Roger Moore

In Spanish with English subtitles, has a lovely, big budget sheen (Shlomo Godder was the cinematographer) and a cast that plays this as documentary real.

This is a movie that lets us understand the foibles and dark underpinnings of a movement that seems to have transcended removing itself from “this world’s” everyday concerns to embracing the ugliest elements of its dogma — superstition, dogmatic intolerance, “control” and a disregard for any American or American institution that doesn’t fit their myopic worldview.

Prisoners is never less than engrossing. It’ll keep you guessing. It’s just too bad that the last thirty minutes make us feel like the prisoners, here.

Gladstone carries the picture as a reactor — to the stories she hears from this waitress, that grandfatherly distant relative, the bride-to-be. But even those reactions are subdued.

Camargo puts a sympathetic face on a statistic, an innocent child targeted, and the collateral damage that spills over from that shatters lives, limits futures and has blowback that the online anti-immigration zealots can’t begin to fathom.

Writer-director Blichfeldt’s debut feature is more cringe-worthy than laugh-out-loud funny. She picked obvious targets. But there’s a lot to be said for having the audicity to “go there” and go gory when you’re sending up the ugly open secret that “Beauty is pain,” that it’s a trap and that it’s well past time to stop taking fairy tales with princes and “Sleeping Beauties” at “children’s story” face value.

In Mary, Leigh has found the polar opposite of Sally Hawkin's giggle-through-the-pain heroine of "Happy-Go-Lucky."

Epicentro is a lovely new tone poem to Cuba, as it is now, the Cuba behind the propaganda from within and without.

The first 25 minutes or so of this “Contagion” meets “28 Days Later” thriller will leave you breathless. And the rest of it serves up novel and often entertaining solutions to the various “zombie problems” that this over-exposed genre presents.

A tricky thriller whose tricks are less important than its riveting leading lady.

This compelling-acted film explains, better than any soundbite, why people have taken to the streets, "occupying" centers of finance. If their rage is unfocused, Margin Call suggests, that's with good reason. There are no real heroes or villains here, just human beings with human failings making BIG human mistakes.

The story’s direction becomes deflatingly predictable once all the various characters and plot elements are set up. But Rose Plays Julie is a psychological thriller where pathos, suspense and the silent confusion of our heroine compete for primacy. Start to finish, this is damned unsettling.

Branagh and Williams are worth the price of admission, the former "wunderkind" of British stage and screen having a go at the pretentious, plummy Olivier.

Snyder and co-writer Jason Begue paint a delightful alternative portrait of Hasidism and its practioners, going beyond the rituals and beyond respectful mockery, showing us foul-mouthed kids and an insular world clumsily at odds with the culture they’ve settled in.

This quick, short Sundance Film Festival award winner leaves out a lot more about Brinkley than in it includes. But save your trip to the library (or Wikipedia) for after the film. The surprises, comic and tragic, are worth waiting for.

A compelling drama about self-image, dashed dreams and the growing up that might be on the other side of despair.

Through it all, Akhlaghirad makes a fine, seething muse for Rasoulof, a character who never quite gave up his student protestor past now speaking for a filmmaker who plainly never outgrew his, either.

Cooper, to his credit, rarely flinches, never chest-thumps and never loses his cool, even when Kyle is starting to lose his. It’s a masterful interpretation of a man with a lot more on his mind and blood on his hands than he was ever inclined to let on. And it’s a performance worthy of Eastwood himself — 50 years ago.

Vreeland’s film, wallowing in the Beaton vision of beauty via his images, his art and his screen work, does a marvelous service in reclaiming this dandy’s dandy/designer’s designer and iconic photographer from obscurity.

The animation is the one novel element to this, a familiar sort of film on a most familiar subject. But the movie lets its subject — Sonia — be its strength, and if you’ve ever had the privilege of meeting a survivor willing to talk about what they experienced, you know how smart that decision was.

A hilariously dark and dirty road comedy built on a stripper’s “my hand to God this happened” tweets.

The cast, plainly packed with second or third choices, lets it down. Is there anything in James Franco’s past that suggests larger-than-life, a fast-talking, womanizing con-man? And the three witches – Theodora, Evanora and Glinda – are Bland, Blander and Blond Bland.

