship of Father Stu is on a different level. That doesn’t necessarily make this an admirable production, but at least it’s a proficient one.

Although some of its components spark with cleverness, it lacks overall narrative sophistication as a work of storytelling art, even if considering the vintage-cinema tone it seeks to replicate.

No one else could have elicited these responses from the songstress other than her own daughter, and for that this is a worthy, if historically vague, effort.

But for as much writer/director Biancheri pumps copious ideas into this concept, the solemn tone and lack of thematic focus renders the overwrought outing underwhelming.

As a movie, this new installment feels closer to a lazily assembled playlist featuring all of the Top 40 songs that hit airwaves in the years since the original was released.

As much as Charlotte Salomon’s life is inherently worthy of admiration, and that it’s a valid creative choice on the directors’ part to make a tonally modest and straightforward depiction of the events, one can’t help but yearn for a version where her oeuvre and its stylized interpretation of her intimated universe had been a more deeply intertwined with how her prolific and unimaginably tragic story was told.

White as Snow doesn’t go far enough into strangeness, but neither is this an adaptation aiming for realism. Only Huppert is on that skewed mindset, while everyone else plays it straight.

The tone rarely hits its target for dark levity, often making one wonder, “Was that meant to be funny?”

Family Business offers an array of half-baked conflicts, all crying out to be noticed, while the creators are apparently unsure of which requires the most urgent attention.

Despite trying to be forcefully meta (McGee explicitly says he hates biopics), the platitude-plagued script and mostly mundane filmmaking underscore how ultimately unadventurous Creation Stories is.

The balance between the humanistic and academic is way off.

Wholesome in the most “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” brand of mythical Americanism, 12 Mighty Orphans is engineered to rouse emotions with uncritical pride, never reaching the less immaculate corners of the historical period it employs as canvas.

Heavy-handed acting from the young cast and Needell’s hackneyed dialogue further unmask the movie’s lack of visual wonder and narrative cohesiveness.

Even if some segments are invigoratingly thought-provoking in the same manner that a young student feels engaging with classical thinkers for the first time, the format’s lack of stimuli beyond cutting between speakers soon turns tedious. In scenes conceived as static frames, Puiu plays with depth of field for slightly more visually layered results.

Derived from the novel Ghetto Cowboy by G. Neri, this film iteration bargains in vague platitudes as it unsuccessfully tries to piece together a collage of factors threatening the viability of this one-of-a-kind place.

Afineevsky’s by-the-numbers, for-hire production feels unnecessary. Even if one can’t argue with its distilled message of loving thy neighbor, Francesco just serves to remind us of all the horrors unfolding simultaneously.

It’s a modest coming-of-age period piece that incidentally diverges into over-the-top dreamscapes.

To see him wrestle with his own past, the pressure of a whole country’s dreams, and the relief of making them come true, is occasionally riveting, but it’s also what makes Pelé all the more a missed opportunity for a sharper portrait.

If pitted against other entertainment aimed at young viewers with much less panache, “Earwig and the Witch” wins, at least in conceptual adventurousness. Even if far from being top-tier Ghibli, it’s not without its fantastical pleasures.

Imperfect as it is, this often-intuitive piece with a strong observational eye personifies the notion of the calm before the storm.

It covers a lot of ground in a skin-deep manner that’s more useful as an intensive overview of the events — if you manage to keep track of who is working for which organization at any given time and why.

Stilted but commendable for its intent, the movie may function as a great conversation-starter if watched with young kids who might be receptive to new material. For fans of international animation, there are sporadic diamonds of craft, but likely not enough to impress viewers accustomed to the quality of the GKIDS catalogue.

Ultimately, Judy & Punch doesn’t hit squarely in the target, but hints at interesting conversations on prejudice, domestic abuse, and powerful individuals lacking integrity. As one watches, and ponders whether to laugh or gasp from one scene to the next, some of these inquiries do emerge strongly from its convoluted haze.

