Gregory Ellwood

The result is a drama full of intriguing ideas, and one unexpectedly memorable performance, that is often more obvious than it wants to be.

Watts co-wrote the screenplay with Christopher D. Ford (“Robot & Frank”) and, frankly, it’s not as clever or compelling as it wants to be.... The filmmaker does deserve credit, however, for conjuring up some nicely tense cinematic moments.

The third act often feels more like a cinematic exercise than a filmmaker who has something to say.

While the filmmaker has a better grasp on conveying well-staged melodrama than many of his contemporaries half his age (Fabio Massimo Capogrosso’s score and Francesco Di Giacomo‘s cinematography assist), the heart of the story somehow still gets lost. Even a final scene that should capture the tragedy of this tale falls surprisingly flat.

The problem, unfortunately, is that Hope Gap is based on Nicholson’s play “The Retreat from Moscow” and the proceedings never really leaves the theater. Despite the director’s attempts to throw in [a few] drone shots to break up the drama and make the affairs inherently more cinematic, there are few scenes that don’t seem as though they would be more intriguing played out in front of a live audience.

Demoustier is charismatic enough to almost help Donzelli pull it off, but Elkaïm is so stiff as Julien you never understand why Marguerite is willing to risk her life in the first place.

Boy Erased has problems depicting the fear, intimidation and psychological trauma such programs can inflict on even the most willing of participants. But that’s likely because, at its core, the film isn’t really about the gay conversion experience.

It’s well crafted and compelling at times thanks mostly to the casts’ efforts, but there is an emptiness that permeates through the film as if a significant piece of Wilde’s demise is missing.

A somewhat cool robot does not make a movie. ... The eventual twists aren’t that surprising and don’t really make sense in the context of even the film’s most basic world building.

As the story progresses it becomes less and less interesting and worst of all – gasp – cliché.

Jenkins has a vision and something interesting to say in Private Life, but it needs some serious editing to convey it succinctly.

At its best, a welcome addition to the increasing number of contemporary Native American stories seen in the films such as “Songs My Brother Told Me,” “Wild Indian” and FX’s “Reservation Dogs.” At worst, it’s a disjointed narrative that sadly overstays its welcome.

There are elements of “The Yellow Birds” that should equate to a unique cinematic experience. Unfortunately, like Bartle’s return home, you leave the theater somewhat dazed, confused and thinking of what went wrong.

These recollections might be captivating on paper, but they become somewhat monotonous and uninteresting on screen.

The resulting film is yet another example of a Black List script that does not work on the screen. And, frankly, we're not sure an auteur other than Van Sant would have fared any better.

The film’s saving grace, of course, is Squibb. When the movie needs her the most, she delivers. She brings the laughs and – almost – gives the film the emotional ending it’s aiming for.

It’s a marvel that Bennett crafted this screenplay almost at the age of 90. And his dialogue is often sharp and witty. The scenario is ripe for a captivating and moving drama. And yet, perhaps this was one project that needed a different director at the helm for the material to truly resonate.

Perhaps it worked better as a theatrical endeavor, but the result is a film that feels like a collection of familiar hospital set storylines thrown together without a true compelling throughline.

The contemporary allegories are obvious, but too much of Vanderbilt’s screenplay gets lost in literal card tricks and heightened melodrama.

If the movie only serves as an appetizer for Liminov’s fascinating life, that’s something, I guess.

The film’s saving grace, as you’d expect, is Domingo. He conveys Ruskin’s inherent natural charisma so perfectly that no one will finish watching this film and wonder how such a flamboyant man became such a powerful figure in this homophobic era. Domingo’s performance makes you believe.

Both actors are superb, but the problem is that history isn’t really on their side. The incidents depicted in “Saipan” were dramatic in 2002, especially in the sports arena, and to a fixated Irish public who took sides. But two decades later, it all lands with a thud.

Its admittedly interesting source material, but the movie’s tone is all over the place and not in a good way.

Regrettably, any sympathy the film has mustered is diminished by at least three, maybe four, additional endings that are frustratingly superfluous. These never-ending epilogues add nothing to what has come before it and, in many ways, curtail any emotional heights the film has garnered to this point.

All the actresses do their best with the material, but only Mulligan truly transcends its limitations.

An impressive cast and significant real-life events can’t trump the fact it’s a badly made movie.

You can certainly respect Sharpe for taking a big swing in this regard, but he can’t bring the proceedings back to earth when the audience needs some sort of emotional investment. This also ends up hampering Cumberbatch, who is giving one of the most committed performances of his life, but only to find it buried under all of the film’s extracurricular aspects.

O’Brien has never had the opportunity to play such a sketchy, dirty character before and utterly kills it. This is the sort of performance that make casting directors take notice.

Unlike McDowell and Lader’s underrated 2014 comedic thriller “The One I Love” the most disappointing aspect of The Discovery is that it’s something of a bore. And when you find out what “The Discovery” really is you simply don’t care anymore.

The film’s saving graces is not only Ahmed, who, as you’d expect, elevates the material every chance he gets, but his on-screen connection with Chauhan. Somehow, the relatively unknown Canadian actor gives one of the best performances from a young actor in recent memory.

What’s most disturbing is Jackson’s pedestrian direction has resulted in a film that barely recognizes how powerful this is in contemporary society.

