John DeFore

The action doesn't start until an hour into the picture, and is as unimaginative as everything that has preceded it.

A cross-cultural buddy-cop flick so bottom-of-the-barrel it would've been hooted off screens even when such things were in commercial demand.

Amateurish vampire/musical mashup begs for a wooden stake.

Tale of the Cultural Revolution is strictly for scholars and students.

The film is an inspiration for those seeking hope in desperate urban neighborhoods.

Copeland's film benefits from a cast familiar from such offbeat TV comedies as "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" and "Parks and Recreation," but it tends to embody conventions instead of subverting them, resulting in a product with only a bit more personality than the generic caffeine dispensary at its heart.

Deeply unpleasant to watch with little edification to offer in compensation.

The film's diagnosis -- money's corrupting influence, the tendency of powerful people to entrench themselves -- is hardly new, but it's voiced here with enough smarts and conviction to earn respect from non-plutocrat viewers of all political stripes.

Heavily dependent on Wes Anderson's aesthetic but charming nonetheless.

Though on paper the idea has some potential -- as a historical meditation on the suffering of East Berliners and the arbitrary nature of borders -- its execution stumbles on multiple fronts.

A loving biography of a guitarist whose work was "not folk, not blues, not gospel," but drew from and colored those genres and more.

A cinematic hangout with a playfully prickly but very sympathetic subject, affording us a chance to sit at his feet while sampling a body of work that impresses on many levels.

Documentary will play best with very serious classical fans.

Taking an approach that's as unassuming as its almost instantly lovable subject, the film neither plays up the novelty of teens obsessed with Bible trivia nor attempts to gin up fake intrigue.

The doc highlights undeniably important realities; but it doesn't find a narrative that sustains feature treatment.

A peculiar and frustrating portrait of a man coping with chronic illness by indulging in carnal and intellectual pleasures, Angela Christlieb's Naked Opera presents itself as a documentary but is unconcerned with answering even the most basic questions viewers will have about its subject.

Tixier paces the narrative well, but some viewers will resent his heavy reliance on anthropomorphizing the animals and the little sequences invented to add drama to the narrative.

Far less sensationalistic or cutesy-provocative than its title suggests, the film borrows its subject's infamy to add gravity to some family drama but does so in a good-hearted way.

As structurally simple as a high school book report, the doc is frequently dry but comes packed with performance footage, scores of interviews, and enough biographical detail to let us form our own ideas about the trickier scenes it elides in its attempt to fit an entire complicated life into under two hours.

Though convincing in its (not exactly obscure) point that something needs to be done, and occasionally enlightening, Price suffers in comparison to the earlier film, with points that are often not adequately explored and decorative flourishes that distract instead of enhancing.

An informative if less than thrilling account of a historic career.

The film is a body-mover above all, with great vintage clips pairing nicely with well-photographed new material in which dancers wearing appropriate fashion dance in slo-mo — everyone reveling in the melting-pot beat.

The ironies of gentrification will be a chief attraction for this lovely new 4K restoration of the 16mm original. But that theme is just a bonus in a picture whose in-the-trenches look at poverty is humane and, sadly, perpetually timely.

This film feels more of a piece with the fashion shows and musical efforts it chronicles: an art-therapy product valuable mostly to those who made it.

Lola Kirke stands in no one's shadow here, delivering a quietly winning performance that would ensure viewer identification even if her character's challenging first-love plight weren't so universal.

Directors Brad Allgood and Graham Townsley offer a straightforward account of this unlikely story, following as their young subjects (and the adults who made this possible) enjoy the fruits of overnight social-media stardom.

Anne Frank's story has always been a moving way of personalizing the horrors of this war, and that remains the case here; but Fouce's dry doc is best suited for screening rooms in history museums.

The poignancy of Hanks's reading of Waitstill's letters — that old staple of Ken Burns documentaries — personalizes the tale, but doesn't make this story as compelling as many feature-film (or even documentary) treatments of similar WWII rescue tales.

Fin Edquist's generic but pleasant script offers only a couple of groaner puns to those chaperoning kids in the audience ("got a reptile dysfunction, have you?" is an example); but it's brought to solid life by Aussie thesps Toni Collette, Richard Roxburgh, and others.