Heavy-handed messaging that mimics a morally didactic PSA drowns the proficiently shot movie in long tirades more noticeable for their vociferousness than for actually delving into any revealing specifics.

Sunsets, cellphone-lit melancholic music shows, and clichéd references to stars and constellations abound.

A mediocre screenplay renders the movie far less thought-provoking than it could be. By-the-numbers jump scares, perplexing speeches and a glaring score further hurt its impact.

As unsatisfying as Spies in Disguise is because of its disregard for original design and the insufferable nods to disposable trends, its role as counterprogramming to toxic masculinity — turning ruthless spies into sensible beings with warmth as a moral compass — makes it ephemerally laudable.

The codirectors, unconcerned with visual ornamentation, disseminate facts clearly in an undertaking that’s scholarly adept yet disappoints artistically.

Corny to its core but with enough charisma to avert total insufferableness, it’s a bubbly counteraction of a movie boasting a progressive conclusion.

Blending dreamlike locations found in the real world with a dollop of visual effects, Waddington reaches the desired effect of a universe where technology and fantasy interact. Her cocktail of ideas yields a magical sci-fi thriller with an empowering edge, which, though imperfect due to its ambitions, puts women in charge of their own destinies.

Some distance between the source and the story would have benefited the themes at play, which end up buried beneath punches, slurs and bestial masculinity.

Ideal as follow-up to a meditation session, McKenna’s feature turns less gratifying as the sharp light of reality trickles into its philosophical cracks.

A mostly hackneyed lesson on racial biases desperately stumbling to appear provocative. It does, however, occasionally raise inquiries worthy of pensive consideration.

A timely, undeniably compassionate but ultimately underwhelming production reflecting on a profoundly American issue.

Overwrought but nonetheless thoughtfully creepy, The Lake Vampire emerges as a new and formidable calling card for genre cinema in Venezuela and for Zitelmann as a creator.

It has an intriguingly radical and gung-ho core concept, but shallow implementation.

Vertigo-inducing set pieces help shape Korean disaster movie Exit and its distinctive threat into a simplistically digestible and ultimately predictable big-budget outing with a slight edge.

Schindel succeeds at creating unnerving ambiguity aided by an ear-piercing score.

Its stylish features overpower its many attempts at philosophical depth.

Meant to feel either lived-in or spontaneously passionate, these poorly written relationships don’t project the effervescence of living in the moment nor the fickleness of what’s to come.

Rifkin’s crafty determination to embellish production value constraints with campy transitions and an eerie use of colored light is commendably spirited. Ultimately, however, its aesthetic ambitions trample the substance that occasionally shines through.

Even if slightly overwrought, the storyline functions as an amusing dual coming-of-ager.

This banally titled buddy dramedy won’t solve our critical drought of empathy or advance our social justice preoccupations, but it’s a mostly enjoyable drop in the right direction.

Being so single-mindedly focused on human suffering, the doc fails to dive deeper into the environmental consequences, the political stances of the countries where these activities occur, or even the intricacies of the Thai judicial system.

What’s most disingenuous about Trial by Fire is that it knowingly simplifies the institutionalized and ingrained biases that foster the very matter it’s trying to address.

Doubling as both a colorful recycling bin for tropes and ideas from a variety of preexisting children animated features and a casting session for “The Voice”‘s next batch of hosts, Kelly Asbury’s plush-inspired film UglyDolls is underscored by a well-intentioned message of self-acceptance, even if the delivery vehicle is unremarkable.

This disjointed, though consistently tense retelling dives full force into ostentatious pathos more often than it opts for narrative prudence.

Cutting through the thick curtain of recycled lovey-dovey remarks and the proficiently dull craftsmanship of the production, Richardson’s radiant charisma acts as a lifeline. One would be hard-pressed to find a moment where she is not earnestly committed to the role’s convincingly bittersweet shtick.

Despite Smaller and Smaller Circles being visually proficient, stagy performances fueled by formulaic dialogue do little to steer the film’s narrative.

Caro’s ability to localize what might feel broad shines through, even though he is operating within set storytelling boundaries.