Mike Scott

McGlynn's film clocks in at just a shade under two hours, which normally would be a little long for a documentary. In this case, the length not only is warranted but welcomed.

The performances are strong enough to elevate things. Darin, Villamil and Francella are the kinds of actors who you just know you've seen before, but whom you probably haven't.

Josh Safdie and Ronald Bronstein's story has no apparent qualms with throwing various far-fetched twists at its audience, but the film's overall tone -- which is rooted in a sobering reality, as opposed to the glorified outlook of so many other crime dramas -- lends it a sense of thoughtfulness and emotional resonance.

As a result, the slickly produced Food, Inc. is more deeply unsettling than it is out-and-out stomach-turning.

That's some admirably mature stuff for a kid's flick in this day of rampant pandering, but it also helps rob the film of a certain breathless, edge-of-your-seat appeal. In other words, there are lulls here.

A story of hope amid the ruins -- one that everybody can appreciate, no matter their politics.

If it weren't for the casting of Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds in the lead roles, the film probably would have gone straight to DVD.

The deeply resonant Gleason isn't a football movie. Rather, it traffics in universal themes that effectively drill down to the very core of the human condition. As such, everybody has something to gain from what ends up being a multilayered mediation on life.

The result is a satisfyingly gritty tale, more grounded in reality than many entries in the franchise.

This isn’t just a film. It’s a cultural treasure – and, given its unlikely journey – a minor miracle.

An easy-going gem that is at times funny, at times heartbreaking, at times scary -- but always, unfailingly engaging.

This is a dirty, stinky Western -- the kind where authenticity is the guiding artistic hand and where a layer of filth and grime have seemingly settled over everything but the popcorn in your lap.

This is a film custom-made for dog lovers.

It triggers a sense of awe, for the pure, natural beauty it allows us to witness; for the raw, ruthless power it captures; and for its towering display of artistry.

It boasts strong acting and a nice dose of suspense.

It also includes the elucidating, offering a rare glimpse at the architecture of Spinney's elaborate Big Bird costume.

Mostly it's a celebration and a song of hope that maybe the ever-quickening world will see the error of its ways and once more embrace the staccato song of the humble typewriter.

A freshly drawn slice-of-life drama inspired by Perrier’s own real-life experiences as an online “cam girl,” it deals with decidedly uncomfortable subject matter — the introduction of a 19-year-old young woman into sex work — but it doesn’t approach any of it with judgment or shame.

Here, Lowery isn't trying to convince us of anything, other than the fact that he's got a dandy of a story to tell. Then, he proceeds to deliver it.

As it is, it's little more than an artful rehash -- which means that anyone who wants closure to the story, or to see justice truly served, will have to wait a little longer.

Along the way, a raft of experts are featured -- including Times-Picayune outdoor editor Bob Marshall -- speaking bluntly about the cozy relationship between politicians and the oil industry.

The result is a human drama that quietly argues that the gift of life isn't one to be taken lightly.

Mank is repeatedly brought back from the brink by its uniformly top-shelf craftsmanship, including some wonderful bits of dialogue.

Sprinkled throughout, there is also a handful of wonderfully amusing song-and-dance numbers, written by Bret McKenzie.

While Pariah starts out as a film with moments of predictability, it evolves into a smart, compelling -- and optimistic -- portrait of heartbreak and hope.

This is the kind of movie that makes you want to sit through the credits, and not for some “hidden” scene featuring superheroes eating shawarma. Rather, it’s because it’s so pleasant you won’t want It Ain’t Over to be over.

A Most Violent Year harks back to the cinema tradition of the 1970s, with its deliberate pace, its simmering tension, its gritty cynicism and its central moral dilemma. At the same time, it has something to say about the way business is done in 2015.

The most impressive thing about Simien's film is his script, which he wrote. With multiple protagonists and multiple storylines to serve, he deftly manages to keep a number of balls in the air -- without losing sight of his film's purpose.