Elizabeth Weitzman

Because the movie’s on-the-fly style is as scruffy as its protagonists, it’s easy to underestimate the intelligence and artistry it takes to make something so silly.

It seems impossible for anyone to remain unmoved by Harper’s thoughtfully-constructed history.

A sensitive drama that marks a notably personal feature debut.

This is as essential a historical document as you could ever hope to find. It should be considered required viewing for every American who has the slightest interest in our nation’s history, politics, or culture. And, come to think of it, also for those who don’t.

Bamford seems remarkably at home in her unsettled state, to such a degree that her self-awareness feels downright aspirational.

The filmmakers’ connection to the material is always palpable and undeniably affecting.

There’s something oddly appealing about the fact that Rebecca Zlotowski’s understated thriller, A Private Life, stubbornly refuses easy definition – other than as a modest romp that allows Jodie Foster to perform in another language. And if you’ll watch Foster acting in anything, you’re gonna love watching her do it in French.

Sedgwick and Bacon are visibly delighted to be together, and we buy Cynthia and Stan’s connection even when it feels underwritten.

There is so much talent behind and within Nia DaCosta’s provocative adaptation of Henrik Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler that it’s easy to embrace as an inventive artistic experiment.

It doesn’t all work: the religious iconography is too obvious, and the more lurid horror elements – like the obsessive fans who literally haunt Cam during his training – can be so heavy-handed they’re more silly than scary. What never falters, though, is Tipping’s avid commitment to his concept.

A gently appealing and sincere romance.

Few films have been more unsparingly intimate.

Braverman’s approach, in which he mostly relies on Kaufman to tell his own story through extensive and deftly edited vintage footage, is the right one.

Fans, of course, will fiercely argue that Buckley has so much more to offer. And in the strongest compliment to Berg’s affectionate portrait, she makes a similarly convincing case, with ample and tender grace.

Song has, undeniably, done a beautiful job composing this visually absorbing film.

Yes, Friendship does feel in many ways like an expanded I Think You Should Leave sketch built on bizarro absurdism and a waterfall of exacerbating circumstances. To his credit, though, DeYoung – a TV director making his feature debut – does take advantage of the opportunity in some satisfying ways.

You’ll get several movies for the price of a single ticket in Ryan Coogler’s (Creed) period drama-thriller-romance-musical Sinners. And while some of these disparate elements are more successful than others, the combination is audacious enough to leave you simultaneously awed and overwhelmed by his outsized ambitions.

If you take The Alto Knights on its own terms – as an eccentric but engaging curio – there’s still plenty of fun to be had.

It’s been a while since we’ve seen a movie that feels as though it was made by someone who just discovered the collected works of Quentin Tarantino and Guy Ritchie.

The kids will love it. And actually, you might, too.

Mostly admirable for its ambition, which often feels nearly endless – as, alas, does the film itself.

Some B-movies, of course, are highly entertaining. This one, though, seems like it was as much of a slog to make as it is to watch.

If the end result is less a comprehensive biography than a long overdue and entirely deserved tribute, it is, nevertheless, truly terrific.

A gorgeous meditation on girlhood

The actors are so committed, and the script so heartfelt, you’d have to be a villain to resist this group’s superpowered sincerity.

Delpy’s balancing act is an admirable and often effective one.

There’s no rule that every criminal has to be charismatic, or all their heists have to be heart-pounding. They just can’t commit the one sin that’s truly unforgivable: leaving us bored.

A sex comedy lacking in sex, silliness or subversion, when just one would do.

It’s a testament to both Matlin and the movie that we leave already anticipating the chapters still to come.

Even as Lau's intentions are to nudge us back into real life, the images flickering on screen continue to hold us rapt.

Brooklyn has never looked lovelier than in Holder's soulful debut.

Does great justice to an extraordinary astronaut and reluctant icon, but also repeats the error made so often by media of Ride's era, in centering other people’s perspectives over her own.

While Stoller’s script does boast a few solid laughs, everyone involved deserves and can do better.

Interestingly, it’s Cena — and co-lead Awkwafina — who give the two-dimensional structure some three-dimensional heft. But they have to work pretty hard to bust out of its repetitive cycle of low-stakes comic violence.

Since Håfström and his crew stick their landing, those who particularly enjoy second-hand claustrophobia may find it worth the long journey. Everyone else, however, will be better served by more engaging enterprises here on Earth.

Ultimately, Daniels has made a touching and forceful film about three generations attempting to overcome familial and societal trauma. It’s only the Devil who underdelivers.

Although this single-minded existence will fascinate and inspire devotees, anyone new to the details of her life is likely to be left wanting more. Even so, all will be moved by the honest approach Dion and Taylor take towards her illness.

