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.