Jared Mobarak

So much of Concrete Valley adopts a quiet, almost off-putting awkwardness that you’ll either embrace or not.

It’s all over the place in tone, themes, and cringeworthy melodrama.

The film is playing with familiar tropes along a formulaic path, but it’s simply too endearing to dismiss outright.

The whole gets somewhat tiring, considering few (if any) scripts could sustain the level of insanity met when it’s at its best. Anything not dialed to eleven becomes noticeably dull by comparison.

Iliff’s script and Hughes’ direction might not provide anything we haven’t seen before, but both allow the actors the necessary room to give us what we need to stay invested.

The film’s simply a bit off-kilter—written with influences blatantly on its sleeves yet uninterested in subverting any assumptions that fact guarantees. I must be missing something.

Braun and Martin make some interesting choices and craft a gorgeous-looking film on an obviously shoestring budget, but none of that matters when my one wish was for these characters to never see each other again.

With a sprawling cast of familiar faces, Murder at Yellowstone City reveals itself as character-driven from the start.

This is a very slow-moving work that leans heavily on auditory scares rather than visual ones, the whole akin to sleep-deprivation torture.

Ratcheting up the conflict and confusion becomes counter-intuitive, the escalation of violence and brutality arriving without clear motive. I can’t even decide for myself what’s happening—there’s nothing but smoke to grab. Owen stripped away the film’s own agency.

A film full of thought-provoking ideas that never quite gel into anything more than another example of missed potential.

It’s not laugh-out-loud funny, but I was smiling for the duration, and its subversions of certain archetypes (see Noah Urrea’s Clay) kept things marginally fresh. Good and bad, it met expectations.

As soon as the tone moves from drama to comedy, all the work that was done showcasing Ken’s emotional fragility—e.g. a great pattern built by morning coffee and the fluctuating ratio between caffeine and milk revealing how frayed he’s become—is wiped clean.

Where the narrative’s bookends highlight the psychological and emotional toll of what happens (along with the whys), the bulk of the runtime is spent pretending as though the survival aspect of the journey is as captivating.

If Walker has some interesting ideas and an eye for panache, the whole leaves much to be desired.

The Fan Connection is a bit rough around the edges as far as production value goes due to its shoestring, one-woman show budget helped only by a Kickstarter campaign during post-production, but don’t let that deter you from seeing the heart and humanity present in every single frame.

The unfortunate truth of the matter is that, like this duo’s supplies, returns diminish with every passing day.

Kruger and Nyong’o elevate the material to a level it probably doesn’t deserve with Chastain and Cruz following closely behind.

Perhaps that’s the point: selfish men do selfish things while the people they love pay the price. That’s a lesson. And it might have worked if not for the sunny, hopeful air of its surrounding package. South of Heaven isn’t dark enough to buy that as its intent.

It’s messy and overly convoluted, but the ends do mostly justify the means.

It’s a compelling journey often rendered inert by quick transitions from one tragedy to another.

It’s light, absurd, and very low-stakes.

Pearce and Barton set up this heavy emotional narrative dealing with mental illness, PTSD, and familial love only to undercut it with loud overtures of systemic violence devoid of textual basis.

Its mere existence is a win, though. As is its ability to galvanize Lucy and Shaw’s relationship to help steer them through a third act that resonates on a frequency the rest couldn’t approach. It’s a testament to Plaza and Caine’s performances, too, since they are finally able to shake free of the hyperbolic hamming and prove why they were cast in the first place.

We might still miss Sorrentino’s prior, more unforgiving tone, and his sleek filmmaking style; it’s arguable this material doesn’t mine the best of his strengths.

While the concept remains sound as the backdrop for a frustrated public defender choosing the riskier road less traveled to make his mark and a difference when every other version of himself would balk, it has us believing the surreal visual anomalies sprinkled amidst the heist have purpose beyond superficial thematic reinforcement.

Our enjoyment of her quest for blood thus hinges more upon how fun we consider the humor Wascha and Wexler provide than the action itself.

Hirsch is good, albeit a bit over-the-top. As is Fox, especially when busting Willis’ balls for being too much of a “coward” to take the risks she’s only too willing to tackle. And Haas is probably the best of them all as the monster hiding in plain sight.

Your enjoyment is thus hinged on your ability to not care. Can you let the wild insanity be enough? I generally can and did for a large portion of Die in a Gunfight, but that still doesn’t make it more than a shallow lark to forget the minute you leave the theater.

There’s a way to let this new supernatural thriller co-exist with River’s emotional turmoil from start to finish as parallel interpretations of the same journey. Skye’s decision to segment them into two halves unfortunately prevents that marriage, leaving us to wonder if we’ve been led into a completely different movie as ambitions and motivations are turned on their head with zero regards towards where they originated.

The funny thing is, though, that it does somehow work despite its flaws. Its A-to-B propulsion added onto Maikranz’s environmental framework might be basic and familiar, but it gets us to the end without too much manipulation.

The visuals ooze creepiness, even if the payoff doesn’t arrive until the very end.