While the three leads are committed and give respectable performances (albeit ones that fail to conjure the artists who inspired the characters), NY84 has little going for it that hasn't been taken directly from much better books and movies.

Cassie Jaye's The Red Pill is clumsy and frustrating in many ways. But it demonstrates enough sincerity and openness to challenging ideas — letting representatives of this problematic movement make their case clearly and convincingly — that one wishes it were able to look at multiple sides of this debate at the same time.

Producers may have envisioned a Die Hard-like cat-and-mouse game between their protagonists and the heavily armed goon squad. But even using the more appropriate Olympus Has Fallen as a benchmark, Kill Ratio is a snooze.

Jack's Apocalypse holds few rewards.

The picture hits many of the expected schoolyard beats with just enough specificity (the vegetarian boy's first encounter with fried chicken, for example) to keep it from feeling generic.

Honest performances from Fichtner, Jon Voight as the school's principal, and others make the picture watchable, but can't make up for lackluster storytelling.

More true to its title than viewers may expect, the doc cares more about underlying principles than the details of any one controversy.

Things get a bit busier than this modest film requires, but rural languor prevails in the end — if not with the "grace" of the title, at least with forgiveness.

Amateurish on many levels and at some point seeming to have been made up on the spot (which would be quite a feat for animation), the collaboration between directors Thorbjorn Christoffersen and Stefan Fjeldmark is a strong contender for the year's worst film, and not in a fun way.

If Fraud presented its fabrication, then followed up with whatever bits of unmanipulated footage might explain itself, some moviegoers would find the exercise worthwhile. But nothing in the film itself acknowledges the source or the actual nature of these scenes.

The writing/directing debut of Minhal Baig enlists experienced actors but has little idea what to do with them, making a hash of its intended meditation on the compromises required by long-term relationships.

In Water & Power: A California Heist, Zenovich tackles a subject of enormous importance, but fails to match that import with dramatic storytelling.

Steven Alexander's A Night Without Armor is a two-hander whose attempts to transcend staginess generally fall flat.

Fashionistas will obviously appreciate this undishy but intimate doc, which is especially strong in its account of the designer's flowering as a creative teen.

Drew Stone's Who the F**ck is That Guy shows how total, unabashed music fandom took a nobody from New York City's far reaches to the heart of the music business.

An excellent blend of musical behind-the-scenes, open-hearted interviews, and performance.

Sadly, the ambitious film never approaches the gravitas that helped the Lord of the Rings films involve us in their mythology.

Jason Zeldes, an editor on Twenty Feet from Stardom, makes an accomplished debut as director here, delivering a film whose polished aesthetic matches its social import and potent emotions.

It intends to introduce novelty to its overfamiliar setup, but uneven casting and a very thin script get in the way.

While Zabielski and his cowriters never shortchange their stars in terms of screen time, their imaginations fail them when it comes to giving Crews and Method Man interesting things to do and say. In the case of Method Man, though, the rapper/actor's attitude alone carries him past the script's deficiencies.

Movies like Company Town are most useful when they can be shown to the unconvinced and cut through the arguments of self-interested parties.

Its central conceit is so nonsensical that even devoted horror buffs may balk.

More of a challenge to the eyes and ears than most pics of its ilk, it invests slightly more in its characters than usual, but not enough to make us care if they live or die.

It looks better than many of its peers, with only one or two lapses of taste in production design, FX and costumes. (The cutesy CG sidekick of our main hero is the biggest sore thumb.) Diverting but hardly novel enough to win over Stateside viewers outside the circle of hardcore Asian film buffs.

The movie devotes an inexcusably short time to the many years Ronson worked after the Spiders from Mars disbanded — and, Hunter aside, talks to nearly nobody from that time.

Though undistinguished as a piece of moviemaking (its aesthetic is best suited to educational settings), the doc benefits from the spectrum of talent on display.

Involving and poignant if sometimes less informative than it might be.

A bouncy attempt to get a handle on the fast-changing state of things for pot smokers in America, Peter Spirer's The Legend of 420 wears its sympathies on its sleeve without coming off as a complete lightweight.

