Sara Stewart

Mirai is somewhat mired in outdated gender roles, with Cho’s character hopelessly clumsy as caregiver while his wife goes back to work. But the biggest pitfall I found with Mirai, which may be more of a selling point to new parents and children struggling with sibling rivalry, is that Kun spends half the film in tears, shrieking or whining.

This is a film that challenges moviegoers in a way that a Marvel movie or rom-com will not, and it is worth taking the time and concentration — and, if possible, the trip to the theater — to view a true master of the craft at work.

A gritty romp that makes the cliché-prone heist genre feel fresh again. It runs far deeper than any “Ocean’s.”

Director Luca Guadagnino pirouettes far from the easy-living, Italian-countryside romance of last year’s masterpiece “Call Me By Your Name” for an arthouse-meets-Grand Guignol reboot of one of the freakiest horror movies to come out of the 1970s. And he pulls it off in delicious, gut-punching style.

Maggie Gyllenhaal goes from caring to creepy in this Netflix release.

Jeremy Allen White (“Shameless”) and Maika Monroe (“It Follows”) shine in this dramedy.

First-time feature director Clare Niederpruem gives it her very earnest all, but falls short both on continuity issues (a smoldering curling iron, for example, is dropped to the floor and immediately forgotten) and on making her gradually aging cast match up.

In a perfect world, Tea With the Dames could be a series. Let us be flies on the wall for this posse’s weekly gathering for tea and convivial cackling. And I say this with the delighted surety that they would tell anyone who proposed this idea to go straight to hell.

At its best, Love, Gilda intertwines the comic’s own narration — drawn from audiotapes, interviews and journals — with reflections from her current-day admirers.

These dynamos don’t need a screenplay to hold anyone’s attention.

The plot swerves around just enough to make you think something more complex is going on. Ultimately, it really isn’t — certainly not enough to make up for the clichés and sexist tropes that litter Lucas’ path toward a confrontation with the bad guys.

As an addiction memoir, it works well enough; there are a handful of deeply felt moments.

A masterful ode to one of life’s most universally awkward phases.

There’s no better time than summer for a fun, brainless thriller. All you need is three key ingredients: a charismatic hero, a hateable villain and a snappy screenplay...Skyscraper, regrettably, cuts likable star Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson off at the knees by failing to deliver on the other two.

Without a humanizing element like Blunt’s character, this whole grim affair is just a race to the bottom in which everyone loses.

As a snarky, stylish Santa Fe couple, Paul Rudd and Steve Coogan deploy a wit drier than the sprawling landscape surrounding their desert mansion. If you enjoy your comedies devoid of easy sentimentality (as this reviewer does), this one’s for you.

More wobbly moments of Woman Walks Ahead seem to teeter on the edge of both white-saviorism and becoming a Harlequin romance.

Charmingly profane, with a buzzing riot-grrrl soundtrack, “Izzy” is a stylish twist on an ’80s trope: Here it’s the woman as pathetic supplicant, trying to win back someone who’s moved on.

Superfly escapes superficiality thanks largely to strong performances from Jackson; Jason Mitchell as Priest’s workmanlike partner, Eddie, and Michael Kenneth Williams as Priest’s mentor, Scatter.

This sequel to the 2004 movie is an impressive feat of animation, particularly in its action sequences.

Like a cubic zirconia knockoff of a priceless diamond necklace, this female “Ocean’s” update looks the part but just ain’t got that sparkle.

Adrift is paced like its title, and the story’s momentum is slowed somewhat by constant toggling between past and present.

American Animals takes an appropriately wild approach to its subject, biting off a little more than it can chew, but nevertheless coming up with a truly novel entry in the overcrowded heist genre.

If you’ve got comics-movie fatigue, with frequent fourth-wall breaks to point out lazy writing, blatant foreshadowing or heavy reliance on CGI for fight scenes, Deadpool 2 is here for you. That doesn’t mean those things aren’t there (they are) — but the eagerness of Deadpool to call out its own shortcomings earns this trash-talking franchise a lot of goodwill.

Though both Tierney and Bomer’s characters also veer into stereotype — her uptight disapproval, his sassiness — writer-director Timothy McNeil still crafts a fairly moving tribute to the notion, as Lin-Manuel Miranda once put it, that “love is love is love.”

More perplexing than any of the supposed mysteries of Terminal is what Mike Myers, of all people, is doing here, playing a train-station janitor with a creepy “Danny Boy” whistle.

Life of the Party is undeniably at its best when Falcone is showcasing McCarthy’s aptitude for physical comedy.

Bad Samaritan plays like an unambitious episode of “Black Mirror,” low on techno-savvy but enhanced by the always-compelling David Tennant and Robert Sheehan, an Irish actor best known for his role on the British series “Misfits.”

Reitman directs with an empathy for mothering that never shies away from its darker side.

McAdams gives one of the best performances of her career as her character wrestles with the enormous question of whether, and how, to give up everything she’s ever known.

