Randall Colburn

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.

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.

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

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 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 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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

Rabe’s performance here is nothing short of stunning.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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