Sara Maria Vizcarrondo

Jonah Hill is masterful at delivering an absurd story with so much sweetness, the nonsense ceases to get in the way.

Martha Marcy May Marlene enters so richly into psychological horror it recalls those disturbing dramatizations of Jonestown that were big on TV in the '80s.

There's more to it than a black-and-white political conclusion, and the laundry list of California documentary heroes in the credits suggests this film is humanist before it's agenda driven.

Journalist and director Allison Klayman doesn't mask her awe of the man, who comes off as a cross between a wise Buddha-figure and Santa Claus - he's made for history, and he's making it.

Sure it's fun - and painful - but it's not thin.

Ultimately, the film is made for longevity, like all the best Disney titles are. However, it's also a ready-made Broadway show, with numbers, dialogue and even drama-club histrionics all pre-packaged for immediate adaptation to stage.

Arnold's newest testament to passion and squalor strikes a tone somewhere between Cary Fukinaga's emo "Jane Eyre" and Sophia Coppola's revisionist-hip "Marie Antoinette."

The Dish and The Spoon boasts the efficiency and tidiness of early American indies like Rob Nilsson's "Heat and Sunlight," while it relocates its foreign film-like emotional landscapes to more native climes.

Instead of venturing into mournful "Terms of Endearment" territory, the film - and the filmmakers - commit to a relentless determination to live.

Gripping, offensive and bewildering, Tabloid is a mean-spirited masterpiece.

The film is really a valentine to the fans.

The beauty of the film and what ultimately makes it more timeless than trenchant, is the way it side-steps the entire issue of Hanna's sex.

As divisive as his documentary "Kurt and Courtney," this made-for-British-TV doc by Nick Broomfield begins with the promise of neutrality - but it's a promise the film can't keep.

Equally nostalgic and fresh-faced, Guy and Madeline on a Park Bench is a bohemian musical that owes as much to Cassavetes "Shadows" as it does the French musicals of the '30s.

David Lowery's St. Nick provides plenty to marvel at.

What it provides (instead of the thematically clever dialogue of typically subtle French comedy) is biting wit, poignancy and, forsaking some structural nuisances, the summer's best bromance.

A family drama that looks for answers in coincidence (is it really ever coincidence?), this endearing and breezy comic fable watches Jeff's coming of age and promises nothing after his moment of truth.

It's full of really subtle dichotomies and internal conflicts, but what makes Julius' story seem authentic is how totally incongruous it feels.

This oddball tale of life on a snowy mountainside is consistently upbeat and surprising, with action intensity that stays sturdily at "Goonies" level.

It's a mixed blessing to see these dramas play out in Norwegian, surrounded by what we tend to imagine are more liberal perspectives on sex.

The Master is big screen marvel intended for 70mm projection (a rare treat), with some beautiful imagery, but often inaudible dialogue. Phoenix's lived-in mumble comes off about as clear as Fenster from The Usual Suspects and Amy Adam's precise diction can't even save her harshest talking points.

The messy uplift audiences can expect from this butterfly awakening they'll get in spades.

An uplifting, high energy documentary.

OKA!, like the mysterious horn the characters hunt, is a real find.

A clearly personal effort, Somewhere demonstrates Coppola's featherweight touch with big subjects like identity and human connection.

Katz, however, is great with gentle moments (his most dear and haunting is the final scene), and he handles the balance of mystery and family drama quite adeptly.

Lovers of Hate would be a family tragedy if the immature antics of the three characters didn't send you ping-ponging from sympathetic chuckles to guffaws of disgust.