All the past decade’s Marvel movies have been heading toward this showdown. Turns out the payoff was worth the wait.

With seemingly no understanding of how tone-deaf it might be to cast a straight, white, able-bodied blonde like Schumer as victimized by society’s judgment, the lazily written I Feel Pretty takes a talented comic and casts her in the worst possible light (and I don’t mean that literally — she looks fine).

A supernatural “What’s Happening to My Body?” parable in company with “Carrie,” “Ginger Snaps” and last year’s “Thelma,” Wildling is low-key with an undertone of menace, skillfully directed by Fritz Böhm in his feature debut (though some of his nighttime scenes are so dark it’s genuinely hard to tell what’s going on).

It’s big, bloated, and, if you give in to the familiar charms of its jacked leading man, not unenjoyable. (Alternately, you could easily just let it induce a little nap.)

The Scottish director’s short, blunt thriller is so violently nerve-jangling that it feels like a stretch to recommend it, exactly.

My main beef is with Spielberg’s choice to leave out his own work, both as producer and director: “I didn’t corner the ’80s market,” he told Entertainment Weekly. But yeah, he kind of did.

If there’s a flaw in Unsane, it’s that the screenplay by Jonathan Bernstein and James Greer doesn’t play its hand closer to the vest. The pleasure here is in watching and wondering what’s real and what isn’t, but all too soon it’s spelled out for us. Nevertheless, it’s great fun to watch it all come together — or, more accurately, fall apart.

Too often content to smile beatifically instead of delivering the necessary thrills.

Even an 11th-hour cameo from the late Dick Gregory as Ella’s long-ago boyfriend can’t keep The Leisure Seeker from being, well, forgettable.

“Do you know how long it takes to peel the skin from a human body?” a torture-happy Russian goon asks in Red Sparrow. I imagine it feels about as long as sitting through this atrocious spy thriller.

Despite a terrific cast and a sexy noir look to rival the two “Blade Runner” films, Jones (son of David Bowie) delivers a bit of a letdown.

Ambitious and messy, Annhilation will likely leave you with more questions than answers. Mine is: “When can I see it again?”

More frustratingly, Brooks jumps back and forth in time between the couple’s past relationship and the current day, with nary a physical or emotive change evident in either party. It becomes a task just to figure out which timeline you’re in, and then convince yourself why you should care.

It’s a more somber companion to Marjane Satrapi’s 2007 film “Persepolis,” which explored life under the Iranian Revolution with dark humor: Here, the laughter’s mostly a prelude to tears.

Like all the best comics movies, this one’s got a villain (Michael B. Jordan) so compelling he nearly steals the show from the hero (Chadwick Boseman). And sure, the futuristic African country of Wakanda may be fictional, but it’s brimming with cultural resonance.

A warm-hearted and ambitiously honest look at the pros and cons of monogamy, but it tends to be understated to the point of underwhelming.

Compelling drama it is not.

For anyone looking for a shot of vengeance adrenaline while waiting for “John Wick 3” to come down the pike, Braven will probably fit the bill.

Patton Oswalt makes an amusing cameo as a Klingon-speaking cop, and Toni Collette is her usual graceful self as Wendy’s harried counselor, but in all this is a half-baked effort at humanizing autism — at its best when Wendy’s at her computer channeling the Vulcan voice of Mr. Spock, that intergalactic hero who was always so puzzled by human emotions.

It’s macho eye-candy of the cheapest kind, endless scenes of gunfire and explosions and rugged, handsome actors running while shooting and yelling.

Under the generous debut direction of Damon Cardasis, there’s enough heart and raw truth here to uplift the moments that falter.

Bening forgoes vanity and digs into the humiliation Grahame felt as she aged out of the vampy roles Hollywood typecast her in. Bell brings a sturdy humanity to Peter, a low-key stage actor and nice guy who’s completely unfazed by their age difference.

It’s an exhilarating contrast to the weak-sauce caped crusaders who arrived at the box office last week. For a more convincing (if selectively edited) portrait in heroism, look no further than Darkest Hour.

Squanders its big ideas in record time.

As satisfying and polished as you’d expect.

At best, it’s a fairly enjoyable hate-watch of a farewell to DDL, charting the course of a twisted love affair between a real pill of a guy and a woman who inexplicably adores him.

Sure, it’s just a space Western, but “Star Wars” is one of the our most popular modern mythologies. Johnson respects that. He’s infused the storyline with new energy and artistry, and I can’t wait to see it again.

Profane, darkly funny, violent and tragic.

Funny — sometimes brutally — and surprisingly touching, it works whether you’ve seen the source material or not, though there are plentiful shout-outs to die-hard fans.

Ultimately, this is a film from a group of terrific talents that never quite comes together the way you'd hope. It's just too fluid to wholly take shape.

Call this movie by its name: Masterpiece.

Justice League is a pointless flail of expensive (yet, somehow, cheap-looking) CGI that no amount of tacked-on quips, or even Gadot’s luminescent star power, can rescue.

It’s a tale as messy as its muddy fields, and it’s a must-watch.

