Nicholas Bell

The set-up is familiarly threadbare, with numerous lackadaisical interactions between some sort of creative type confronted by new people whose orbits slowly circle one another as they engage in an eat/drink/be merry scenario. But it builds to a surprisingly weighty climax in a third act which is more confrontational about duplicitous human behaviors than most of his past works.

Essentially, Linklater is applying his own hangout tableaux to the New Wave alumni. But it fails to capture the energy of what exactly made them such trailblazers.

In many ways, Living the Land plays like the fictionalized version of moments in Wang Bing’s Youth trilogy, particularly in communal moments of intersecting realities. It’s a familiar human story, yet one which carves out its own fierceness as seasons change, life goes on, and new generations must contend with being unable to inherit the fruits of their parents’ toils.

Bizarre, but not without its own unique brand of narrative and visual rewards, The Hyperboreans is an eclectic, disturbing, and formidable foray into the creative possibilities of what cinema can be.

While this is vastly better than the B-grade action franchise generated by Olympus Has Fallen (2012), the fatal error of the film exists in its structural foundation.

Between tidbits of enjoyable banter, Baumbach stages some of the most comically tone-deaf moments of his career.

Simple, sweet, and perhaps a bit too disarming, familiar stakes and an ambiguous resolution make DJ Ahmet feel more mundane than it should.

Arguably less sensational and surprisingly straightforward, it’s another expertly crafted bit of bizarre theatrics from an auteur who remains fascinated with exploring characters struggling to comprehend situations from obscured vantage points, puzzling skewed realities together often too late to avoid disaster.

Lawrence is exceptional, and as committedly bleak as the film is, her empathetic portrayal allows this to feel less like miserabilism and more like an honest depiction of a woman who feels indefinitely trapped.

Saleh’s script seems to be beating around the veritable bush for nearly two hours before it slams into violent gear, which effectively snaps the audience into a whiplash, but would have felt more effective had it arrived sooner. A tighter edit would greatly reduce the aimless, meandering quality, especially since multiple scenes regarding the film’s shoot also, by the nature of their falseness, feel flat.

Patches of narrative banality and fussy details are thankfully overshadowed by an effervescent lead performance which manages to unite all the messy threads into a satisfying melancholic portrait of a rigid personality who (maybe) finally learns a painful lesson in the necessity of exploring passion on her own terms.

Certainly, Sorrentino does ask questions worth pondering. But the corresponding answers are often monosyllabic.

What’s shocking is how rough hewn the characters and sentiments are in Yellow Letters considering Çatak’s laser sharp focus in The Teachers’ Lounge.

The emotional payoff of the film isn’t so much about triumph, but resilience. And the reality of never knowing how being yourself inspires others, even long after it might seem the opportunity to do so has passed.

In the world of Franco, humankind always resorts to base brutality, and this is a hemorrhaging revenge film suggesting the cruelest crimes are those of the heart.

Ducournau applies all the tricks of the trade to convince us of greater meaning.

If there’s any need to make another film about despicable, beautiful, filthy rich monsters, at least decide what, if anything, might be of interest to say. If families are rose bushes needing pruning, then so are scripts.

Salvadori’s greatest crime is denying Antoine and Suzanne the space to develop the chemistry which makes their budding romance seem plausible.

It’s a film about learning how to navigate the fulfillment of our needs or the procurement of meaningful connections.

Ultimately a tad tiresome even with a slim running time of seventy-four minutes, Fire of Wind suggests Mateus has the eye of a formidable filmmaker, but the narrative feels like more of a concept than statement.

Perhaps a bit more mainstream than might be expected from the distinctive human miseries usually employed by du Welz, Maldoror is an enjoyably meaty recuperation of an infamous scandal.