Jared Mobarak

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.

Expect a breezy affair with good-natured laughter and low stakes. You’ll learn some things and remember others en route to watching as Poitier’s legacy is reinforced with a carefully curated mix of family and friends driven by the sole goal to immortalize their hero.

Despite its darkly supernatural package, however, Louis-Seize’s film adheres to its idiosyncratic tone of purposeful excitement for a future that’s hardly assured––death can be a beginning too. Rather than adhere to the status quo by taking people’s lives, maybe Sasha can somehow take their deaths instead.

Lamarr wasn’t without demons, but to look at the entirety of her life in context along its volatile trajectory of highs and lows is to understand she was a victim of chauvinistic times.

The plot’s obviousness melts away because we’re having a genuinely great time as these flawed men grow ever so slightly with each passing minute. They feel real.

Alexandra Simpson’s No Sleep Till plays out in a slice-of-life documentarian style. It’s a quiet piece with gorgeous images (kudos to cinematographer Sylvain Froidevaux) and interesting characters engaged in the seemingly wild juxtapositions inherent to maintaining a mundane status quo through the uncertainty of impending chaos.

Grashaw’s ability to keep everything moving through that thick air of uncertainty is the film’s best attribute because it does feel like we’ve gone off-track more than once after chapter one (there are three, one for each sibling).

I only wish the third act didn’t devolve into generic action set pieces that ultimately leave the quieter, cerebral intrigue behind.

These people are so greedily narcissistic that the best fun lies in what they’re willing to do to each other and how they react upon realizing that truth.

The acting is top-notch throughout, matching the film’s quiet yet dark nature.

So even though the whole can feel a bit cutesy at times, there’s real weight beneath that façade.

The last act almost feels like the directors were doing their best to talk about those things that would have either slowed down and complicated the exquisitely rendered first two, or hadn’t yet happened until she left PBS.

The events onscreen are semi-autobiographical for Sama and thus a document of the turmoil those his age at the time faced when external expectations and internal hopes clashed. At its center: love. The power it has to bring us together opposite its potential to tear us apart.

The Dry reveals itself as an engaging thriller in the vein of fellow Australian production Top of the Lake with duplicitous figures sharing a contentious enough history to confuse facts with emotions thanks to having a familiar face heading up the investigation.

It’s about hypocrisy, mistrust, and the struggle felt by second-generation immigrants everywhere. And Haq pulls no punches in depicting just how devastatingly bad things can get when a child’s mind is torn between a community built on archaic ideals and another entrenched in a present where such stringent rules prove impossible to uphold.

Writer/director Alexandra-Therese Keining‘s adaptation of Jessica Schiefuer‘s 2011 August Prize-winning (Sweden) young adult novel Pojkarna (translated as The Boys but changed to Girls Lost for international release) is deliciously dark and profoundly vital.

By letting the horrors to come unfold in all their uncensored brutality, Dear Jassi forces those who would rather dismiss such situations as not being their problem to experience the violence being done in God’s name firsthand.

There’s a tug-of-war between plot and characters that always seems won by the former to the latter’s detriment. If not unforgivable, it is frustrating. Thankfully, the style has a way of distracting from those shortcomings.

The film doesn’t nail every beat . . . but what it gets right is unassailable.

Blood Relatives delivers familial drama and genre hijinks.

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

The end result isn’t bad; its potential merely creates disappointment.

Doff may have thrown in a kitchen sink of clichés, but he knows exactly how to marry them together. The result is an endearingly uproarious affair.

The unassuming man in the corner is unexpectedly thrust into the spotlight and he handles the pressure with aplomb, ducking and dodging and building a new narrative. It’s a role that demands a presence such as Rylance because the whole is very theatrical in its one-set staging.

We witness Itzhak’s easy sense of humor, his often silent chuckle that almost makes it seem he’s ready to cry, and the impact music has on him while playing or listening. He explains with full candor how the teaching styles he hated as a child are the ones he has adopted. He’s self-deprecatingly jovial, religious and yet still pragmatic.

The acts of violence writer-director Rob Jabbaz has his characters inflict upon each other are as depraved as can be and seemingly devoid of remorse.

It’s a very funny romp with a fantastic comedic performance by Pednekar.