With its gray skies, moody ambience and ominous orchestral score, Thelma fits the cliché about Scandinavian entertainment being dark as hell — in the best way. It’s also gorgeous.

This rural drama is the best yet from playwright and filmmaker Martin McDonagh (“In Bruges,” “Seven Psychopaths”), and one of Frances McDormand’s greatest performances.

As a primer on one of history’s less flashy leaders, it’s a worthwhile watch — mostly for fellow Texan Woody Harrelson’s committed performance behind those prosthetic ears.

Waititi emerges triumphant, but it’s a nail-biter.

Holy moly, Melissa Leo makes a scary Mother Superior.

A thoughtful drama which sags when it tries to shoehorn its characters into by-the-numbers plot points.

A surprisingly tone-deaf combination of two wildly different stories that simply don’t work in concert.

This adaptation is so sloggy it feels like wading through thigh-deep snowfall, stained scarlet from all the gratuitous gore.

Hard to say what percentage of Haynes’ adult audience will dig this one. I found it lovely to look at and emotionally underwhelming.

Only the Brave is at its best at two extremes: in the middle of the action, as the firefighters do things like improbably light fires to contain bigger fires; and at home in the midst of banter between Eric and his wife Amanda.

Mines the increasingly fertile territory of aging boomer parents and chafing middle-aged siblings, but at irritatingly high volume, with the cantankerous voices of Adam Sandler, Ben Stiller and Dustin Hoffman nearly constantly talking over one another.

For a movie called Breathe, Andy Serkis’ directorial debut is curiously airless — or maybe just quintessentially British, all stiff upper lip and light on emoting.

If you have two X chromosomes, or know and like someone who does, Blade Runner 2049 may not be the movie for you.

Entertaining particulars aside, this trope is pretty well-worn — the game everyman who finds making illegal money easy and fun, until it isn’t.

Given its obvious parallels with modern-day events, it’s a shame Felt’s ensuing story is so wanly told.

It’s a feel-good film with a somewhat curdled legacy: You could clip just about any piece of sexist dialogue here, label it 2017 and pass it off as plausible.

Director David Gordon Green (“Our Brand Is Crisis”) generally skips feel-good cliché to chronicle Bauman’s struggle with being painted as the face of never letting the terrorists win.

White excels at writing dislikable protagonists — topped by Laura Dern on the HBO series “Enlightened” — while giving his characters enough humanity not to be monsters, and the potential for change.

Calm down, “Black Swan” guy. Viewers will survive; some may find, as I did, scenes he intended to be terrifying as ridiculously over-the-top. But Mother! is undeniably a wild, memorable ride. It’s a Rorschach test of a movie to interpret however you like.

Dinklage is a terrific actor who’s always engaging to watch, and he elevates this screenplay’s plot holes and lame dialogue.

The literal ghouls here take a back seat to the subtler ones, which are really where It shines darkly.

Overall, everyone’s working far too hard at hitting their marks in this march toward a conclusion that’s both predictable and laughable.

It’s a lark, if you can tolerate the hammy redneck accents, and confirms that Soderbergh is as agile as ever at knitting together all the moving parts of a complex heist.

Interspersed with the gore is banter between the leads, who fall into a predictable odd-couple pairing of fussy (Reynolds) and gonzo (Jackson). Their rapport is amusing, but entirely, clumsily incongruous with the thuggish mayhem all around them.

If the plot becomes a bit scattered in its third act, a generous interpretation might be that it’s a reflection of the chaotic cultural backdrop. Chon directs with style and a humane eye for all parties; he’s a dynamic young director to keep your eye on.

Movie adaptations shouldn’t require that you know their source material. But in the case of The Glass Castle, it’s impossible not to just say it: You’re better off reading the book.

Its double-barrel satire is aimed both at those who curate their lives through merrily sun-dappled photos, and their followers, who drink it in as reality.

Detroit may be tricked out with the Motown and miniskirts of the era, but its police-brutality narrative, assembled with firsthand accounts of that day, has chilling parallels with the here and now. It is not an easy watch, and it is an essential one.

Based on the graphic novel “The Coldest City,” this film keeps its comic-book aesthetic front and center.

If you’re going to call your sci-fi movie Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets, you’d better be sure Valerian (Dane DeHaan) is a guy your audience can get behind. Director Luc Besson styles him as a cocky space rogue, but Valerian is weak sauce. And so is this movie.

Now this is how you do a female raunch comedy. Equal parts crass, heartfelt and goofy, Girls Trip manages to hit all the right notes.

Dunkirk satisfies as a brisk, gripping survival story. At only 107 minutes, it’s also astonishingly short in an era when most movies needlessly run on long beyond the two-hour mark.

Footnotes isn’t perfect, but at least nobody lectured me about jazz.

Apologies to Charlton Heston loyalists, but War for the Planet of the Apes is a good example of how today’s movies sometimes beat the hell out of the oldies.

This is a single story that feels like a handful of sketches in need of more connection.