Pat Brown

Its depiction of the perpetual terror of living in a war zone will stick with viewers long after The Cave’s doctors have left Ghouta.

Whatever new technology facilitated its genesis, the film is just another assembly-line reproduction.

Olivier Meyrou’s ironically titled documentary weaves a tightly constructed story about success, power, and mortality.

The film falls back on the myth of modernity being born in the laps of practical, native-born American ingenuity.

The second half’s series of hollow visual spectacles foreground the film as a corporate product.

Balancing rough-edge verité with highly composed images and a meticulous structure, it doesn’t preclude itself from finding something like poetry in its subjects’ struggles.

The film is remarkable for capturing a brewing conflict between women while also celebrating their connection.

The film is inspirational only in the sense that it may inspire an uptick in Amazon searches for running gear.

Gene Stupnitsky’s Good Boys is Big Mouth for those who prefer ribald humor about tweenage sexuality in live action, though it lacks the Netflix show’s frankness and authenticity.

The film diverts us away from its hint of a social message using a series of tired twists and turns that don’t signify much of anything.

On the whole, the film is an unvarnished reflection of the ugliness of American attitudes toward assimilation.

Claudio Giovannesi’s film is more an interesting tweak of Goodfellas than an eye-opening social statement.

It seems so invested in a rehabilitation of Brittany Kaiser’s image that the filmmakers’ own motives end up being its most interesting subject.

After a while, the film’s not-strictly-linear structure and handheld camerawork come to feel like self-conscious signs of “gritty” realism, attempts at masking a certain conventionality.

The film taps into universal truths about the passage of time, the inevitability of loss, and how we prepare one another for it.

There’s something very cheap at the core of this overtly, ostentatiously expensive film, reliant as it is on our memory of the original to accentuate every significant moment.

More than its violence, the film is defined by its vileness, its straight-faced attachment to outmoded ideas about masculinity and law enforcement.

A deeply unnerving film about the indissoluble, somehow archaic bond between self and family—one more psychologically robust than Aster’s similarly themed Hereditary. And it’s also very funny.

Transforming Ophelia’s abuser into a helpful co-conspirator hardly seems like the most daring feminist reading of Hamlet.

The film is at least as likely to elicit laughs as shrieks, and certainly unlikely to leave a lasting impression.

In verbally recounting her history, Morrison proves almost as engaging as she in print, a wise and sensitive voice.

The film seamlessly interweaves fun escapades and earnest emotions, but it lacks the visual power of its predecessor.

The film wastes its charismatic leads in a parade of wacky CG creations whose occasional novelty is drowned out by its incessance.

Sienna Miller lends credibility to a character that in other hands might seem like a caricature of the white underclass.

There’s a surprising sense of communal exchange between the male strippers and their fans in Gene Graham’s documentary.

The film simultaneously announces itself as an expressive portrait of a city, an endearing ode to male comradery, a leisurely paced hangout flick, an absurdist comedy, and a melancholic reflection on gentrification and urban black experience.

It's an R-rated teen comedy that proves that you can center girls’ experiences without sacrificing grossness, and that you can be gross without being too mean.

As a musical, Dexter Fletcher’s film is just fun enough to (mostly) distract us from its superficiality.