Both Kai and Lasker-Wallfisch’s daughter, Maya, encourage the reluctant Hans Jürgen, now a frail 87-year-old man, to confront his family’s complicity. As they push and he resists, the process is unsettling and unsatisfying for everyone. But somehow it unfolds that Anita, an extraordinary character and the film’s true heart, sees Hans Jürgen most clearly.

Though his slim script (co-written with Chris Smith) holds few surprises, Angarano’s direction is consistently confident. He paces this minor tale wisely, getting in and out of the characters’ small stories in a perfectly-timed 84 minutes.

It’s a lightly-indulgent passion project that leaves us wanting so much more.

Lovell’s intimate connection to the subject forms the basis of the film’s power, which rests on a palpable pride in sisterhood.

Kolirin has a sense for the bleakly surreal, and an ability to balance even the darkest experiences with empathetic shades of gray. Everyone here is bound by bars of some sort, and everyone has the freedom to make certain choices within them.

The issue, we come to realize, isn’t that Hite disappeared — it’s that she was erased.

The performances are impeccable, and the film’s structural elements are deftly handled across the board.

Unfortunately, though, the leads — both of whom radiate individual charisma — are entirely lacking in chemistry. And it’s not just them. There is little connection between anyone, or even any event, in a project that takes all its assets for granted.

Colman does her absolute best to counter a scenario that manages to be both strangely off-putting and patly predictable, by shaping up a tartly unsentimental turn.

In Gertten’s hands, Nelly & Nadine isn’t just a war movie but also a touching family history, an unforgettable romance and, above all, a magnificent tribute to the power of persistence in art, life and love.

One of the subjects of To the End notes that she wants to “speak things into existence.” It’s a painfully poignant wish, representative of the blend of optimism, desperation, and determination that powers the entire film.

Even Downs, so appealing on Nickelodeon’s “Henry Danger,” can’t fight the forces of this soulless script (which was based on a potentially promising story idea by Wenonah Wilms).

Too much of Dear Zoe, though, feels factory-designed to engineer emotion rather than aiming to earn it organically.

Bajestani is believably repellent as someone whose split lives as an obsessive loner and respected family man are disturbingly concordant. And Nadim Carlsen’s gritty camerawork pushes the film’s sense of grim social realism further still, providing a viscerally authentic horror. Abbasi doesn’t seem to realize, though, that he’s creating much of that horror himself.

If you’ve ever watched a classic movie and wondered why no one else seems uncomfortable with its portrayal of female characters, you’ll want to see “Brainwashed” as soon as possible. And if you haven’t — well, that may be all the more reason to seek it out.

Battleground does serve as an excellent primer on the political and practical positions of both sides. But the biggest takeaway of this disconcerting documentary may come from pro-choice activist Sam Blakely, who insists that “we have to stop playing defense, and start playing offense.” Hope, it turns out, is no kind of strategy at all.

Timoner uses a stripped-down, totally straightforward method. She sets up a camera in her parent’s living room, where her father is resting in a hospital bed and her mother is silently worrying on the couch. And then she begins counting down the days.

Connolly has turned Tim Winton’s 1997 novella into his own environmental cri de coeur . . . and while the specifics can get a bit clunky, his passion drives our interest all the way to the end.

Given that Kalderon juggles as many tones as Erez has moods, it’s tough to imagine how he could possibly wrap them all up. And yet he brings his hero, and all of us now cheering him on from the stands, to the perfect conclusion. Unveiling one of the best finales of the year, he turns his ambivalent swimmer into a superstar.

Unlike its levitating heroine, it never really gets off the ground.

It is rare to find a film that reflects its subject so insightfully, in both an artistic and thematic sense.

Ultimately, though, it all comes down to Duhamel. For a brief, heady moment, the real Galvan had all of Canada intrigued by his exploits. But the greatest coup of all is that his legacy will now forever be defined by Bandit.

The scale in which Fukada works — as both writer and director — is so deliberately intimate that immense experiences feel microcosmic, while tiny moments make a huge impact.

If you set out to combine the worst parts of Hallmark holiday movies with the worst parts of frenetic ‘90s rom-coms, you’d probably wind up with something a lot like About Fate. The women are nuts, the men are clueless and the production is so cheap you could pass the time spotting every mistake no one bothered to fix.

Zemeckis and co-writer Chris Weitz do make some attempt to dust off the concept, but the modernized moments further undermine their efforts. When they add empathy, the story loses its soul. And when they jam in easy updates, it just highlights how out of touch the rest of the script feels.

