Helen T. Verongos

The title, by the way, is Trinidadian slang for being disoriented or dizzy or just a little bit crazy, possibly because of romance. And you might go bazodee over that contagious soca beat.

We bend over backward to find joy in this movie, but, like eager yogis striving to achieve an impossible asana, we just can’t do it.

Humor creeps in from strange sources, including a seller of funeral packages and a march through a Paris graveyard. And while not every motivation is clear, subtext isn’t everything in a movie as complex and satisfying as this one.

For everyone who ever had a close call as an adolescent and kept it from the grown-ups, King Jack will hit you where you live. The same for everyone who’s been pummeled by a bully or been left vulnerable by releasing a graphic selfie into the textosphere.

While the beauty of the setting is nourishing, without a narrative structure, the disjointed scenes raise questions.

There is a delicate beauty to this movie and its visual composition.

This ambitious documentary, by Ferdinando Vicentini Orgnani, is largely pleasing to the eye, and it pays close attention to the eloquent activists at its core. Journalists of every stripe provide context, perhaps more than we can digest.

Bob Yari’s Papa: Hemingway in Cuba is more artifact than art.

The tale, ripped from the headlines, is stirring, even if the repeated rally scenes and aerial views of the region grow stale.

Its tightly shot scenes never reveal much context, and the rather cryptic subtitles can lead a viewer to mistaken conclusions until the identities and motivations of the characters click into focus.

A clever film written and directed by Rania Attieh and Daniel Garcia, H. keeps the viewer watchful, waiting for it to splatter into a familiar horror plot or spin off into an alien abduction.

This film fails even to evoke the ’80s in costumes, soundtrack or other atmospherics.

The director, Andrew Nackman, in making a super-mainstream film, leans so far toward the feel-good end of the spectrum that he forgoes the opportunity to make something that is more real, more fraught, more complex.

If you can endure the messy slaughter, with a body count in double digits, the plot is not without its rewards.

Overall, the arguments are persuasive, the message from the birds powerful, and the film a rich and satisfying call to action that is presented with some novel ideas for how to restore the ecological balance.

Gentle, coaxing questions from off camera draw out their stories.

The tidbits we learn are wrapped in an unabashedly promotional tone that overestimates the global emotional attachment to this car’s muscular mythos. It’s difficult to believe that this tribute comes from the director who showed such delicacy in his appreciation of Jiro Ono’s art.

The screenwriters, Ariel Kleiman (who is also the director) and Sarah Cyngler, have cut their story loose from any real significance, leaving us with Gregori, who has no discernible political views and no unifying beliefs, even delusional ones.

Perhaps because it tries too hard to be too many things, the movie loses its punch.

It fails to deliver a thrill — not even a shiver, except of revulsion — rendering all that slasher gore downright anemic.

The film, pleasing and inoffensive, often amuses as it wrestles with the nature of familiarity as well as the question of where beauty resides.

There are few feelings as glorious as spreading your wings onstage for the first time. Ruby Yang captures that rare electricity in her documentary My Voice, My Life, about Hong Kong teenagers who put on a show.