Randall Colburn

It’s a jarring journey, filled with twists that snap and sting like bear traps, and an endurance test, too, especially for the squeamish.

It’s a valid mission, one supposes, but rendering Bonnie, Clyde, and their cultural impact in such a one-dimensional fashion doesn’t add weight to its subjects. It only serves to strip dimension away from their own story.

The Day Shall Come remains a riveting watch, though, if only for Morris’ deft, lightning-fast pace and the cast’s mastery of his language. ... The problem is that the film’s humanity is often eclipsed by its big-picture message and satirical edge.

A singular work, brimming with ideas, by a budding visionary with a hell of a lot to say.

While one wishes the beats were a touch more oiled, the film’s strengths reside outside the confines of narrative.

It’s easy to get swept up in Booksmart‘s pace and pleasures, but take a breath and you might find yourself longing for a world that’s at least a touch more familiar.

Us is something of a frustrating watch, a visual and technical marvel that just doesn’t seem to know what it is. Unlike Get Out, which only swelled in impact as you left the theater, Us is best viewed on a visceral level, not an intellectual one.

Ánimas packs a lot into its 90 minutes, and occasionally suffers for it. There’s a dourness to the movie, a self-seriousness that won’t make it anyone’s favorite escapist flick. But while it wears its themes on its sleeve, they remain undoubtedly striking and thought-provoking, especially in an age where the issue of mental illness is being discussed on a global scale.

There’s a fundamental problem here, one of conception, not of execution.

It’s vital in the sense that there aren’t enough third-party chronicles of this undeniably potent force in the online world, but it’s sloppy in how safe it feels — it’s easy to imagine the stars agreeing to speak so long as certain topics were either breezed over or avoided entirely.

There’s a rich, hilarious novelty to the film’s juxtaposition of glittering pop and ultraviolence, but by virtue of the clear disconnect between story and song, that novelty quickly wears thin.

It’s moving stuff, even if Kore-eda threatens to dilute his themes by overindulging in them. Shoplifters overstays its welcome somewhat as the third act rolls on, with an epilogue that seems to exist only to absolve characters that don’t quite deserve it. The empathy is admirable, but one wishes for a touch more restraint, especially in the wake of such an emotionally devastating climax.

It’s gripping stuff, especially since Goldhaber and Mazzei map out an endgame that’s maintains an intriguing ambiguity while still providing a definitive conclusion.

Hunter Killer has thrills, but they’re of the cheapest variety.

22 July is a thoughtful, gutting achievement that you’ll likely never want to watch again. Greengrass’ approach here is graceful and deeply resonant, but it’s undoubtedly draining, especially considering you still have roughly two hours to go after the shootings that ignite the narrative

To watch it is to open a pizza box that’s been jostled a few too many times. Inside, the cheese clings to the cardboard, sauce splashes against the sides, and pepperonis drip with grease. It might be sloppy, but you’ll be damned if it don’t still taste good.

What makes A Prayer Before Dawn so powerful is also what makes it so punishing.

While the script is fundamentally flawed, the direction doesn’t help. Young, who previously helmed the brutal 2016 indie Hounds of Love, feels out of his element in the sci-fi action realm.

The franchise, however, feels less solid than Washington’s performance. There’s a formulaic quality to it, an aversion to the basics of world-building that gives The Equalizer 2 an outdated feel in a cinematic landscape where more attention is being paid to continuity and myth-making.

How It Ends ends with something of a whimper, leaving us feeling as if a compelling story was undercut by being told through its least interesting characters.

The First Purge is every bit as nakedly, hysterically symbolic as its predecessors. But if there’s one thing that the current political climate is teaching us, it’s that a subtle touch isn’t always the solution.

As was the case with the majority of blaxploitation films, the original Super Fly’s appeal wasn’t in its story so much as the ways in which it carved out an unapologetically black vision that served to capture a particular era in terms of its themes, music, and fashion. X has done that here, but he’s also crafted a crowd-pleasing summer blockbuster that will appeal to the modern filmgoer.

Drew Pearce‘s Hotel Artemis...falls victim to much of what ails any ensemble picture — rushed plotting, forced coincidence, indulgence — but still manages to make a big impression.

The only subtlety to be found is in the performance of singer and actress Charlotte Gainsbourg, though it’s her co-star, Jim Carrey, who will be the subject of most of this strange, ugly film’s discussion. And why not? It’s a bizarre, fascinating turn for Carrey.