For kids, the film is watchable because Black still finds ways to boost the movie with genuine charisma through his vocal talents alone (so much so you wonder why he isn’t working more in live action) and, for adults, something is reassuring in the glorious exasperation that accompanies everyone of Hoffman’s line readings. Still, it all feels a little too by the book.

Fogelman clearly gets a thrill in constructing a tapestry full of one random tragedy after another (seriously, almost nothing good seems to happen to these people long term). And he also appears to love manipulating the audience’s emotions with these subsequent tragedies.

The actors are game, but their connection is more cutesy than romantic.

The result, as hinted earlier, is a high-end B-movie that would have been in heavy rotation on cable television’s TNT or USA Network as a wallpaper movie in the ’00s. And there is something genuinely fun about filmmakers wanting to dip their toes back into those waters. But, for that genre to work, it needs to be less bloated than this and, more importantly, not end by teasing a sequel.

Apologies in advance, but for lack of a better descriptor the whole thing is a mess. It’s not even good enough to be a cult movie which is backhanded compliment anyway. But, hey, at least the actors tried.

Despite a “you can see it coming” final baccarat game in the third act, designed to crowd-please, it all somehow feels flat and generic. And, worse, decidedly not fresh.

Sadly, even with the contributions of four screenwriters and the still underrated talents of Byrne...it simply doesn’t work.

Thankfully, Drucker has enough charisma to hold your attention in even the most mundane moments.

Unfortunately, Southpaw descends into a tedious exercise of formulaic filmmaking that leaves you feeling worse for Gyllenhaal and Whitaker than the characters they play on screen.

There is a sense of exhaustive familiarity that permeates throughout Taylor Hackford’s new dramedy The Comedian.

The only aspect of the film that even makes it watchable ends up being Shannon’s portrayal of Westinghouse.

Despite a few too many storylines and Wilson’s comedic indulgence, the musical numbers are often inspired and pack a punch. Wilson proves she can direct the musical aspect of the movie, at least. And, boy, these Aussie kids, er, legal age twentysomething adults can sing.

All that being said, the songs are impressive enough that it’s not hard to envision “The End” becoming something of a cult musical. Five years from now, maybe less, some excited college freshman is going to convince the head of their college drama department to let them put on a stage version of this musical. And chances are, it will be a smash. This is material that, with some editing of its book (er, script), a spotlight on the songs, and natural physical intimacy, could flourish on the stage.

Along with some truly breathtaking visuals, the pint-size Ochi is the best part of Saxon’s long-in-the-works opus.

It turns out this endeavor is a manic mix of two different movies in one and the second barely redeems it enough to make you stick around for the end credits.

The problem with Dosunmu’s follow-up to the more compelling “Mother Of George” is that there is so little story — and what story there is moves at such a snail’s pace — that all you have to look at are Young’s impressive compositions and then you wait…and then wait some more.

Despite youngster Aksoy-Etaix’s commendable performance, not only will you not believe, you also won’t care.

It may be bloated, but Moonfall always feels like it’s moving at a somewhat brisk pace. And the filmmaker’s greatest talent is collaborating with visual effects teams to craft images that somehow get seared in your brain.

Despite the worthy efforts of stars Tom Hiddleston and Elizabeth Olsen, the Hank Williams biopic I Saw The Light is a shockingly bad movie.

Honestly, you almost wish Singer had the foresight to ensure everyone involved took the proceedings completely seriously. That might have resulted in a camp classic that would be more memorable than this often aimless and thematically thin endeavor.

If there is any saving grace to “Horses,” beyond Luc Montpellier‘s often painterly cinematography and Jeriana San Juan‘s superb costume design, is its commitment to chronicling this era of hidden queer love.

Beyond some obvious pot shots and on-the-nose metaphors, it begins to feel more and more like a missed opportunity than smart satire.

To say Farber’s screenplay is plot-heavy is an understatement.

Mielants and Porter end the film in a manner that is almost offensive to the audience. This isn’t about providing a spotlight for kids with behavioral issues or the professionals who commit their lives to them; it’s melodrama for melodrama’s sake, with an awkward attempt at a “happy ending” that is borderline cringe.

Despite the shootouts, some epic vistas (frankly, not as much as you’d expect), and a few fleeting moments of genuine tension, it all feels flat.

Hou and cinematographer Ping Bin Lee (“Renoir”) produce some stunning images on location (one conversation takes place as a fog beautifully emits from the bottom of a valley), but it’s hard to find a thematic connection between the directing style Hou has chosen and the story.

The result is a melodrama where any sense of tension fades the longer Nina and Tito speak.

As the film progresses, the narrative choices somehow become even less believable and Lellouche begins to throw everything and the kitchen sink at the screen.

Over the course of three and a half hours, Bang both refutes and affirms the criticisms over working conditions for these workers, many of whom are migrants, traveling hundreds of miles (or more) to make money for their families back home.

The worst aspect of ‘Rebel’ is that Strong seems to have no vision as a filmmaker. The movie thinks it’s throwing in some wise words about the art of writing, but they are superficial at best.

All of “Pastoral’s” problems could have been slightly forgiven if McGregor showed a hint of inspiration behind the camera.

Not only is Madame Web a mess of a movie it doesn’t even qualify as a “it’s so bad it’s good” moment of escapist entertainment. It suffers from a much worse fate: it’s utterly forgettable.