We learn in the documentary Loving Highsmith that the author herself knew plenty about the duality that defined so many of her characters.

The truth is that even at 71 minutes much of this film feels padded, as though Stigter couldn’t let go of the subject but also wasn’t sure how to expand it further. Because Kurtz’s concept is so moving, however, the film retains much of the power he brought to his book.

For all its telling — and showing — of sex, Bloom Up never really gets going until its final few minutes. And that late-stage twist occurs during the rare scene in which everyone is fully clothed.

Through copious clips of studio work and bittersweet interviews with Vinton, his former colleagues, and his family members, we get a sense of both his strengths and weaknesses.

The film’s best scenes are, in a way, the flip side to its weaker ones: the closeness between Castro and her subjects lessens their objectivity but strengthens their intimacy.

Though the religious component is written broadly, the impact is hardly more surreal than many elements of 21st-century reality.

We can, thanks to movies like this one, continue to bear witness. But we will never truly know the reality he tries so hard to unearth, and that remains our burden to hold.

A slow burn that never quite bursts into flame, Both Sides of the Blade is likely to appeal most to those who are already fans of director Claire Denis. That said, would anyone turn down the opportunity to spend a couple of hours with her luminous leading lady, Juliette Binoche?

A listless thriller that can’t find its footing, Abandoned does occasionally rouse itself enough to suggest a better movie that never comes to pass.

If the children feel like symbols — sweet and touching, but not quite real — the adults provide a profusion of reality.

The Phantom of the Open tries so hard to be a winking commentary on British heartwarmers about lovable outsiders. And its efforts are, as often as not, entertaining. But after a while, it becomes clear that what it wants more than anything is to be embraced as a crowd-pleasing comedy itself.

To call it a difficult watch would be an understatement; it often feels, in its stark honesty, like a horror film.

Zax’s gentle, fly-on-the-wall perspective keeps us primarily in the present, reminding us that all we need is right there inside the shop.

Too many heartwarming comedies, especially those with mature leads, eventually expose themselves as cynical contrivances. The same could be said for some of the based-in-truth dramas that have started to feel inexorably churned out. In its affable sincerity, The Duke is both their opposite and their antidote, a feel-good entertainment for feel-bad times.

Ultimately the movie asks a lot of us, while simultaneously withholding too much. The concept remains compelling, but the execution both figuratively and literally falls flat.

Why, given all its potential, wasn’t the bar set higher? That, alas, remains the most noteworthy mystery of all.

A joyless exercise in IP mining, Cheaper by the Dozen is all the more depressing for its glimpses of unfulfilled potential.

The story is based on real events, which should make it even more gripping, but Abu-Assad and cinematographers Ehab Assal and Peter Flinckenberg draw the rope so tightly around the leads that the suffocating atmosphere reads almost like a filmed play. Fortunately, Abu-Assad does have two excellent collaborators in Awad and Elhadi.

I’ll Find You is an ideal diversion for those who like their cinematic escapism with heavy doses of music and love.

A risky experiment with a striking payoff, Ted K is an impressionistic attempt to personalize the most unrelatable experience imaginable: life as a killer.

Writer/director/producer Beth Elise Hawk has approached her first documentary as an unabashed passion project. Her enthusiasm, and general sense of joy, shine through clearly from start to finish. Though she doesn’t dig deep enough to get us much past the elevator pitch, that pitch is pretty appealing.

It’s a shame that Lessin and Pildes don’t tell us what these amazing women went on to do after the Collective ended. But they all remain, half a century later, passionate and eloquent and thoughtful and fierce.

A work of impressive investigative cinema. ... Their choice to focus so tightly on a micro-scenario here does strand us, occasionally, in the weeds of detail. But it’s tough to watch such a flatly incriminatory report without taking a macro view of society’s villains and heroes.

What makes "Lucy and Desi" so compelling is that we can feel, all the way through, that Poehler enjoys telling their story just as much as we enjoy watching it.

The press notes for Stop-Zemlia call Kateryna Gornostai’s coming-of-age story “radical, authentic, and sensitive.” The latter two descriptors are accurate. The movie’s power, however, comes not from any radicalism but from how authentically ordinary it feels.

Shot in anamorphic, with long, silent scenes backed only by Amin Bouhafa’s haunting score, there is not a spare word or wasted image in the 92-minute running time. It should be said that this is not an easy watch, by any means. But it would be fair to call it a revelatory one.

A tightly-drawn Bullock is fully in tune with Ruth’s pain, making her extreme introversion an evident side effect of trauma rather than personality. Because Ruth keeps so much inside, Fingscheidt uses every element to create a sensory connection between this difficult character and the audience.