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.

As a journey inward into the roiling waves of memory and regret, Ahari fulfills his promise with an unapologetic air of penance and disgrace. That its success happens despite his exploitation of Neda as a character and woman doesn’t, however, negate that egregious misstep. And the latter being highly triggering unfortunately renders any blind recommendation of the former a reckless proposition.

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.

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.

The result is at once empowering . . . heart-wrenching . . . and inspirational.

Adapting a book by Deborah Kay Davies, director Harry Wootliff and her co-writer Molly Davies bring True Things to life as a quasi-reaction to Instagram captions generally painting a much sunnier picture than reality could ever prove.

While Robinson’s film does fall into the usual trappings of biopic beats, its subject can’t help but transcend them.

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.

Just as things get bumpy and tensions rise, a bow-tied resolution commences, devoid of stakes yet overflowing with heavy-handed message.

Those uninterested in cinema’s experimental and formal qualities probably won’t find themselves sitting down to be disappointed or bored by its very insular nature anyway. So those seeking it out will be the ones with the desire to embrace its unorthodox narrative style and subtle progressions.

If we’re not supposed to pity Dahmer while watching the unfortunate progression of his sad life, why are we watching? Is it to reinforce the notion that he was always a monster? Or is it to forgive Derf (Alex Wolff) and his buds for assisting in his descent? In the end it really doesn’t matter because we don’t buy any of it.

Jesús proves a gripping cautionary tale unafraid to let its characters suffer for justice. A son’s mistake becomes a father’s failure and no matter what happens, no one’s soul is left whole.

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.

Rustin still has its Oscar-bait moments and doesn’t necessarily take any big swings that might risk mainstream appeal, but it’s a solid drama and above-average profile, nonetheless. And if you get nothing else out of it but a cursory education on Bayard Rustin the man as well as an acting clinic from Domingo and Glynn Turman, even that should be enough.

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.

The Divine Order packs a lot into its brisk 96-minute runtime. But it never feels forced in the process.

It’s almost as if Frye’s childhood was stolen to some extent by this whirlwind of sensory experiences, rebellion, and dual lives she’s only now able to unpack, interpret, and acknowledge with fresh eyes recontextualizing memory through truth.

When the entire cast embraces the self-deprecating nature needed to lean into the stereotypes while also calling them out, it’s impossible not to climb onboard via comedy alone. If the twists and turns are hardly shocking, that bluntness is the point.

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

I’m not certain if the truth ever came out about that evening’s events beyond speculation, but I don’t think anyone would question the believably authentic script that Taylor Allen and Andrew Logan wrote for Chappaquiddick.

Abbott and Qualley unload everything from physical to emotional to psychological abuse, both roles desperate to solidify their respective superiority and restore the status quo. Rediscover balance by admitting their desires. Who knows? They might just fulfill them too.

Only when I was certain of the stakes could I sit back and let the proceedings unfold, my skepticism evaporating to appreciate the sadistically laid plans.

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.

Barlow and Senes do a great job keeping things entertaining and plausible insofar as how casualties cross the path of their killers.

Is the big draw still watching Vaughn act like a teenage girl? You bet. But Freaky‘s success lies in its ability to create around that central performance and not simply rely upon its absurdity.

There’s so much happening that the whole gets boring for long stretches throughout.

Tyrnauer captures this figure with empathy, humor, and as much fascination as we too possess watching. At the end of the day Bowers’ list of clientele is far less captivating than the fact each member loved and trusted him as an equal.

While a lot of Detention is steeped in anguish and anxiety, the terror induced by those emotions becomes the pathway back into the light.

Picking one direction and sticking to it may have served the whole better, but at least these issues can be dismissed as hiccups more than deal-breakers. They hold it back without sinking it. Credit the actors for this truth because they ensure the fun never ends.

The result might not be unique in its narrative about a misunderstood man devoid of the means to get out of his own way, but Calm with Horses is stunning in its execution nonetheless.

There’s plenty to like here: gorgeous cinematography—there’s an unforgettable shot during a power outage at the coma facility, where the generator attempts to flicker the small, rectangular lights along the walls of the main, symmetrical room—propulsive synth beats to go with the choir, and stellar performances that at some point all skew towards parody to really drive home the indoctrination angle before each awakening opens eyes to the truth.