I wonder if the budget was perhaps too small to overcome since every moment The Djinn appears ready to transcend, it tragically deflates. Or perhaps its conceit deserved short film status instead. Going beyond twenty minutes simply isn’t viable.

Chavis and Miller excel at living in the complicated areas of their characters’ psyches and the supporting cast doesn’t miss a beat in allowing them the room to do so, I think Oyelowo’s refusal to go all the way with the fantasy makes what little there is trivial.

For director Inon Shampanier and co-writer Natalie Shampanier to tackle something so complex is therefore commendable whether or not Paper Spiders proves a complete success.

Anyone who watches this genre will be able to guess what’s happening fairly early. It therefore becomes about the character. Liking him makes the journey worthwhile.

Crampton and Fessenden are great in their respective roles both when the drama asks them to grab our attention and the comedy asks them to goof around

People who like this type of film will have a blast while those who don’t are caught glancing at their watches in hopes the end is finally near.

Milburn does the right thing as far as keeping a nihilistic tone for his conclusion, but it lacks the teeth to get us holding our breath. We restlessly await our own escape instead since we already suffocated about forty minutes prior.

Luckily the familial and personal stuff has the strength to stick in our heads when the battle on the court fades because the work the actors put in is effective.

At the end of the day this is a hollowly reductive account of what happened with a weird subtextual rich punk against blue collar cop agenda falling woefully flat.

It’s absolutely exhausting.

That DiCamillo’s original was so funny, weird, and poignant should have been reason enough to hew closer to its brilliance instead of using it as a springboard towards something wholly different underneath its appropriated skin. I’d like to say those unfamiliar with the source will fare better, but the film’s homogenized narrative renders it inert regardless.

You can’t deny its visual panache via immersive cinematography and production design. That it never embraces the supernatural element it teases is disappointing, but far from a dealbreaker.

The stakes built from and acted upon Jack and Scarlet’s tenuous relationship are simply rendered empty once love seemingly erases their existence.

It will entertain kids and adults alike with humor and magic before it fades away later that day.

By never attempting to give anyone on-screen a path towards redemption, Kostanski keeps things entertaining.

Rather than let No Man’s Land solely focus on white Americans’ need to open their eyes to the vitriol they spew and hate they foster, the script asks their victims to shoulder the responsibility of their own oppression.

Hudlin has this thing firing on all cylinders to be the tearjerker, against all odds crowd-pleaser Oprah fans love (the McElrathbey episode plays during the credits). It’s highly effective. Just don’t ignore that it’s also highly manipulated.

Maybe my criticism of American Murder is more a criticism of the genre itself and how its desire to shed light on crimes inherently exploits them regardless of intent. Popplewell’s film is an expertly researched prologue to a much-needed conversation it avoids.

Those who enjoy a good hoot and holler with a midnight crowd will surely revel in it while those who don’t will roll their eyes and wonder what’s happening since the reveal of Maude’s mission does become way too heavy-handed for its melodrama to rise above the hollow action trappings.

For about three-quarters of the runtime, this dynamic works in creating effective drama and authentic situational humor.

On its most superficial horror flick level, Jay Baruchel’s latest directorial effort Random Acts of Violence works

The filmmakers’ obvious ambitions fall prey to cinematic convention.

It’s the type of human-interest story that touches upon the surface of what occurred in a way that hits audiences emotionally without actually saying much.

It’s through these actors that we see how their characters process their pain above and below the façade created and understand why they’re incapable of looking beyond their tragic wealth of regret.

I went in expecting a generic plot-based thriller with Max knocking on doors for a mystery that risks his life and mostly received an emotionally introspective character drama about mortality and grief instead.

While Poser and Adams do so much to overcome the production’s limitations, they unavoidably show through nonetheless.

Inheritance might have benefited from its third act being a tad subtler, but I get the allure of throwing away nuance for splashy suspense.

The script is sadly too shallow to bring everything together.

Despite the underlying emotional complexity shared via triggered vignettes of memory, the film too often chooses to live in the present and thus within the love triangle it so desperately wants to subvert.

It’s like we’re watching a self-serious episode of whatever random police procedural CBS airs each week with an impossibly odd perpetrator rather than the opposite. That’s why the start can feel boringly redundant despite what Chip’s ass is doing throughout. It’s also why flipping the switch so depravity can reign late still entertains.

Sheridan lends his role the necessary nuance it deserves and de Armas imbues hers with a wealth of unspoken pain, but neither effort receives its payoff. The film conversely squanders both instead.

A lot happens during the course of director Matthew Pope and co-writer Don M. Thompson’s Blood on Her Name … too much. This can prove problematic for what starts as a simple plot before things start turning convoluted real quick thanks to new revelations shedding light upon secrets and lies. Surprisingly, however, that perpetually escalating noise is justified.

While Avnet’s film is effective melodrama, it’s hardly a completely honest depiction of what happened.

Tinnell captures the warmth of kinship and tradition while displaying the truly unique immigrant experience of putting down roots and working to improve life for future generations. We should all aspire to experience that much love because nothing calls out its absence more than remembering its abundance.