You know the characters, the beats, and the general arc. You know how it will end before the first act concludes, and that’s fine. The journey’s pleasant enough.

Unfortunately, the good stuff comes not only too late, but is more or less undone by a head-scratcher of an ending.

Hawke is too committed for Toller’s humanity to not shine through. It’s a layered, transformative performance, his gritting, introverted Toller bearing no traces of the rambling, loose-limbed Hawke of Richard Linklater’s canon.

It’s a mess, but a glorious one, the kind of ambitious, unapologetic project that’s most notable for its perspective.

Hereditary‘s horror functions on multiple levels. What we see is undoubtedly terrifying, but it’s how we see it that truly distinguishes the film.

Director Kay Cannon‘s perspective is the film’s biggest asset, as it freshens up the traditional formula’s inevitable focus on love, consent, and orientation in ways that maintain the sub-genre’s trademark raunch.

It is impressive, though, the way the movie works to incorporate new online phenomenons, from Bitcoin to swatting. The latter bit, especially, resonates as one of the film’s most unsettling elements, if only because it feels so depressingly possible. Truly, it’s surprising just how soul-crushing Dark Web becomes after luring us in with so many intriguing mysteries, but, hey, this is the internet we’re talking about.

The careful, strategic navigation of silence and noise is the film’s greatest asset, and when it explores this tension, and the way in which it impacts both the characters and monsters, the result is vibrant, urgent, and innovative.

There’s something distinctly odious about a storyteller exploiting both a city’s tragic reality and a country’s debate about firearms to make a film that thrives on violence.

The Ritual is rich, meaty horror that, despite your feelings regarding its twists and turns, offers up a gripping balance of psychological terror and physical revulsion.

It’s weird, intermittently amusing gobbledygook that should help a drowsy weekday night pass a bit quicker. Unfortunately, mediocrity won’t do much for the Cloverfield brand, which set a high bar for itself with 10 Cloverfield Lane.

As it lurches into its second act, Before I Wake begins slavishly following the beats of its studio horror contemporaries, (mostly) abandoning its nuance for rote investigations into the cause of the phenomena and horror set pieces that defy the previously established logic of the dream manifestations.

Robitel and Whannel are still too bound to the franchise here to make something truly original, but The Last Key will make you grip your armrest, squint your eyes, and prepare for the worst. Sometimes, that’s enough.

Bitch‘s third act is an improvement upon its second, mainly in that the movie allows itself to be weird again.

Though Harrelson’s performance is nothing if not memorable, it lacks dynamism. His tone and cadence, though booming, becomes familiar as the film barrels on, and the plasticine nature of his prosthetics is distracting.... It’s a good performance, but not a layered one.

Not all of Killing Gunther lands as well as it should. The humor feels inconsistent at times.

Happy Death Day is a lot of fun when it allows itself to have fun.

It’s not easy, balancing careful character development and a vivid sense of place with the bloodlust of expectations, but Zahler’s done it here.

American Assassin never transcends the exploitation at its core.

Lemon remains wholly original throughout, rendering old themes fresh with its bold perspective. It’s also incredibly funny, even when it’s dunking our heads into the darkness of the human psyche.

Sandberg finds much of his terror in the tension that exists between light and shadow, an unsurprising discovery considering his previous film hinged on the two. They’re used much more effectively here, however.

In building worlds as detailed and vivid as he’s done here, Besson has essentially allowed the setting to do what’s typically reserved for characters and stakes, and that’s to make us care.

Shimmer Lake’s climax does a fine job of bringing together its disparate parts for a resolution that’s surprising, effective, and logical.

It Comes at Night isn’t scary so much as it’s horrific, though Shults is extremely gifted at cultivating the kind of slow, droning dread that inflates in your chest like a black balloon.

Berlin Syndrome isn’t a sensational film; the emotions on display are warped and scarred, but rooted in identifiable desires. In some ways, this makes their impact that much more ingrained.

Rings is too beholden with current trends to truly exploit the potential it displays in its early going.

Any sense of mystery or suspense quickly dissipates as the film returns again and again to repetitive and terse exchanges between Claire and Allison, whose revelations aren’t as surprising as they’re probably intended to be.

In this instance, the medium just doesn’t elevate the material. That said, Fences is still a gripping watch, but it’s gripping for the reasons the play has always been gripping: the language and performances.