The movie is composed of three disparate shorts meant to explore a range of connections. Instead, all three feel as if they were designed inside an echo chamber thematically, and none displays a desire to push the envelope creatively.

The movie is at its best when the filmmakers focus their ire on Hollywood itself — the hypocrisies, the empty promises, the rejections and belittlements that are built right into the system.

These are two middle-aged guys having a good time, by looking forward and backward and, most of all, just by being in the moment. It’s a pleasure to ride along.

Because Munn wisely underplays, she’s able to creep across the high-wire Bateman has stretched out, in which Violet perpetually balances deadpan external calm with overwhelming internal detonation.

It’s an enjoyable ride with intermittently compelling moments, particularly when Buttigieg struggles to find the balance between innate personality, intellectual morality, and professional practicality. But the film simply doesn’t dig deep enough.

Presumably, Sudeikis took this job to prove his dramatic skills, and he does deserve credit for achieving that goal. What he’s never able to generate, though, is a compelling case for the movie itself.

“Becoming Cousteau” could have used a little more focus on his earthly experiences.

The smooth professionalism of so many outstanding participants can’t help but elevate a very ordinary film a little bit higher. Despite the best efforts of both McCarthy and O’Dowd, though, there’s never a moment where it truly takes flight.

DaCosta uses a range of thoughtfully considered media to shape their already-sharp script; the film’s violence is equally startling whether it’s depicted graphically and up-close, or through old-fashioned shadow puppets and oral traditions.

Even when the movie stumbles, Hudson’s bravura performance — and those extraordinary songs — steady its soul.

When a movie doesn’t hold up to introspection as a whole, it’s best to examine its parts. And some of those are admirable.

A fascinating deconstruction of history, culture, and identity, No Ordinary Man raises so many crucial questions — and answers them so thoughtfully — that it moves beyond entertainment into the realm of essential text. It belongs, equally, in theaters, streaming queues, and classrooms.

Overall, the whole project feels weirdly empty and off-puttingly self-congratulatory, as though the very idea of turning women into action heroes is revolutionary.

There are ominously edited portents and a score that starts at fever pitch and rarely pulls back. But the frayed strands of the horror plot feel hastily woven together, and underwhelming when all is revealed.

In some ways, Soni has the hardest job here: He’s got to make the rigidly old-fashioned, obsessively uptight Ravi likable enough that we want to see him end up with an independent woman. But Viswanathan has some hurdles too, and they wind up being tougher to overcome.

Neville is deeply respectful — “Roadrunner” is an unabashed tribute to its subject — but the filmmaker doesn’t occlude the chef’s dark side.

Wahlberg and Ejiofor muster enough charisma to keep us watching, and Jason Mantzoukas cuts through the generic feel with some much-appreciated weirdness as the Artisan.

Euros Lyn’s heartwarming Dream Horse doesn’t rewrite the genre, but it’s feel-good filmmaking of the sort many may be inclined to seek out at the moment. Although overly familiar and openly sentimental, it’s also an easy watch that’s gently appealing.

A B-movie effort from an A-list production team, Joe Wright’s The Woman in the Window buckles beneath its aspirations almost immediately.

The impact of the last-act reveal also speaks to the considerable strength of the filmmakers, including not just Lucks but his gifted co-writer Natalie Medlock. Because although the movie concerns itself with love and sexuality, its true subjects are vulnerability, trust and self-knowledge.

It’s tough to get invested in a romance between two people more interested in likes than love.

It would be nice to see Wright work from a stronger script next time, but she rises above the limitations admirably.

Ascher leaves us pondering the costs of dissociation, but also its seductive appeal. Is it really that outlandish to look around occasionally, and wonder at the surreality of it all?

What Palmer is, in every sense of the word, is decent. It’s familiar, and predictable, and a little bit hokey. But it’s also genuinely moving and surprisingly memorable, thanks to its two leads.

Jeffrey McHale’s feature debut, the Showgirls appreciation documentary “You Don’t Nomi,” works awfully hard to justify both its subject and its mission. But if you instantly appreciated the cleverness of its title, you’ll enjoy commiserating with fellow travelers.

The film is structured so we come away with two competing, and yet complementary, impressions. First, that our political system has become infected with a rampant and deadly corruption that has spread out of control. And second, that there is a communal cure.

Marks and Liberato are a delight, equally appealing on their own and total #FriendshipGoals together. The two are close in real life and the strength of their chemistry is, ultimately, what makes the movie so special.

Indeed, this year’s Antiquarian Book Fair is celebrating its 60th anniversary at the Armory right now. And after seeing “The Booksellers,” you’ll be a lot more likely to think about how to get there, and maybe a little less inclined to place that next easy order on Amazon.

