Drew Hunt

More than just a thorough examination of hardcore pornography, Christina Voros's doc is also a sort of chronicle of the filmmaking process.

Eleanor Burke and Ron Eyal's film is a tasteful, well-orchestrated drama that never reaches beyond its humble means.

The film is made impetuously watchable and disarmingly emotional by the filmmakers' strong command of docudrama and nonfiction narrative style.

While the film is deeply romantic and nostalgic, possessing a genuine reverence for youth and rebellion, it's also something of a tragedy.

In its elliptical presentation of its characters' lives, brings to mind the latter-day films of Philippe Garrel, but Kees Van Oostrum's genre experimentation aligns him with Paul Verhoeven.

It takes place entirely at night, and the dingy color palette, washed-out and intentionally drab, presents Russia as an almost alien landscape.

Sinister, comical, aggravating, and audacious, Calvin Lee Reeder's film is nothing short of an affront.

The film benefits greatly from this bait-and-switch narrative design, as Hoss-Desmarais dials down or otherwise forgoes exposition, backstory, and character development in favor of an ambiguous, almost ethereal dramaturgical approach.

The cogent character study nestled inside all the bombast remains crafty for its rare commingling of artful storytelling and genre nonsensicality.

The film exhibits strong character interplay and resides in an unconventional milieu, in effect turning rote material into something that feels decidedly eccentric.

Good, clean genre entertainment, the sort of harmless yet endearing brand of moviemaking seemingly unattainable in today's Hollywood system.

Taylor Guterson's film offers thoughtful, if familiar, comments on friendship, self-doubt, and romantic angst.

More than some run-of-the-mill social-awareness doc, the film pays as much attention to the personal and emotional strife of its subjects as it does to their activism.

The film is at its most fascinating when Jackie Stewart authoritatively and pedagogically discusses the nuances of his trade.

Perhaps the first important film about street hoops, even if the overall product struggles from a lack of focus.

The filmmakers certainly exaggerate (i.e. exploit) their subject, but for a community that prides itself on shock value, there seems no sufficient alternative.

Florian Habicht unwisely shifts his focus from Sheffield and its unique denizens to the band's personal history, effectively turning the film into an episode of Behind the Music.

The film's various references to other stylistic touchstones, while thematically apt, rarely carry any sort of critical inquiry.

As Renny Harlin's career progresses, it seems more and more that his early gems were merely happy accidents.

Sini Anderson's film may be another unimaginative fan letter, but at least Kathleen Hannah is worthy of such devotion.

This big, brash, occasionally clever, but mostly dumb comedy is so gallingly derivative that watching it feels like playing a game of basic-cable bingo.

It spends a lot of time considering the fear of knowing, which may explain why Alejandro Amenábar didn’t seem to know what kind of film he was making.

Its blind reverence toward the Russian mythos is so grandiose that it becomes impossible to rescue it from self-importance, and as such President Putin would likely give it two big thumbs up.

Ryuhei Kitamura's latest genre bloodbath is par for the course, in spite of the occasionally flourish of interesting subtext.

Its views on organized religion are so halfhearted and perfunctory as to make Kevin Smith's Dogma seem like a veritable master's class in theistic studies.

It's easy to see how Daniel Simpson's desire to return the found-footage genre to its roots resulted in cheap imitation.

The overall product doesn't reveal anything about its subject that a Wikipedia page couldn't do just as well.

In the end, considering the numerous ways the film goes limp, it seems credibility still eludes the found-footage genre.