Northam is very good in the lead role.

Because the journey is so rapid and anxiety-inducing, however, it’s easy to forget that truncated timeline in order embrace the adrenaline rush of fear and uncertainty that suddenly places a cloud over everything.

The only certainty is a parent’s love for their child and those excruciatingly tense 32 seconds post-kill. Add a memorable atmosphere of hazy dread augmented by a couple long-takes and the journey proves itself worthy.

Bouwer utilizes a memorable aesthetic (think Annihilation) that personifies nature while also reducing humanity to its base yearning for satisfaction. And Kapp renders it all part of a bigger scheme revealed through dream-like trances stripped of subterfuge and hope of escape.

The ability to toe the line between those results isn’t something that should be undersold. Neither should the casting of McCarthy and Richings with their keen awareness to maintain earnestness despite the narrative’s tonal cartwheels that surround them.

Writer/director Keith Behrman knows exactly what he’s doing when introducing a variety of people along the sexuality spectrum in his latest film Giant Little Ones. He’s intentionally flooding his canvas so that we have no choice but to accept them all rather than turn our focus onto just one.

Sutherland’s script is working on multiple levels while Tammi’s formal aesthetics reveal an artist in complete control of her vision.

Inventiveness, creativity, and complete disregard for mainstream sensibilities are what make the director so captivating.

Richardson and Vayntrub become the perfect straight-man characters to traverse the chaos with clear heads as everything devolves around them into petty grievances and homicidal bloodlust.

Thoman spins a suspense thriller with all its genre underpinnings around Miranda to take the control she’s always carefully ensured was hers away.

With its vibrant colors muted for a NYC noir aesthetic and every 2D field shaded by roughly textured shadows in constant motion, the frames literally flicker off the screen to leave a lasting impression.

While Elstree 1976 appears to target a niche audience of Star Wars aficionados, you may be surprised to find it’s just as informative for cinephiles seeking insight into the industry as a whole.

Everyone on-screen holds fear in their hearts because they think the complexity of the situation is beyond their means. The question is whether they’re willing to try anyway.

While I really like how Kalashnikov doesn’t inject himself into the footage with chapter titles, narration, or government officials explaining things, it’s difficult not to wonder if a bit more guidance could have helped The Road Movie from risking reductive criticism as a glorified YouTube playlist.

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.

It’s as though Hill wrote a much longer script and decided to ultimately pare everything down without realizing just how hollow he was rendering supporting players in the process.

These fractured pieces aren’t operating with individual wants. They merely don’t have the others to mask and/or mitigate their singular desire’s pure form. This is a crucial distinction that allows Schultz to deliver on the promise of his film’s potential despite budgetary constraints and limited locations because it leaves the true intrigue to this central performance’s distillation of a single complex identity.

So many scenes unfold with static frames to give actors our undivided attention, letting them evolve emotionally without unnecessary cuts undermining authenticity.

Oh is fantastic as the earnest socialite who appears to have never lifted a finger towards work her entire life, but she’s also superb at the contriteness necessary to believe in a rebirth. Heche revels in playing a narcissistic taskmaster.

Boseman brings this badass attorney oozing warranted confidence to life opposite Gad’s non-confrontational everyman experiencing the true power of his occupation as a result. And Brown steals the show with an emotional turn able to earn empathy from the most jaded audience member like Spell did Marshall. It’s time new generations learn Thurgood’s name.

Husson leads us through tiny moments building up an origin story of sorts for who Jane will become. These experiences and these observations become the basis of a book about life’s beauty and tragedy binding us in ways that transcend economic and social standing.

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.

It still works. Maybe not as well, since the element of shock and awe can’t be put back into its bottle, but anyone who enjoyed Wilson’s transformation into a bullet-hole-riddled leotard that can’t shut up should have as much fun.

Bennett is wonderful as always. Her ability to show strength through vulnerability is unparalleled.

Seretse and Ruth eventually stop being individuals, transforming instead into a concept of strength and unity bolstering the real plot despite initially seeming as though they were building it.

Kemble takes great care to construct a tough Staten Island-raised, Irish-American history so each personal struggle depicted can be traced back and rendered authentic.