Though some twists and changes of heart here add intrigue, the script's third-act negotiations feel a bit stretched; even at 86 minutes, the film could be leaner.

An amiable misfire that (for better or worse) isn't quite as nutty as it sounds, Seth Henrikson's Pottersville pairs Yuletide cheer with the deviance of the Furry scene and an out-of-control hoax involving an ersatz Bigfoot.

Things get tedious as the filmmakers reach the end of their money and have to pack it all up without getting any celebrities on their record other than Glee's Naya Rivera.

His unpolished voiceover and the general sense of overkill aside, Panico delivers a quite respectable doc production.

Soul of Success does little to capture the eureka moments Canfield evidently produces for his followers. Maybe the doc is worried about giving the goods away for free.

Shannon's contemplative but engaged performance is a good companion to 1980 Dylan, who in these concerts is far from standoffish.

Though the story itself contains enough to intrigue a skeptic, Bagans' tendency to tart things up with horror-movie techniques makes this a movie to scare true believers, not win new ones over.

Judged as a fiction built on a kernel of fact, Fake Blood hardly distinguishes itself from the glut of mock-docs; it may be a refreshing break for the filmmakers, but viewers might prefer another zombie flick.

A diverting if unimaginatively named little doc.

Though competent in technical aspects, the pic's third-hand script and uninspired direction make it hard to invest in the heavy weight each character carries around with him.

If the way Davis wraps things up is neither surprising nor remotely satisfying, it does at least hold a lesson for white-collar tyrants who haven't seen 9 to 5 or the dozens of workplace-revenge fantasies that followed it: "The assistant controls everything."

Quite enjoyable even if it leaves viewers hardly feeling they understand the enigmatic man at its heart, George will play well to lovers of esoteric art.

The scene-setting works better than the storytelling in this sincere but clumsy picture, whose script (by first-timer Tony DuShane, author of the book it was based on) makes a bit of a muddle of the interactions between its teen and adult Jehovah's Witnesses (and the occasional troublemaking nonbeliever).

The picture sometimes briefly achieves that rare feat, of being so terrible it entertains. Sometimes it's genuinely offensive as well. Unfortunately, enough dull stretches interrupt the action that only the most hard-core cinematic dumpster-divers will care.

Attractive and capably acted but oddly airless, the drama is a downer without offering much reward for our time.

Overflowing with wholesome vibes yet not sappy, the film provokes warm feelings, even if its subject doesn't really demand feature-length treatment.

The cast does what it can with this thin material, but even at its best, 4/20 Massacre is duller than exploitation cinema has any right to be.

Though its production is humble and its account full of images many won't want to see, the case represents crucial knowledge for Americans concerned with the boundaries of the First Amendment.

The director and his actors never really make the Gu-Lu connection persuasive.

A brief but informative look at a crucial chapter in the fight for marriage equality in America.

Though stylish in its way and steeped in shadows (director/writer/editor Gregory Bayne also supplied attractive B&W cinematography), the enjoyable 6 Dynamic Laws for Success (in Life, Love & Money) embraces an oddly chipper spirit as its sad-sack protagonist competes with savvier bad guys to find the loot from a long-ago bank robbery.

The screenplay suffers from a severe imagination deficit, as if this twisted take on "meet cute" should be enough by itself to hang a movie on. It isn't.

The comedian's latest is as dense with laughs as fans would expect, the quality of the material showing no hint of how many other projects (namely the four feature films that have opened this year and eight reportedly in post) he had going on while writing it.

Set in a cartoonishly seedy version of California's Inland Empire, this lowlife tale of bikers and reality-show politicians diverts without quite justifying its presence as a feature, though many fans of both artists will be pleased with what appears to be a happy collaboration.

A lively but meandering doc that is more seduced by the scene than some viewers might like.

At some point, all the analysis drains the Bill Murray-ness out of these delightful encounters, whose inexplicability is presumably key to their charm.

Moderately informative but almost as disappointing as his Hey Bartender, the doc may ride the coattails of its subject's surging popularity, but will leave most thirsts unquenched.