The Pool is terror at its most primal, a simple Thai thriller that’s complex in its simplicity.

Some movies you want to hug, just to reward how a film makes you feel and what magic it is when a setting, a character, a star and a story sing together in near perfect harmony.

Ultrasound challenges us to go with our instincts and first impressions no matter what we learn about characters later on, only to upend those impressions on occasion. It puzzles and annoys and maybe even infuriates.

Restless is far more precious than profound. But that takes little away from this soulful teenage exploration of love, life and death.

The Plagues of Breslau throws a lot of fresh ideas at the genre and blood on the screen, making for one of the most surprising pictures to wear the label “serial killer thriller” in years.

Field and Blanchett have given us an unforgettable character presented in almost molecular detail, and a glorious, guts-and-Gustav behind-the-scenes plunge into a rarefied world few of us have so much as dabbled in or seriously wondered about, even if we know our Tchaikovsky from our Mahler, pianissimo from forte.

The leads are charmingly mismatched, but adorable enough to root for, as a couple. Forestier is a wildly uninhibited actress, sexy as all get out. She makes this girl dangerous, seemingly capable of anything.

Rene Russo is spot-on as Nina, an aging TV news director who is the only person Bloom will sell his footage to.

It’s a slight film, but as befits something as introspective and spooky as this, it’s not delicate or dainty.

The whole adds up to a charming portrait of the micro-fame and full, rich (not that rich) lives of the big actors who played little roles in the most carefully watched and memorized movie since “Citizen Kane.”

It is Bell who makes the movie, belligerent, coiled fury from the tip of his bald head to the toes he bounces on as he stomps into the frame, threatening one and all, righteous in his racist wrath.

It doesn’t take a hectoring Michael Moore or patronizing Dinesh D’Souza to properly account for “what happened” and “who these people are, and why” they supported Donald Trump. It turns out Trump supporters, “in their own words,” is the most damning portrait of them imaginable.

Tom Hardy manages the brilliant trick of playing two physically, emotionally and intellectually distinct mobster brothers in Legend.

It’s a charming, whimsical and ever-so-slight film, a bit of an over-reach but pleasant enough, even when it falls short.

If Final Account has a shortcoming, it’s that few moments stick out as most chilling of all.

Garrone makes wonderful use of his diminutive leading man (best known for the film “Asino vola”), and Fonte manages to be both empathetic and pathetic here.

Not Going Quietly lets us see a fierce, and dying, advocate for health care show us what John Lewis meant by “Good trouble.”

Beneath all the melodrama, beyond the fine performances, what sets At Any Price apart is the depiction of farming as it is today, the salesmanship, the traditions and ideals abandoned for greater profits and easier work and the ruthless world these patented “high yield” seeds have made.

It’s a sweetly sentimental documentary, acknowledging Berra’s own role in leaning into the “cartoon” image that the sporting media built around him and the confusion that created.

The Road Movie is not a narrative film. It doesn’t tell a story, even though there is comedy, tragedy, madness and romance amidst all the crashes and explosions.

There’s nothing in Cliff Walkers that we haven’t seen in many a prior spy tale, and it’s not a picture you’d single out for great acting moments. Clean up the blood, and you could call it almost old-fashioned. It’s still a corker of a thriller that keeps you guessing which Hero of the Revolution will sacrifice him or herself next.

The Student makes a chilling allegory for the post-fact age (Russia invented it, remember), and a cautionary tale for cultures everywhere. There’s such a thing as being too tolerant of the intolerant.

7 Prisoners gets us caught up in its moral quandary and the hard mathematics of survival, and is just long enough, with enough forks in the road Mateus faces, to put us in his shoes.

Every sequence has gags that just kill, situations that are a hoot in the making.

Chi-Raq is Spike Lee’s most audacious film in decades. DECADES.

“Ashkal” manages to pique our interest and burn itself into the memory.

And so it does in the deft and delightful Elvis & Nixon, a short, quick and clever recreation of the how that came to pass and an imagined version of the conversation that could have taken place.

It’s sometimes riveting, almost wrenching at others and kind of depressing. And it generally succeeds in its main mission, de-romanticizing “civil war” and “secession,” words that the glib, the rural, old-enough-to-know-better low-information voter types and their leaders throw around.

