Marjorie Baumgarten

Opus is an attack on media mouthpieces and mindless sycophants, but its barbs only scratch the surface before the inevitable mayhem takes over.

Even though the film is a jumble that oftentimes leaves its top-notch cast unmoored and renders its science-fiction elements somewhat anemic in light of our current expectations from special effects, Megalopolis is truly one from the heart, an outpouring from one cinephile to his tribe.

Even if this is a film that does not always make perfect sense, Infinity Pool is a film that does not shrink from its transgressions.

Instead of skipping lightly over rough seas, Triangle of Sadness bobs to shore like a floating sarcophagus.

Maltese writer/director Buhagiar emphasizes the character’s transformative path rather than her pitiable starting point, and with the help of some suspension of disbelief and a symbolic pigeon (no, not a Maltese falcon) Carmen comes into her own.

The premise of I Love My Dad is so icky that the film’s writer, director, and co-star, James Morosini, lets viewers know at the very outset that its plot is based on a true story, thus automatically rendering it more palatable.

The imagery by cinematographer Michal Englert is stupendous, but the dialogue and plot by actor-turned-screenwriter Joshua Rollins, who also has a small role in the film, are a bit too minimal. Infinite Storm always shows the perils we face but never explains them.

Even though Stardust is not coated in gossamer, the film still has some glittery moments.

The film’s gear change between mournfulness and madness is stuck in idle.

The film does much more than showcase eight years of a top photojournalist’s career. This is a film about evolution, about how Souza learned to use his voice.

Despite the bright spots of humor provided by the film’s game actors, Greed chintzes on unexpected barbs. Its satire hits every target but the film never aims at anything that doesn’t already have a giant target on its back.

The Song of Names evokes a certain kind of quality film that we associate with Holocaust dramas. Laudably, the movie fully escapes lugubrious wallowing, yet, perhaps as a partial result of this, The Song of Names lacks dramatic intensity and depth.

As sequels go, Double Tap delivers the goods, but exists in a realm that feels more like a second serving than a new taste treat. It still tastes good, but nothing ever replicates the joy of the first bite. Just ask a zombie.

Despite earning his bread and butter with genial comedy noted for its family-friendly language and humor, Jim Gaffigan performs laudably in this decidedly dark role.

The content is enjoyable and informative, a loving tribute even if deeper analysis and insight rarely rear their heads. Yet I dare anyone not to snap to attention and spontaneously follow the sound of that voice.

The film is sure to be of interest to anyone who wants to learn more about the beginnings of the California folk-rock scene. Crosby’s reflections are interesting, if not always illuminating. Crowe asks probing questions, yet the answers Crosby provides don’t dig very deep.

The Peanut Butter Falcon may lack depth and subtlety, but you can always feel the beat of its heart.

This footage is essential to this film, allowing us to view Marianne as a solo human being and not just as a muse to a great man. It is she who first noticed the figurative beauty of a nearby “bird on a wire,” not he. Yet this is also how the movie fails. Praiseworthy for finally providing some three-dimensionality to the figure of Ihlen, the film doesn’t go far enough in examining the plight of the muse.

Despite the obvious shortcomings, Echo in the Canyon should please fans of the music, as well as newcomers to the sound who are experiencing it fresh.

The Tomorrow Man is totally dependent on Lithgow and Danner to imbue the characters with warmth and humanity, and elevate them to figures worthy of our interest. Good supporting work from the other actors also keeps us attuned to the story. But otherwise, The Tomorrow Man gives off a feeling of having seen it all before.

Some of the interplay between Branagh and Dench as a refamiliarizing couple is also delightful. However, apart from fleeting pleasures, All Is True is mostly a goodie bag stuffed for Shakespeare completists.

Lacking a typically vivid color palette and bright song & dance routines, Photograph is almost the antithesis of a Bollywood epic. In fact, the film’s small, quiet moments are its most alluring feature, although it’s possible the film may ultimately be too quiet for its own good.

The film’s plot is either too much or too little, but whatever you decide, it’s best to give up on any expectations of true logic and just go with the flow because you know what, Jake: Forget it. It’s Pokémania.

Nemes’ subjective camera and long takes ironically make the film seem longer and lacking in any narrative substance that equals the filmmaker’s fastidious technical skills. Sunset hopefully gives rise to a new dawn for Nemes.

No chaperones are necessary to watch this genteel movie. Although the terrific cast manages to deliver some small, lovely moments, The Chaperone keeps its corset fully laced and its narrative intentions in check.

The sadness harbored by all the film’s characters is evident. Their passions, however, stem from ginned-up claptrap about love and hate being opposite expressions of one overwhelming emotion which can also substitute for each other.

Pratt delightfully plays against type here as a fierce bully, and Hawke looks as though he were born to wear spurs and a badge.

The screenplay by Erin Cardillo, Dana Fox, and Katie Silberman nails the mechanics of a rom-com, even if it takes Wilson’s delivery to drive the lessons home. Scenes are succinct and the movie comes in at 88 minutes even with a tacked-on song-and-dance video at the end (as a nod to the film’s wildly successful karaoke-bar sequence earlier in the film).