Warren Cantrell

Mirren is magnificent as the fading mother losing her fight against the inevitable, and Winslet wisely leans on this, as well as the other reliable performances from her overqualified cast.

The Man in My Basement is a slow burn, to be sure, and though things come out fully cooked, there’s little flavor and more flash than sizzle.

McElwee probes the very idea of memory itself, and in perhaps his crowning achievement as a documentarian, fails to come up with any definitive answers, yet somehow still moves closer to the truth than he ever had before.

Solid performances, a clever conceit, and technical over-competence behind the camera bolster what is ultimately a predictable and sometimes unpleasant viewing experience.

Low rent, CGI splatter effects by the bucket-full honor the Troma roots of this property, while practical costume, make-up, and production design speak to the reverence of the same. It ain’t pretty, sure: but that was never the Toxic Avenger’s style. Blair and company understand this, and the movie (world?) is better for it.

This film is like some kind of corrupted, infectious, cinematic black hole that obscures and swallows all other sins in and around it. Artistically irredeemable and impossible to recommend on any basis whatsoever, about the only thing Ebony & Ivory succeeds at is matching the artistic value of the eponymous song: a dubious distinction if ever there was one.

Pleasant enough to look at but impossible to care about, this movie isn’t bad because it fails at what it sets out to do, but because of the most evil of all reasons: it never figures out its reason to be at all.

A marriage of dramaturgy and remembrance, Seven Veils dances through its themes and character history with thoughtful intention that would impress Salome herself. Emotionally bracing and infused with a meta-text that leapfrogs the story and the characters themselves, it is almost good enough to lose one’s head over.

Uneven pacing and an anemic plot hamstring the film, which has a couple of interesting ideas yet precious few about how to convey them to its audience.

Gandbhir could have arranged all of this like a book report with a foregone conclusion, yet she trusts in the truth of this story and the intelligence of her audience to pull apart the necessary history and sociopolitical context of it all.

A chronicle of a group of animals, sure, but Flow is really about the best aspects of humanity as seen through the lens of these creatures. How living things learn to trust, share, and protect the weakest among them represents the best ideas of life on this planet, and it is what Zilbalodis is interested in here.

Content to tell just one story despite a far more interesting one just under the surface, Maing and Story’s honesty and remove from the filmmaking process has produced an unvarnished, raw document that offers up a slice of history: warts and all.

On the one hand, director Silje Evensmo Jacobsen should be commended for adhering to the verité sensibilities of the project, as “Wilderness” never comes across as curated or guided. Yet this does keep the doc from probing into the more interesting questions and considerations that sit just under the surface here, such as the fundamental “why” of all of this.

While Liebmann steals the show here, what Wagner realizes with his film is every bit as impressive. The writer-director’s script and steady hand behind the camera breathe life into a bracing, heartbreaking, and ultimately reaffirming picture.

Clean narrative lines, top-notch production design, great acting, and Hollywood-grade cinematography and lighting elevate Burial above what might have been a forgettable schlock-fest.

Somewhat ironically, like the social unrest that underpins much of the footage featured in Riotsville, U.S.A., the documentary is well-intentioned yet hampered by a lack of direction, clearly defined goals, and the support of a larger, established apparatus to lend it legitimacy.

Bolstered by tone-perfect performances from all three of the leads, and a script that hides larger themes within the body of the narrative like vegetables in mashed potatoes, Wild Men hits with the force and precision of an arrow fired from Martin’s homemade bow. And while the tone of the film toys with the absurd, what it has to say about masculinity, regret, and what it means to belong is anything but.

Compelling, yet lacking a broader perspective that would have elevated this from book report to a serious and groundbreaking new dialogue, “Diamond Hands” follows the lead of its most vocal subjects: in fast, out faster, and utterly out of its league in a scenario where it could make a difference.

Maybe one day folks will come around to “Mother Schmuckers” as something so sincerely and unintentionally terrible that’s it’s worth watching if only as a joke, yet even that is a longshot.

The result is difficult to watch yet impossible to turn away from, the legitimacy of its naked honesty seeping from every rough corner and crevice of the production.

The gore is top-notch, and things take a turn for the better in the last 25 minutes, yet it’s not enough to save the movie, which is decidedly not good, no matter what the octopus drummer-lovers in your life might tell you.

Bob Ross: Happy Accidents, Betrayal & Greed isn’t a takedown piece (at least not of Bob), but it isn’t precious about its eponymous subject, either, blending genuine admiration with a healthy dose of introspection that only deepens a viewer’s admiration of the painter.

Without more from the characters, it just doesn’t come together. Merlant does shoot it all well, though, and keeps things moving so that the audience has little time to ponder the moral implications of what’s going on. This is a dubious plaudit, perhaps, yet one of the few available to Mi Iubita, Mon Amour.

This newest “Space Jam” installment is a good time and boasts real heart. LeBron’s steady work as the lead and a narrative undercurrent built on a believable father-son relationship makes for a breezy 115 minutes and improves on the harmless, yet admittedly stiff original. And while LeBron might not be in the Finals right now, he has definitely scored a win here.

Cousins is insightful, thorough in his technical comparisons, and well-read in the library of cinema, yet never quite connects his work to a larger tapestry that extends the form.

Stylistically, Ascension borrows from the city-symphony genre at times, with long stretches passing without any dialogue as the camera whips past and through recycling depots, cell phone assembly lines, and poultry plants. There are no talking heads in the picture or any camera-facing reflections to guide the audience along a narrative, making it less cinéma vérité and more direct cinema in style. It is an effective approach.

Hyper-violent and narratively undercooked, the film represents a creative nadir for pretty much everyone involved and manages something even Ritchie usually avoids: boredom.

Tense, scary, and full of heart, when Cummings has all the pieces moving together in the same direction the movie hums with an effortless rhythm that largely makes up for deficiencies baked into the third act.