Robert Lloyd

Directed by Zackary Canepari and Jessica Dimmock, it’s a sad black comedy, an Errol Morris sort of subject, shot in an Errol Morris sort of way — formal, neutral. The cinematography, by Jarred Alterman, is quite handsome and composed, amplifying the seriousness and eeriness, but also the banality and absurdity of the matter.

Stiller’s approach is musical; his assembly of clips and photos is musical — poetic, not prosaic

Many of its 94 minutes are occupied with well-mounted car chases, stunts and gunfights, obviating the need for character development, past the traditional foes-become-friends dynamic. But the cast does not treat the material with contempt, and though no one is stretching any harder than a house cat waking from a nap, they’re pros and pretend not to notice when the film gets ridiculous or runs into a plot hole. You’ll possibly notice, but may not mind.

It’s a painless watch, and, in its cheery, fantastic absurdity, something of a respite from the messier, crazier, more unbelievable world awaiting you once the credits have rolled.

Although the substance of the film is not manufactured, there is art in the presentation

In some ways, “Mountainhead” (rhymes with “Fountainhead”) feels as much a public service as an entertainment. So thanks for that, Jesse Armstrong. When, in the farcical, action-oriented second half, some attempt to execute a … plot, they bumble and argue and push each other to the front. It is an old kind of movie comedy, and works pretty much as intended.

Happily absent are later-generation pop stars testifying to the band’s genius, or worse, singing their own versions of Beatles songs. Not even the Beatles testify to their own genius.

All in all, Burstein’s film feels big and perceptive, a love letter to a remarkable, interesting and very human human.

Running less than two hours at a time when four-hour rock docs are not unusual, this is a swift, compact telling, with surprisingly little in the way of music and whole swaths of recording history skated over. But it looks fantastic, with a bounty of archival photographs and home movies, many of which are new to me, even as a veteran of these things.

Just as pure fan service, it’s a welcome return. If you liked “Monk” you’ll obviously want to watch it — and if you’ve never seen “Monk,” you should watch “Monk.” (The entire series is streaming on Peacock as well. It’s a lot of fun.)

The documentary has an easy, anecdotal charm and acts as a welcome corrective to Baz Luhrmann’s scrupulously mimetic, factually whimsical biopic. Fans, it goes without saying, will want to see it.

What Gaines does not miss is Gregory’s spirit, and its effect — amusing, bemusing, inspiring — on the world around him.

An arresting if somewhat wayward documentary.

Lee keeps his celebration smart and not soppy. He gets you excited, makes you feel the moment, see what was new in it, why it mattered.

Lee has sacrificed some clarity for inclusiveness; this is the document as monument, artful and rough by turns, and determined to be as big as its subject.

Some would call this picture flattering — not unflattering, anyway — though it strikes me as a believable picture of a person who doesn’t need flattery, either to look good or to feel good about herself.

It's a very fine film, powerful yet nuanced and not in any sense sensational or exploitative.

The jokes are often juvenile and gross, unsophisticated and insensitive, but one does not wish to strike juvenility or grossness or even insensitivity outright from the comic tool kit; these just aren't all that good.