Elizabeth Weitzman

Hamoud so deftly mixes both the intimate and the enormous throughout, endowing vibrantly-shot, slice-of-life storytelling with an often wrenching depth.

Samuel Maoz’s Israeli drama Foxtrot is willfully confusing, emotionally chaotic, and occasionally anarchic. It makes complete sense from one angle, but no sense at all from another. In other words, it reflects its subject perfectly.

Barker’s fly-on-the-wall approach eschews showy grandstanding and divisive biases. So there’s a better-than-usual chance that viewers on both sides of the aisle will find themselves moved.

What Betts seems more interested in is whether these sacrificial rituals are arbitrary or, if not, what they truly represent. To her credit, she never approaches these questions with any judgment, a welcome rarity in films about religion. Indeed, she’s gathered many of the elements required for further enlightenment. It’s just that, in the end, her approach proves too conventional.

The beauty of Ai’s epic imagery feels like a perpetual challenge: Are you looking? Are you listening? Are you responding?

Yes, My Little Pony: The Movie, like its television predecessor, is all dressed up in bubbles and cupcakes and rainbows. But it’s so jam-packed with rousing girl power, it passes the Bechdel Test with (literally) flying colors.

It’s Prince, though, who lifts the movie into another realm. It’s no exaggeration to say that hers is one of the most noteworthy child performances in recent — or, for that matter, distant — memory. She is so charismatic, and so unfailingly natural, that every one of her scenes feels organic.

There are plenty of truths to be found in Last Flag Flying, and a great deal of sincerity as well. But regrettably, there is not much in the way of understatement.

The Lego Ninjago Movie does fit into the decidedly silly, self-aware sphere of the Lego movie franchise. Comparisons won’t help it any, though: unlike the two previous entries, this one feels a little worn around the edges.

It’s impossible to remain unmoved by the many contrasts Abbasi carefully arranges.

What sets it apart from other overpraised festival indies is its tremendously gifted lead.

Plaza deftly keeps us off balance throughout, daring us to relate to Ingrid even as we’re repelled by her.

The best way to watch Chronically Metropolitan is to think of it as a parody of a particularly pretentious brand of indie romance. Unfortunately, though, director Xavier Manrique and writer Nicholas Schutt (“Blood & Oil”) play it so solemnly straight for their feature debut that it seems unlikely they’re aiming for satire.

There is no doubt that Gore has a life-altering passion; he just doesn’t possess the personality required to express it cinematically.

There are few surprises here.... But that’s okay, because we’re in it for the ride, the company, and the pure pleasure of watching these women, and the actresses playing them, embrace an independence Hollywood doles out too grudgingly.

Brian Knappenberger’s urgent new documentary Nobody Speak: Trials of the Free Press is the sort of movie that impacts your viewpoint long after it ends.

Sure, a lot of the dialogue is dopey, and the eternally stiff leads once again compete for blankest delivery. But Lin distracts us well, packing deftly-shot races, explosions, and getaways into every corner.

First-time writer/director Michael Johnson falls back on coming-of-age clichés. But overall, his sensitive, moody camerawork and the cast’s strong performances go a long way toward making the familiar feel fresh.

Queen and Country features characters from the earlier movie. And it’s good. But “Hope and Glory” it is not.

Fortunately, the cast — featuring Allison Janney as Bianca’s scattered mom and Ken Jeong as her sympathetic mentor — is savvy and silly. Really, though, most of the credit goes to Whitman, who stands in, and stands up, for the DUFF in all of us.

In a small theater, it’s easy to feel like you’re a part of the romance unfolding before you. But in the grander scheme of an impersonal cineplex, it’s an uphill climb.

Half amusing and half appalling, Matthew Vaughn’s shameless spy caper Kingsman: The Secret Service is ultimately done in by its own hypocrisy.

Credit goes to director Sam Taylor-Johnson and her screenwriter, Kelly Marcel, who've stripped the first book of its biggest flaws, while still honoring its essence. And lead Dakota Johnson makes for an ideal heroine, though — as doubters feared — her chemistry with costar Jamie Dornan doesn't always sizzle.

Both LeBlanc and Larter glide through the synthetic setup like pros, but they have no connection because their characters barely resemble human beings.

The spirit of the series remains true: cheerfully random jokes, blink-and-you’ll-miss-them references and, above all, a silly, stubbornly sentimental streak that only the crabbiest cynic could dismiss.

Cage, adopting an accent that could best be defined as Just British Enough to Sound Serious, adds some welcome weirdness to this otherwise generic production. He doesn’t fit in at all, but then again, who’d want him to?

True, the Boys are thoughtful and eloquent, and the whole package is engaging enough to hold even a newcomer’s attention, but the end result is an incomplete story of a forgotten band hoping to celebrate — or should I say sell-abrate — an anniversary no one else remembered.

Statham brings so little energy that the fight scenes are hardly more vivid than the gambling ones. His one-liners have no heart; his cynicism is no longer sharp.