For all its redundancies—the film enjoys telling us its definitions of sequel, remake, and reboot while also highlighting the myriad ways it knowingly embodies each—this authentic character growth is wholly new.

Low Tide isn’t groundbreaking or unique, but it knows its setting and characters enough to make the journey authentic despite its lack of surprises.

Loro has a ton of style and effective performances across the board.

Iannucci is picking and choosing our alignments for us with his desire for as much humor as possible. Devoid of the breadth necessary to make these characters more than comic relief, however, it becomes difficult to buy the pursuit of David’s victory above all others.

There’s simply too much happening with little to no purpose besides distraction from the task-at-hand to fill out the run-time.

The potential to open things up with secondary characters like a prostitute who takes an inexplicable shine to Frank (Karolina Wydra’s Simone) and her obnoxious pimp Trip (Sean Owen Roberts) is there to capitalize on. Ku and Newman would rather cut that bait loose, however, and let Cage go wild instead. It’s a jarring tonal shift.

A big part in combating the otherwise obvious plotting and overt coincidences beyond their family-friendly messaging is that Dreyfus commits to this performance.

I was entertained and perplexed in a way that seemed intentional — my confusion a result of Naishtat giving his audience the credit to read into things with their own historical and political interpretations.

Child’s Play becomes a matter-of-fact A-to-B progression devoid of wiggle room where obstacles manifest as physical impediments to survival instead of narrative blockades to our understanding of what’s happening.

I do think it’s improved upon the original insofar as relying on narrative cohesion (episodic or not) above random acts of pandemonium. I still believe having three episodes of television to focus on one character at a time is the better way to go, but their convergence upon Snowball and Daisy’s adventure is authentically drawn regardless of convenience.

There’s a cake and eat it too attitude wherein this new iteration of Hellboy wants to simultaneously be trashy and dramatic.

You probably won’t love Finding Steve McQueen, but that unyielding wholesomeness ensures you won’t be able to hate it either.

There’s no subversion of machismo then — just reinforcement.

Ignorance to technology is a running theme throughout both to earn easy laughs due to the ageist nature of the joke and intrigue as far as which man — if any — is in control. That probably won’t be enough to get some audiences on board what is a pretty straightforward genre film, but it’s enough to provide its own spin. Between that and the sheer joy of seeing these actors comment on their careers through these characters, a good time should be had.

Authenticity of character is All These Small Moments‘ strongest suit because each proves honest whether or not their inclusion in the larger story does.

These characters are sufficiently complex and intertwined to remain interesting, but how they interact can be uninspiring.

So we’re left with a problematic façade that can’t avoid tainting the thought-provoking crime mystery unfolding beneath it.

Letting the “monsters” dispatch each other lets our “heroes” retain their fear and expendability — they can die when you least expect it because they aren’t our only means towards victory. This universal animosity keeps things interesting so the battles can be short and sweet without any monologues extending the opportunity for table turning.

Bullitt County almost becomes two separate entities in the process, one half comedic romp and the other a bloody depiction of human nature left festering. The second part is vastly more interesting and yet it’s not given enough room to breath considering we already spent forty-five minutes languishing in false exposition.

Loving Pablo had the opportunity of making Virginia Vallejo its star. It should have pushed Escobar to the background so Bardem could shine as a villain-in-waiting instead being gifted the spotlight.

It all combines for an enjoyable if slight adventure.

It might be hyperbolic to call Smallfoot the most dangerous film of the year, but it wouldn’t necessarily be wrong.

So while the whole is less than the sum of its parts, there is a lot to like. The cast is unique, the visuals mesmerizing, and the music ready to get your toes tapping in the theater.

The film doesn’t supply easy answers and also has its characters making some unsurprising choices in ways that let us know how much it will haunt them. Even with this sense of complexity, however, Monsters and Men still can’t stop itself from dipping too far into hyperbolic moments made more powerful by artifice than they ultimately prove.

An off-putting drama full of red herrings meant to distract from a predictable end, despite those artificial performances being intentional, the sheer fact I wasn’t sure if I should be laughing renders the result less than successful.

There’s too much going on. Maybe if Fogelman had a season of television to delve into these characters’ connections and inject the vigor of Will’s chaotic mind into the quieter passages that follow, Life Itself could be great.

If this was Nic’s story from the start I wouldn’t know a better avenue existed. And if it remained David’s throughout I could continue seeing the teen as the tragic cautionary tale he should be rather than the selfish plot device he becomes. On a purely aesthetic level, however, Beautiful Boy succeeds.

Black has never seemed like someone who needed cheap tricks to earn an honest smile. But that’s where we are and you’ll either decide to go along for the ride regardless or check out.

This film leans hard into its irreverence, knowingly sacrificing mystery and twists for foolproof laughs.

Add a surprisingly talkie ending that tries to walk back the no-holds-barred bloodshed for the revelation of a secret I honestly didn’t care about anymore and I found myself fatigued rather than excited.

No matter how hokey or neatly cyclical things get, Johnson excels.

The First Purge becomes a call to arms so to speak (sometimes to its detriment) — a reminder that we must stand up and for each other at the voting booths and in our communities now so we won’t need the civil war of Election Year.