What saves this head-scratching, relentlessly portentous movie is what also saves the games: the action is on point.

Miss Sloane is a smart, thorough film about a rare subject that is also as breathless, broad, and crowd-pleasing as your standard Grisham thriller.

The Monster is worth watching for Kazan and Ballentine.

It’s a movie about bravery and the power of inspiration, be it divine or corporeal, in moments of hopelessness. Desmond’s faith is placed front and center, and the way it operates here celebrates not the object of that faith, but the power it has to motivate both Desmond and his squad.

What’s clear in Perkins’ second feature is that he’s clearly become aware that his talents as a visual storyteller outweigh his skill with narrative. He’s leaning into that, and while it might make for a more “difficult” film, it’s ultimately a more satisfying one.

TrumpLand is a valuable film for the open-minded, undecided voter, or those who can’t seem to reconcile their seeming dislike for Clinton with a vote for her; an extended rant on likability in politics is especially effective.

Neither Bates Jr.’s assured direction nor the strength of the performances can salvage the narrative, which feels overly convoluted and spackled far too much finery.

As with most Duplass-produced films, Rainbow Time perhaps ambles a bit too awkwardly into its ending. But, if it weren’t already clear, this is a messy movie about messy people, unique in both its character dynamics and worldview.

Flanagan’s scares are so precise, so exquisitely timed, that they’re able to imprint the mind as much as quicken the pulse.

Morgan isn’t hard sci-fi. It isn’t trying to solve the questions that have suffused the genre since its inception. Rather, it couches those ever-more-timely concerns in scenes of high action and affecting character connection.

Johnson, being a primary voice behind some of this century’s most important documentaries, is a particularly qualified candidate to chronicle life in this way, and her greatest feat, one I can’t imagine anyone else achieving, is her ability to tell the story of her life without ever once talking about herself.

Rabe’s performance here is nothing short of stunning.

It’s vacuous, ugly, unfunny, and, somehow, not a satire. It might be the worst movie of the year.

A rich, complex drama that’s as much about consequence and justification as it is destiny.

Jump scares are all Sandberg seems to have in his bag of tricks, and each is clunkily executed and met with an agonizing, ear-piercing shriek. Watching Lights Out is like standing next to an idiot with an air horn, never quite knowing when it’s about to blow in your ear. It’s a far cry from the freaky grace of his short.

This is the kind of film that follows you home, that makes you scared to enter a dark alley or go in the basement.

The film’s comical bluntness could also be construed as off putting, but to criticize that is to deprive yourself the joy of such pulp. And this is pulp, from the brazenness of its violence to the dull bite of its clunky dialogue. What Election Year offers isn’t nuanced satire, but rather a kind of catharsis, a release that’s not so far off from what the Purge itself purports to provide.

Central Intelligence is genuinely funny, intriguingly plotted, and quite frankly one of the biggest surprises of the year.

At its core, it’s a simple and triumphant tale of sisterhood, but with so much ladled on top of it it begins to feel as though it’s grasping for a grandeur it doesn’t need. Sometimes, even the most intense emotions can benefit from a light touch.

In the end, it’s not Weiner with whom you’re furious, but a media climate that routinely prioritizes scandal and lewdness over the intricacies of a candidate’s platform. With the circus that is our forthcoming election rapidly approaching, this message is all the more resonant.

Don’t Think Twice is a brisk, engaging watch. It’s sweet, it’s melancholy, and, perhaps most importantly, it’s hilarious. And despite the film’s soft teeth, it’s still the most honest and unfiltered exploration of improv comedy you’re likely to find out of Hollywood.

London Has Fallen is terrorism porn, an alarmist, jingoistic piece of CGI-soaked garbage that implores its audience to fear nothing after sensationalizing the slaughter of innocents and the destruction of a major city.

This is a film about sisters, yes, but also the identity we all must forge independent of our families, and the pain that comes with outgrowing the innocence that once defined our sibling bonds.

Hart, the firecracker that he is, has a fitting comedic (and crime-fighting) partner out there somewhere. But it’s not in the Ride Along series.

Poekel and Audley keep exposition to a minimum, allowing the truth behind Noel’s breakup to emerge organically, in the weight of an object or his reaction to a beaming couple. It’s elegant filmmaking, seamless in its storytelling.