Molina is captivating as Rothko pontificates, questions and explains, covering everything from Rembrandt and Nietzsche to Jackson Pollock and the convertible car that (as Rothko sees it) represented his descent into the tainted world of celebrity.

A refreshing reminder of the usability-above-all principles that once held more sway — look at nearly any contemporary website to see how far we've fallen — it benefits from both the work and the personality of subject Dieter Rams.

The story's resolution is formulaic, but deeply enough felt that few will resent the film's manipulations.

While its quirky storytelling style draws viewers in, many will tire of the subplots long before it reaches the two-hour mark.

It offers some bits of fact and argument that may have gone underexposed, and it is more stylish than some earlier journalistic outings. But its potential to make change is hindered, as the film itself notes near its conclusion, by the fact that the already-stoked fear and rage of American citizens is neutered by those we've elected to make laws — many of whom have been taking checks from this deep-pocketed industry for years.

A by-the-book script and stiff direction fail to milk any suspense from this scenario, and in the absence of thrills, the picture's heavy focus on the long-lasting impact of trauma is suffocating.

Budgetary and other constraints make this attempt to conjure post-war Hollywood more sincere than believable, a history lesson with little to offer even a serious film buff.

The doc mostly addresses trauma and healing from afar, referring to combat experience without dwelling on it, never saying much about what difficulties men then faced in peacetime.

It's another chapter in an oeuvre that is so peculiar some of us will root for it to keep going.

A near-miss that should find some appreciative viewers, it feels like a stage play in need of a little polishing, whose talented cast likes it enough to commit fully.

Never really deciding if it hopes to be a black comedy or a sincere dive into violence and self-delusion, the movie stops abruptly at a couple of points so Wakefield can give his costars chances to act.

Clearly a microbudget labor of love, the earnest documentary never attempts to assess the road pic's place in film history or the culture generally; most frustratingly, it never asks what a young viewer today might think of it.

Though completely implausible and hardly revelatory, the screenplay's identification with multiple points of view will be comforting enough to arthouse liberals that they might not object.

Performances are generally competent, but nobody in the cast has the kind of presence needed to overcome Ranarivelo's by-the-numbers dialogue.

Though it may be amusing to watch Holly sneak around and expose others' lies, it would be much more fun if her own story rang true.

The first-time filmmaker (a Cuban who moved to the U.K. for film school) is deeply committed to the seriousness of his tale, but seems to feel a leaden pace is the only way to do it justice. The result is a movie much easier to respect than to enjoy.

Given the utter incoherence of the main characters' comings and goings, the pic's main point of interest is its documentation of Burning Man's many oversized art projects.

Govenar is not what you'd call a natural filmmaker. Hodgepodgey in its storytelling, the film introduces enough appealing characters to hold the interest of a casual viewer; presumably, tattoo-diehards know much of this stuff already.

As things stand, personal perspective brings something to this rudimentary documentary, but not nearly enough to help it compete with more polished portraits of big-top razzle-dazzle.

The plot does, finally, allow the emotions Robbie won't express to erupt in a way that threatens everything, and Kenneally's script deals knowingly with the aftermath. But it doesn't always seem to understand the characters around its hero any better than he does himself.

An enticingly nasty little crime film in which all pleasures go sour before they can be enjoyed, it is ripe for rediscovery in Rialto's fine restoration, and will be many Americans' first encounter with star Patrick Dewaere, whose funny, bracingly strange turn here was among his last.

Before it turns intense, the film gently captures the flavor of life in a place where locals play a part in their own law enforcement and it takes a bit of walking even to get to a road and hitchhike.

Though viewers who follow the subject in print won't learn a whole lot they don't already know here — and, given technology's pace, it may be irrelevant in a year — the documentary gathers news in a useful way, prompting discussions about what variety of a computer-guided world we'd like to live in

Gourmel's film never stops identifying with the teen; that unshowy compassion will win some viewers over to a debut feature whose pulse rate never rises to the level its plot would seem to demand.

While its take on activist rage (rooted mostly in the use of deadly force against people of color) has academic overtones and is directed at an artsy fringe, there's also a deep political paranoia at the film's core that, sadly, has a much broader resonance for Americans circa 2019.

