Johanna Schneller

What deepens this film is Reijn’s empathy for Romy and for all women.

This film doesn’t flinch from violence, but it finds hope in a people’s patient refusal to surrender who they are.

Though the stately pace can be frustrating, its anti-war stance ultimately feels modern and urgent.

Pugh’s fierceness and Garfield’s ready access to emotion make them a good match; the dialogue is witty and it’s a pleasure just to listen to them talk. Most importantly, everyone involved is serious about and committed to and yes, in love with the story.

Gloriously, every actor and department head is making exactly the same movie, one that looks, feels and sounds simultaneously spare and lush, realistic and fable-like.

Mostly I love how Pankiw drops important pieces of information in almost casual ways, because she knows that’s how people, especially funny people, talk.

The tenderest thing Taylor-Johnson does in Back to Black is remind us how very young Winehouse was when she wowed the world.

In lesser hands, this chaos might tumble into melodrama or farce. But Stolevski’s actors deliver such naturalistic performances, and he writes such specific dialogue . . . that you care deeply about what happens to these people.

What I see is a social media influencer before social media, a person who did whatever it took to keep us looking, especially if that meant she didn’t have to look too deeply at herself.

It’s saved, first by strong performances from Buckley, always effortlessly believable, and Colman, expert at laying bare the clammy soul of easily dismissible women. And second, by the letters themselves.

Hausner is clearly talented, and I’m all for a film without easy answers. But I wish this one was less insistently opaque.

The condescending vibe and the whatever-ness of it all are disappointing given the collective calibre of the stars, revered, funny veterans who deserve better.

The bargain-basement knock-off of this movie, minus Manville and Dior, would not look out of place on Lifetime or Hallmark.

There may be a universe in which I feel the barest thread of emotional connection to even one thing that happens during the 126 minutes of loud, smeary nonsense that is Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness. But I doubt it.

I love this movie like a person. It pierced my heart the way certain paintings or pieces of music do. The way standing at the foot of a mountain does. The first time I saw it, I had to stay in my cinema seat for five minutes after it ended, to finish crying. The second time, I vowed to watch it more analytically, but ended up crying all over again.

I do see one bright future for this film: the Deep Water drinking game, where the Bingo squares read “Melinda’s dress falls off,” “Vic clenches his jaw,” and “Naked breast.” Everyone will end up very, very drunk

The 355 is enjoyable, go-lady nonsense that eventually exhausts itself with its ambitions to be more. It’s like watching a woman have a furious argument with herself about a man who doesn’t love her enough, only it’s about spy movies.

In The Lost Daughter, Gyllenhaal isn’t interested in judgment, only truth. Every decision she makes is exactly the right one. Her three lead actresses have never been better, and casting Buckley as the young Colman is particularly inspired. It doesn’t matter that they don’t look alike – they share a crucial essence.

Drawn, taut and nearly silent, Bullock convincingly creates a shell of wariness and self-protection, and then gradually lets it crack.

As a filmmaker, Tailfeathers doesn’t pretend to be an objective observer. She’s interested in community-based, trauma-informed storytelling. She allows her subjects to be in control. The result is scenes of extraordinary honesty and openness from people whose voices we rarely hear, but cry out to be listened to.

The writer’s adage that the specific is universal comes fully alive in this family drama, written and directed by Stephen Karam, based on his Tony-winning play.

Kline and McCarthy are lovely in their few scenes together (they’re the reason for that extra half-star) and for those brief moments, you see the film the actors thought they were making.

The chance to say something new or revealing about school shooters is squandered, and all the urgent reality runs out.

The director, Michael Showalter (The Big Sick), and the screenwriters Abe Sylvia, along with Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato who made the 2000 documentary of the same name, either can’t or don’t want to confine themselves to a consistent tone.

The songs are clever; the actors dig in (especially Amy Adams and Julianne Moore as Connor and Evan’s moms, respectively). And Ben Platt’s voice is undeniable, a thing of wonder, a pure emotion-delivery system. You will be moved.

Munn’s exquisitely readable face, which cycles through emotional states with delicate flickers, is Bateman’s strongest asset. Her weakest is her storytelling.

The Water Man myth feels incomplete. What is magical, though, is the chance to root for a young Black male hero as he navigates a family crisis that’s both specific and universal, and not based on race.

Decker evolved her project with her actors over five months, and it’s both pro and con that, boy howdy, it sure feels improvised.