The Armor of Light isn’t a mind-changing documentary. But Disney/Hughes’ film suggests that Schenck’s conversion is the beginning of an attempted unwinding of “a Faustian pact” (his words) between the NRA and evangelical Christianity.

Tafdrup’s film plays as nightmarish to anyone with real sensitivity long before it turns truly sinister.

This is more “Iris” than “Frida” or “Seraphine,” though anyone who has ever seen the screen story of an artist — “Basquiat,” “Pollock,” etc. — will ease into the well-established rhythms of such films.

Winter Kills is flawed and screwy and “out there” and the cast is mostly very old, never a recipe for box office success. It’s found its select audience over the decades on home video and streaming, with critics coming along and reviving interest in its bracing set pieces, big laughs and dark, uncomfortable chuckles.

Although some discount this thriller for its simplicity and middle act shortcomings, genre fans will relish its grit, grim dilemmas and period-perfect detail, all in service of an entertaining and believable yarn that honors both the history and the erased history of the American West.

The plot, which takes a few too many predictable turns, isn’t as interesting as the characters and the rich milieu Lediga puts them.

Martin Bourboulon’s two films more than hold their own with Hollywood’s best versions of this classic cloak-and-swordplay mystery, preserving the surprises and adding a few fresh ones to iconic, noble-hearted “All for one, and one for all” heroics.

Love, Antosha doesn’t break new ground in the celebrity biographical documentary, but it scores over most other examples of the genre simply by virtue of its subject.

That diffuse focus and meandering narrative is the only real shortcoming in this consequential and touching weeper.

It’s a blunt instrument of a movie, and often melodramatic. But it sometimes moves and often hits its target square on the nose.

Scarborough asks us to get past the nudity, the sexual heat and blatant titillation and consider the dynamics and consequences of these situations.

While Saving Capitalism the movie is light on contrary voices (Nobody was willing to go on camera saying “Everything’s fine. The system works great just as it is!”) and a bit murky in the “action” stage of its arguments, it still makes for an eye-opener, especially for those unfamiliar with Reich’s career.

Storm Lake celebrates the professionalism of a newspaper family — the elders worked at newspapers elsewhere before starting this one — who put out a clean, polished news product week after week, embracing some changes and dodging others.

It’s smart and topical, touching and touchy. And it is, as the French would put it, un putain de délice — delightful, with an expletive added for emphasis.

It’s a movie decorated with glittering performances, and not just by its leading lady and leading man.

The leads are terrific, the bit players biting and distinctly believable “types.”

Chef is Favreau’s most personal film since “Swingers,” an overlong comedy full of his food, his taste in music, his favorite places and a boatload of his favorite actors.

It is Banderas who brings home the tocino and serves up the whole jamon when the situation demands it. Which in the case of the immodest, flamboyant and recklessly brave Puss-in-Boots, is pretty much every moment he opens his mouth in his delightful, and perhaps final romp as the character.

“In moments of great upheaval,” Broadway wunderkind Lin-Manuel Miranda declares, hinting at the dark politics of bigotry and anti-semitism on the rise here and abroad, “‘Fiddler’ is going to seem relevant.”

This isn’t one of the filmmaker’s great films, but it is a serious return to form and a movie that makes us feel the pain of women — in childbirth, in disappointment and in loss — as intensely as he does.

“Acreage” is so embedded in that earth you can taste it, smell the tobacco, cedar and slowly rotting corn stalks on those gently sloping hills.

Great Buster turns Bogdanovich’s lifelong appreciation into cinematic adoration, using generous clips of Keaton’s short films, features and late-life TV appearances to remind us that, as Johnny Knoxville says in the movie, “he was funny then, he’s funny now and he’ll be funny 100 years from now.”

In Polish with subtitles, or dubbed into English, “The Getaway King” is a thoroughly charming rogue packed into a perfectly entertaining caper comedy.

Journalists are being targeted in combat zones around the world. Hondros highlights that danger and brings out the humanity in a career that was above and beyond the stereotypes of their profession.

This is dizzy diverting fun, from it's first Carell one-liner to the 3D gimmick gags stuffed into the closing credits.