Reichardt and her outstanding team ensure that we are fully invested in her striving heroes, and equally anxious for their promising young country, as well.

The movie’s most notable asset is the way it resists sketching any of its main characters with a single, easy-to-grasp definition.

If you hired an independent filmmaker to create a perfume ad, and then turned that ad into a full-length movie, you’d probably get something that looks a lot like Dimitri de Clercq’s directorial debut, “You Go to My Head.”

The real problem is that no one involved seems to realize that their heroine is, in fact, an antiheroine. Had the movie gone all-in on Peg’s amorality, we might have had a more interesting project.

Though we leave Earth feeling overwhelmed, we’re also more aware than ever that he’s only shown us the tiniest fraction of our impact.

As both writer and director, Cronenberg focuses so intently on the surface that he neglects to include enough substance.

Even a weirdo drug comedy needs some clarity. And there’s not much to be found here, either in the muddy visuals, familiar special effects, or pursuit of psychotropic faux-wisdom.

Despite some grim ecological statistics and a conservationist message, the movie is so inspirational it feels like the sort of old-fashioned family film that can now be excavated on Disney+.

As a mainstream slasher remake, Black Christmas is bound to be judged a letdown. But Takal’s aims are more subversive. And thanks to her, there’s now a bonkers deconstruction of a mainstream slasher remake hiding in plain sight.

Bombshell is overpacked and unwieldy and often disconnected. There’s so much going on that no character gets the time she deserves.

The way in which tradition and progress convenes amid such challenging circumstances becomes Meirelles’ tribute to his subjects. The fact that we fully believe in this apparent impossibility feels like his gift to us.

Stokes recorded every story she possibly could, from 1977 to 2012. By then, it had become a lot easier to chronicle both the minutiae and the magnitude of life in the 21st century. But has that been an improvement? Wolf leaves it to his audience to decide, after gently pushing us past any instinctual answers.

These women wear what they want, love who they want, find fulfillment in their power, and support each other unconditionally. They’re not undermined by a script that highlights their flaws or insecurities, or a camera that reflexively leers at them. They get to just be, with all the freedoms and potential of any other fictional heroes.

Terruso has put most of her focus into the script and central performances, relying on minimalist production design and an indie rock and hip-hop soundtrack (Kil the Giant, Flipbois) that blend in rather than stand out.

The Good Liar really wants to be either a thriller or a caper. Unfortunately, it has neither the excitement necessary for the former nor the fun required of the latter.

Though Greenfield is too skilled to overplay her intentions, the picture that emerges gains additional power from its clarifying distance. The Kingmaker is required viewing for anyone concerned about the direction of their own democracy.

Filmmaker and subject also share a disdain for restraint, shouting and jostling to ensure we’ve gotten their point. But while their parallel passions aren’t exactly subtle, they do make their mark.

The movie’s biggest asset is DeBoer, who plays sweetly dim soccer mom Jill with a commitment that’s alternately terrifying and heartbreaking.

Although this wasteful effort from the “Bad Moms” team is uninspired in almost every regard, it does advance cinema in a single way: writers-directors Jon Lucas and Scott Moore have figured out how to modernize one of the most traditional and apparently still essential Hollywood tropes: the Crazy Bitch.

We keep getting glimpses of a compelling subject, but it’s hard to know what Nichols is really going for, since he tosses so many disparate elements together without tying them into a meaningful thread.

It’s always extra frustrating when a biopic falls short, especially if its subject is as compelling as the relationship between two brilliant iconoclasts like Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West.

The script is stocked with amusing one-liners, and there are just enough caustic observations to keep viewers nodding in agreement.

Odd as it is to watch both DeLoreans treated as afterthoughts, Driven is a joyride more interested in the journey than in any significant destination.

Those who arrive without any preconceptions — or are willing to stray from the novel’s style — will appreciate the assets of a modestly engaging and gently touching dramedy.

The result is artistically uneven in structure but emotionally powerful throughout.

Once Alverson has ensured that his subtext has been absorbed, he seems uncertain about where to go next.

Out-pranking the prankster, [Berman] turns a documentary about an unpredictable subject into a meditation on what it means to make a documentary about an unpredictable subject.

As with all of Shelton’s improv-inspired movies, the plot offers plenty of interest but the personalities provide the purpose.

When it comes down to it, you can’t have a strong horror movie without a strong villain. Given that Chucky is currently working overtime to torment an entire community, surely Annabelle can do more than offer up a couple of creepy grins before calling it a day.

The movie’s biggest strength is its balance between mordant humor and psychological fear.