Less audience-embracing than most surf documentaries that make it to the big screen, Michael Oblowitz's Heavy Water will play best to those familiar with its cast of characters.

Sadly, the script for this debut feature, written by Louis Godbout, is less persuasive: No single event is fatally implausible, perhaps, but taken together it doesn't ring true.

Genre conventions are a formality here, as de Almeida gravitates reliably back to the places where nightlife professionals spend their downtime together, swapping stories about the past while welcoming those who've been mistreated by changing times.

Hossain's refusal to overexplain the details of his world — is the thing Jack's supposed to steal a drug? a weapon? — plays well in some instances; elsewhere, coupled with the film's low budget, it risks failing to convince us we're in the future at all.

Threaded between all these daunting messages is a vision of how things can be: Rachel Giannini is one of a few instantly-lovable teachers we meet who work in the kind of preschool parents must dream of.

Amusing but off-key in some unhelpful ways, it's a dorky time-killer that doesn't suffer too much for its familiar vibe.

May, a radiologist making his directing debut, spends ample time with his now middle-aged subject, offering a sympathetic but clear-eyed view whose intimacy compensates to some degree for less-than-compelling storytelling.

Rapu's film is still somewhat scattered; its Earth Day release date only serves as a reminder of the many superior eco-docs one has seen about remote paradises threatened or destroyed by encroaching forces.

Though touching on a le Carre-like web of loyalties, ambition and hidden agendas, the film is generally less engrossing than that might suggest, only coming to life in the sweaty hours leading up to that murder.

Pairing professional and untrained actors to very good effect, the film rises above miserable subject matter largely through the sense of mystery it builds around its complicated protagonist, played brilliantly by Sriram.

A dispiriting film that has languished on the shelf since 2014, it stars Dakota Fanning but is likely being released now with the hope that small appearances by Evan Rachel Wood and Zoe Kravitz will add commercial appeal. Fans of the latter thesps will likely feel cheated.

Numbingly dumb and impersonally executed, you'd call it derivative if only it managed to steal anything worth using from the many movies it apes.

The filmmakers might've provided us with more of the specific complaints these men had; instead, their assessment of "The Struggle" relies on very familiar images of police brutality and general observations about how much remained unfixed after the Civil Rights movement's legal successes.

While some characters on the ever-escalating guest list provide the pair with welcome comic distraction, this day-to-night hangout pic doesn't really take flight.

Highlighting the sensory pleasure and creative satisfaction while mostly only hinting at the hassles, Remi Anfosso's A Chef's Voyage seems, like the tour it chronicles, a bit like a vanity project.

A deeply frustrating doc that only rarely engages with its ostensible subject, Alan Govenar's The Myth of a Colorblind France intends to examine the country's reputation as a haven for Black Americans, but more often plays as travelogue, checklist of Francophile artists and meandering collective memoir.

Patient viewers will find much to enjoy in this parable-like story, which is billed as a heist film but is ultimately less concerned with thievery than with moral justice.

Sentimental at times but not as cloying as its title may suggest, the polished production benefits from the happily un-cute lead performance of young star Tayler Buck, whose determination suits the weighty social issues driving the plot.

Though clearly made on a tight budget, Udo Flohr's feature debut finds a seriousness to match its unshowy production values, likely endearing it more to history buffs than thriller fans.

If it uses romance and hijinks as a way of suggesting to teens that the unthinkable might not really kill them, that's a worthy goal. (Insert your own remarks about surviving 2020 here.) But adding fewer spoonfuls of sugar to this kind of medicine might be good for everyone.

The third doc Ai has released this year (following Coronation and the Sundance entry Vivos), it's among his most effective films to date — tightly focused and morally urgent. As an example of civilian/police conflict that has become literally incendiary, its relevance to current protests for justice in America should be obvious.

A likably low-rent, low-ambition entry into a genre whose standard-bearer, Meatballs, doesn't set the bar very high, Mike Stasko's Boys Vs. Girls goes to summer camp for its promised battle of the sexes.

A visually rich doc with much more than scenic vistas on its mind.