Jonathan Christian

The creative vision necessary to properly chronicle the impact of two musical icons never presents itself and thoroughly undermines the film’s resonance, deforming the movie into a prosaic, excessively sentimental catalog of events.

Baghdadi’s affection for cherishing quaint moments overwhelms the opportunity to fuse the band’s affable charm to a well-rounded depiction of modern-day Middle Eastern women existing on the fringes of their culture.

Depriving “Nothing Compares” of any mention of O’Connor’s more recent life irreparably wounds the film. Had Ferguson bothered to cast aside her rose-tinted gaze, the documentary might have, akin to O’Connor’s rebellious spirit, broken the mold of what’s expected from cinematic works of biographical nonfiction.

Fever Dream never delivers on its promises and eventually collapses due to its cluttered narrative organization, unintentionally sluggish pacing, and an unbridled assortment of themes

Regrettably, the documentary is too oblique for the casual viewer, too rudimentary for the film savvy, and unfortunately proves that style cannot supplant substance for a project with too little to say.

If Us Kids had shed its extra weight and fine-tuned its focus, the nonfiction feature might have bloomed into a decade-defining documentary.

In the case of a film conceived by a clearly talented artist, one would hope that Sandoval’s work would mirror her potential, but “Lingua Franca,” a film preoccupied with formulaic ideas and distracted by speaking points, falls short of its goals.

It is an old-fashioned case of vision overstepping budget constraints and unchecked creativity exceeding much-needed limitations.

If Waddington’s fairy tale harbored any substance to counterbalance its external beauty, it might have established itself as a pleasingly subversive piece of pop art. Yet, despite its commendable goals, Paradise Hills will likely be lost to time.

Beyond a commendable amount of love and effort, there’s nothing substantial to take away from The Disappearance of My Mother.

Similar to the cringeworthy performance art that wraps itself around the core of the film, This Is Not Berlin is emotionally hollow, more than a bit confused, and regrettably forgettable.

Leto sadly feels more like the conclusion of summer than the start of the year’s brightest season, and is too devoid of energy to warrant a recommendation to anyone other than diehard fans of Serebrennikov’s prior work.

The film is not meaningless, or even trifling, but, Stockholm never rises above mediocre, and that is what hurts the most.

In short, Babylon is bland and sadly, should be much better.