Ultimately, the filmmakers’ intention isn’t to throw us off but to invite us in, to encourage us to wonder: Is it really so strange for one woman to have two reactions to life?

Given that we already have a documentary that captures the event so successfully from inside the era, it’s curious that the filmmakers don’t try to mine a perspective beyond nostalgia

McMullin’s feel for the setting greatly enhances the story, as does evocative camerawork from Andrew Ellmaker, making his own impressive feature debut. But McMullin’s inexperience as both a writer and director does sometimes hold him back.

This ambitious approach is, unfortunately, more intriguing than effective.

By the time the film was finished, I felt ready to move on from these characters. But I was definitely ready to learn more about Norwood.

If you’re willing to take the movie for what it really is — a fairly generic caper inspired by, rather than based on, actual events — you’ll find just enough to appreciate.

Every moment indicates deep compassion for Orna, and anyone else who might be driven to see a multi-layered message movie for the #MeToo era.

Exhibiting a dexterity that suggests far more extensive directorial experience, Ejiofor proves himself a master of impact. His visual approach is expansive and evocative, thanks also to the fine work of cinematographer Dick Pope.

It is a gem likely to stay with anyone smart enough to seek it out.

The Invisibles is a powerful testament to the remarkable courage of those forced into heroism, and to the exceptional strength of those who chose it freely.

Danluck (“North of South, West of East”) gets us halfway there, with a solid cast and crew, an apt depiction of emotional exhaustion, and a heroine we want to root for in a strange setting we’re ready to embrace. But she floats too ineffectually between dream and nightmare, never settling on one or committing to the other.

It’s hard to say whether Branagh is concerned about getting things wrong, or of being disrespectful. But he never finds the freedom he’s unlocked so often in Shakespeare’s own works. His ambition is honorable, but without substance, it becomes merely the shadow of a dream.

This was, undeniably, a risky proposition; no one wants to airbrush history. But by thoughtfully employing cutting-edge technology, Jackson has instead created an essential portal connecting audiences of the present to his subjects in the past.

A big heart and strong cast go a long way towards elevating its prosaic approach.

We’re told over and over how stunning, how sensitive, how remarkable he is. But he’s such a blank slate that there’s not much actual evidence of these traits. It’s not Dickinson’s fault; he’s been directed towards a particular style of performance that favors tell over show.

A militaristic B-movie heavy on action but light on faux-patriotic bombast? It seems fair to call that its own kind of treasure.

What’s particularly disappointing about this effort is the amount of talent wasted.

Hill’s made an unabashed love letter to a particular decade, sure, but also to a specific moment in everyone’s life. And while he undercuts his own movie by romanticizing even the most extreme experiences of lost innocence, the purity of Stevie’s longing makes the movie’s wistful fantasy understandable.

Anyone with some patience and a penchant for thoughtful ambiguity will find more than enough rewards here, from Gyllenhaal’s intelligent performance to Colangelo’s empathetic insight. True, it’s not always an easy movie to sit through. But the impact of Lisa’s plight lingers long after her fate’s been sealed.

As both writer and director, Jenkins pushes us to rise above judgment by steadfastly refusing to indulge in it herself. Deep empathy suffuses the screen, enveloping every one of the characters.

This version seems to have been made not to honor Alcott’s little women but instead to please the parents who want blandly wholesome family entertainment for their own. One can only imagine what Jo herself would have to say on the subject.

As a traditional period biopic, it checks all the boxes in fine fashion. But you’d never know it was inspired by a woman whose life was expansive and contradictory and unwieldy in the extreme.

Her update on “Ice Storm”-style suburban ennui feels particularly potent right now, in its vision of a rotting establishment. But in the end, Anders’ deeply-rooted entitlement proves regrettably unassailable.

The weight of history is a heavy burden for one film to carry, especially when freighted still further by contemporary parallels. Ultimately, Leyna is as much a symbol as a fully-drawn character, one young girl representing multitudes. Nevertheless, those who find their way to her essential story will come away not only enlightened, but undeniably touched.

It’s a shame the filmmakers felt constrained by the import of their subject matter, rather than inspired to take some artistic risks. But even when the storytelling falters, the story itself — not merely extraordinary, but eternally relevant — remains paramount.

So we have a compelling storyline, and characters we genuinely care about. But since Akhavan doesn’t drill deeply enough, the movie ends at what should be its midpoint. And her lovely final shot winds up feeling as avoidant as it is poignant.

For the most part, writer-director Stephen Susco (“The Grudge”) sees the Internet as a gimmick, a way to get some attractive, disposable protagonists from Point A to Point B. (Point A is “alive,” so…).

