Rory O'Connor

This is a film that lingers in the bloodstream, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

A funny and formally adventurous adaptation of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway set in modern-day Nigeria.

The Man I Love is not the “musical” that promotional materials have suggested, but it’s more than worth seeing just the same.

With a wafer-thin plot and essentially non-existent characters, however, the one-time enfant terrible’s first feature in a decade has little to defend itself against the creeping sense of perfume-advert vapidity—or, worse still, AI slop. The extent to which you agree with that will come down to each viewer’s taste and sensibilities, of course, but I must say that after ten years away from the world’s biggest screens, I was hoping for a little more.

This is a movie that promises and delivers scenes of copious drug taking and gross-out comedy, but its third-act emotional payoff is as earned and devastating as the best of them.

Butterfly Jam is usually at its best whenever Keough is in the room, and the rare moments in which her and Keoghan’s performances click perhaps offer a glimmer of what might have been.

I’ll admit that Camp Miasma‘s more winking moments . . . did more to break the movie’s spell than enhance it. When Schoenbrun does decide to stare back into the void, however, their ability to cast a dark spell on the viewer is surely unrivaled in contemporary cinema.

The filmmakers allow their characters to bounce off each other—sometimes genially, usually not—in a series of dialogue-dense sequences that are either caustically funny or just downright caustic. Whether the video-game-cut-scene vibes outstay their welcome will depend on the viewer’s tastes.

Sossai’s movie (which is certainly not without sentiment) definitely follows through on the promise of its title. It might slip into Alexander Payne territory at times––there are a few moments when the trio drive in contented silence––yet if Last One is Sossai’s Sideways, it’s a version with two Jacks and no Miles.

Two Seasons is the rare film that begins with mundane clarity (remember, “scene 1, summer, seaside”) and works its way back, leaving you with the knottier stuff of life. Along the way, Li remembers what it’s like to have fun; the movie dutifully follows her lead.

Needless to say, Hüller is magnificent in a role that relies heavily on her abilities as a physical performer. Schleinzer is, naturally, not in the business of cheap sentiment, but when something vaguely resembling happiness presents itself in the story, the restraint with which Hüller allows Rose’s heart to thaw is still remarkable.

Dazzled and conflicted are some of the best things a documentary like this can be, and that clear passion for the subject, as well as Bezinović’s cinematic flair, makes for infectious, often-hilarious viewing.

Jan Komasa’s Anniversary should be in the running for least-subtle movie of the year. It should also be in the running for most terrifying. This ruthlessly effective thriller rarely beats around the bush with what it’s trying to say, nor does it ask its famous actors to rein in their performances––despite occasionally needing to––but it certainly hits its mark with unnerving accuracy.

Van Sant imagines this tale in a way that echoes Dog Day Afternoon: an unhinged and stranger-than-fiction fable about good intentions gone wrong. It’s kind of a hoot.

For all its grandeur and dazzling tableaux, I left the theater a touch agnostic. Unwavering fanatics, no matter their rationale, do not always great protagonists make; even with Seyfried’s remarkable voice, presence, and energy, the music starts to skip.

A House of Dynamite is a ruthlessly effective thriller, nothing if not timely, and has the potential to be seen by a gazillion eyeballs. These are all good things.

This is a movie that exists for the sake of existing, art for the sake of art: the kind of thing that doesn’t need your attention and isn’t particularly eager to offer a huge amount in return.

The movie never achieves a real sense of urgency, but the fault is not Johnson’s to bear. The actor is relentlessly watchable, disappearing into the role while managing to locate Kerr’s towering vulnerability even as he’s felling doors with a single swing of his fist.

Credit to both Weinberg’s no-nonsense performance and the director’s surrealist instincts. There is a late sequence in this film, wherein Tereza visits a floating casino, that contains some of the most vividly beautiful images I’ve seen so far this year.

The film is still recommended viewing; they still know how to draw a good performance and nail an emotional beat. All four of their young stars are given the opportunity here and duly rise to the occasion. In each sequence is the audience is left to consider questions with no easy answers; all it ultimately asks for is a little empathy.

It’s difficult to think of another debut that combines such crowd-pleasing sensibilities, political resonance, and cinematic sweep.

With The Mastermind, Reichardt has made a unique film, even amongst similarly cryptic genre exercises. . . I left the cinema gripped and unusually rattled.

Romería‘s exploration of closure and self-discovery makes for an absorbing watch.

In Urchin, Dickinson blends issue-driven social realism (a British staple) with the trendier look of a Safdie film: all medium shots, real streets, non-professionals, and the occasional trip down a colorful drain. These might not always blend smoothly (this is an uneven film at the best of times) but it is an interesting combination that even expresses a clear political perspective.

The result is a rich and gradually rewarding bildungsroman, a film that can be cold to the touch but leaves much to unpack.

The only thing that beats the lightning bolt of discovery is seeing a filmmaker build on it with each passing work, stretching out to explore the further reaches of their talents.

I would say it’s this director’s weakest film, but when you’ve never made a bad one that probably doesn’t say a lot. Whatever the case, Die My Love remains worthwhile.

The character’s thinly sketched beliefs combined with Phoenix’s uncharacteristically vague performance keep him constantly at arm’s reach. We never really get into his head, which makes his eventual downfall (or Falling Down) feel both nihilistic and dramatically undercharged.