It’s no easy task to find a fresh way to approach a familiar face, but D’Apolito does a wonderful job ushering us through the highs and lows of Gilda Radner’s life.

If Boyd’s perspective is limited, his focus is sharp.

Though the material isn’t quite ready for primetime, Winstead once again proves herself a major player.

Franco’s rather flat narration doesn’t do justice to Crane’s verse, but he is a charismatic onscreen presence.

That we watch the ticking moments of Where Is Kyra? with so much concern is a testament to the filmmakers and cast determined to elevate her unnoticed life.

While the actors do fight to find depth, their characters are consistently sketched in two dimensions.

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.

Johnny Depp has done so much for us. Let us now return the favor and pretend Mortdecai, a disastrously misjudged career low, never existed.

Without Ewan McGregor in the lead, this flashy but aggressively superficial Aussie thriller would likely disappear without a trace.

With all the talent on tap — including screenwriter Buck Henry, who worked with Michal Zebede to adapt Philip Roth’s 2009 novel — you’d think we’d get something better than this outdated indulgence.

For her debut drama, Song One, filmmaker Kate Barker-Froyland snares Anne Hathaway. It’s a stroke of luck. Hathaway’s doe-eyed sincerity provides just enough weight to keep this sweet but slight romance from floating away.

The danger in writing, directing, producing and casting yourself in the same movie is that there’s no one to pull you back from the cliff. Simon Helberg (“The Big Bang Theory”) did co-direct this grating vanity affair with his wife, Jocelyn Towne, but neither seems to realize how misguided it is at every step.

The title may suggest acts of indecency, but if there’s anything this mild dramedy could use, it’s a little more raciness.

Here’s hoping Bruce Willis bought something special with whatever cash he earned from this pointless, brutally ugly rehash of 1973’s “Westworld.”

These are the best moments, when Stewart and a wisely understated Gugino are free to enact their own wistful, beautifully intuitive pas de deux.

Cute, mostly well-mannered and just a bit off-center.

A palpable sense of environment and strong performances from Noah Wyle and musician Steve Earle can’t balance the extensive flaws in this unconvincing Appalachian melodrama.

The best movies are ever-shifting, intelligent and open-hearted enough to expand alongside an audience. American Sniper, Clint Eastwood’s harrowing meditation on war, is built on this foundation of uncommon compassion.

Understatement is one of Mark Wahlberg’s greatest assets. But that admirable trait winds up working against him in The Gambler, Rupert Wyatt’s otherwise intriguing dramatic thriller.

Burton structures the film, right up to the fascinating finale, as both a damning tale of male privilege and a moving story of a woman’s liberation. The actors reflect these themes accordingly. Adams is touchingly restrained and Waltz is monstrously charismatic.

Loyal fans of the Sondheim original may feel a bit let down themselves. There’s much to love here. But working with original “Woods” writer and Sondheim collaborator James Lapine, Marshall tones down the crucial dark shading in some places and has trouble with pacing in others.

A heartfelt, bittersweet and often amusing portrait of early middle-age.

Spall is best known for his supporting performances (Winston Churchill in “The King’s Speech,” Peter Pettigrew in the “Harry Potter” films). But he’s among the highest class of character actor, able to make a role of any size his own. Leigh has given Spall the gift of a lifetime in J.M.W. Turner.

For all the talent involved, the overall effect is surprisingly flat. Foxx appears disconnected, Byrne is wasted and a painfully hammy Diaz seems to be in another movie altogether.

The heart of the film is the touching relationship between two lonely souls. The lovely, feisty chemistry between Rowlands and Jackson will keep even the most cynical viewers on their toes.

They’ve turned Thomas Pynchon’s work into a slapstick noir homage that doesn’t just reward but demands multiple viewings.

Surely an Oscar-nominated filmmaker like Atom Egoyan (“The Sweet Hereafter”) can do better than this nasty and unconvincing thriller.

Shallow and frustratingly misguided drama.

It's no surprise that first-time director Scott Cohen is a nature photographer by trade: he's made one of the most gorgeous movies you'll see this year.

Sam Esmail’s fractured romance is beautifully shot and creatively structured, but he never gives us a single reason to root for his mismatched couple.

Hampered by both an unimaginative script and ordinary direction, but it’s a serious Oscar contender. Why? Because Julianne Moore is in the lead.

You may admire Witherspoon’s solid performance, but you won’t forget you’re watching a star.

This seemingly ordinary biographical documentary about the retiring animation master unfolds, at a deceptively gentle pace, into a work of immense beauty.

Ultimately, though, director Morten Tyldum’s conventional approach doesn’t do full justice to his tragically unconventional hero.

A sassy script and good-natured voice work from Benedict Cumberbatch and John Malkovich should keep kids and grownups entertained over the holidays.

The participants make a strong case, although the most emotionally powerful moments involve the workers themselves.

Does Hollywood have so little to offer women that well-regarded actresses feel obliged to accept demeaning indies like this flatly unfunny, morally vacant comedy?

The concept itself is bafflingly empty. We’re never given any reason to respect Teddy or his work — which is built on tired, self-help clichés — so we hardly believe in his rapturous fans.

The atonal script is credited to first-timer Michael Brown, but there’s still no explaining Shapeero’s lump-of-coal debut.

The screenplay, adapted from Glendon Swarthout’s 1988 novel, lacks its heroine’s rigid spine. The story buckles in the latter half. As a result, we wind up watching two very different movies. The first forges ahead with Cuddy’s fiery righteousness. The second takes a much safer route, in which her pioneering spirit is sorely missed.

When writer and director are one and the same, there’s always a risk that the project will suffer from a lack of perspective. Indeed, in helming her blackly comic indie Miss Meadows, Karen Leigh Hopkins fails to fulfill the potential of her own script.

This unusually intelligent crowd-pleaser is welcome proof that quality filmmaking needn’t be limited by subject, audience or budget.

Big Hero 6 was executive produced by Pixar guru John Lasseter. You can see the influence in the high quality, from the appealing 3D animation to the unusually sharp story and script (a cooperative effort credited to seven people).

John Leguizamo can do so much better than this weak rom-com, in which men are morons and women are either neurotic or nasty.

It’s a pleasure to see Russo back on screen (she’s married to Gilroy). But Nina’s eager complicity is far too easy and every social critique flashes as bright as the neon guiding Lou around back-alley L.A.

Alexandre Aja’s supernatural thriller Horns isn’t an entirely successful movie. But with a committed Daniel Radcliffe in the lead, it’s a consistently intriguing one.

A compelling account of an ordinary guy who transformed himself through extraordinary circumstance.

Cryer makes a likable sad-sack and Will Sasso provides balance as his narcissistic best friend. But both guys deserve better. As do we.

Stonehearst Asylum, Brad Anderson’s adaptation of an Edgar Allan Poe story, is undeniably preposterous. But if you accept the grandly Gothic insanity here, there’s a lot of fun to be had.

The unavoidable obstacle is that the perpetually elegant Knightley does not belong. Not at a prom, not furtively partying in a parent’s basement and not, alas, in this movie.

Having carried the mediocre smash “Divergent,” Shailene Woodley now uplifts another underwhelming teen thriller. This one’s as tiny as that one was huge.

So is he a martyred patriot or a misguided traitor? And is it possible he’s both? Poitras comes down firmly on one side, and she makes a strong case. But the movie would have been stronger still if she’d acknowledged the alternative view.

There have been times when the right team has been able to transcend the gooey schmaltz of Sparks’ stories. This effort, however, sinks like a rock thrown into a sun-dappled lake shaded by magnolia trees sparkling under a sky of shooting stars.

It’s undeniably thrilling to watch Gonzalez Iñárritu and Keaton aiming so high. Whenever they’re brave enough to leap into the unknown, Birdman soars.

OK, haters: Here’s the movie meant to silence your complaints about Kristen Stewart’s acting range. And it might, if you can sit through all of it.

Schwartzman and Pryce are compelling in their self-regard. But it’s no coincidence that the lovely, empathetic Moss is who we root for.

The performances range wildly from high (Banderas) to low (Birgitte Hjort Sørensen as Jacq’s pregnant wife) to you-must-be-kidding (Melanie Griffith as both a scientific genius and a prostitute android).

As for Jackson, he strolls through the nonsensical story so casually, one suspects his mind is on other things — like what he’ll do with his paycheck. He has probably already moved on. We’ll happily do the same.

Teller delivers a career-making performance as Andrew Neyman, a 19-year-old jazz drummer who wants to be great. Like Buddy Rich great.

The sort of movie that’s not good enough to embrace, but not quite bad enough to dismiss.

The mystery is pretty low-key and the resolution somewhat disappointing. But Amalric is mesmerizing and the film’s taut, chilly tone leaves us unnerved.

Vanessa Lapa constructed this straightforward biopic about SS leader Heinrich Himmler from a recently found trove of his personal letters and photographs. Her streamlined approach seems appropriate for the subject, which boils down to the banality of evil.

For parents looking to get their preschoolers out of the house, The Hero of Color City will be good enough.

We never do find out what really went on behind the scenes of “Community.” But the delightful success of a charismatic loner like Crittenden could be considered one of Harmon’s greatest accomplishments.