Refreshingly unsentimental and straightforward.

This crazy-gleeful adventure jumps between grisly and cartoonish.

Inelegant but not uninteresting, Ramen Heads is a bronze contender at best.

Ismael’s Ghosts drops a number of seemingly disparate ingredients into a stew that ends up coalescing into a satisfying treat, full of surprises and flavors you wouldn’t expect.

The elegant emotional narrative is informed by their toxic relationships with their fathers.

Well-paced and featuring a game cast, this is still a yawny yarn that steals outright from Hideo Nakata’s seminal "Ringu" and the more recent "It Follows," as well as several of Blum’s own prior productions.

Chappaquiddick portrays the “incident” with the delicate meticulousness of an autopsy – which is ironic because the body of Mary Jo Kopechne never got one.

With caustic wit and fantastic performances for all involved, the film is destined to be an anti-war classic.

Not that he lacks artistry. When he delivers on tension, it's not a jump scare, but a jarring sense of inevitability (another kinship to Shults' work). Every time there is a sound above a whisper, there is a payoff, and how Krasinski navigates between those two events is never less than enthralling – and, yes, tragic.

A neon-drenched murder mystery – or is it? – for the selfie generation, set in the hipster hamlet of Silverlake. So it goes with this highly stylized slice of bad, black millennial noir, a post-mumblecore take on the shady underbelly of L.A. in which Los Angeles plays itself, very nearly upstaging the main characters’ plight.

What papers over any remaining cracks is the perfect casting of Hamm as the fixer turned business consultant dragged back into the morass. His raw charisma, and near-peerless ability to sweat martinis through a disheveled linen suit and still look stylish, sends the film's moral compass spinning – exactly as it should.

The seductive scenery in this French film will sink its hooks into any hungering soul, and the window into the winemaking process it offers will stimulate the juices of any armchair oenophile. But the dramatic core of Cédric Klapisch’s Back to Burgundy is pure boilerplate.

If there's one error, it's that there are almost too many laughs. Cannon keeps the pace up, and some of the smart one-liners from the script by Brian and Jim Kehoe get stamped on in the race for the next gag.

With this latest thriller (comedy? My fellow audience members were laughing at scenes I highly doubt were intended to be funny) Perry implies that not only does she belong there, but she forged every link in her chains.

To its credit, this third GND installment earnestly attempts to give some degree of lip service to diverging perspectives on the socio-religious-political scale without too much proselytizing, although there’s never any question about who’s side it’s on.

And yet, for all those weaknesses, this is a Steven Spielberg film, of the kind only Steven Spielberg can make. Big, raucous, heartfelt, referential, and unabashed in celebrating the culture he has always loved.

All three leads give subtly wrenching performances that wouldn’t have been out of place in Ingmar Bergman’s oeuvre.

They (Mirren and Southerland) give potent and particular performances, bright buoys at sea in an otherwise nondescript picture.

Iconoclastic British environmentalist and sculptor Andy Goldsworthy doesn’t experience the world in the same way the rest of us do. Using more than just the conventional five senses, he profoundly intuits his surroundings as if in a meditative trance, mentally and physically absorbing the details of his environment like a forensic scientist in the pursuit of a unique artistry that’s brought him worldwide acclaim.

Remember the eyeball-scrapingly unfunny "Gnomeo and Juliet"? Remember watching it and thinking, “Really? It’s 2011, and we’re still doing Borat mankini jokes?” Well, welcome to Sherlock Gnomes, a sequel seven years past its sell-by date, and 12 years after Sacha Baron Cohen made audiences cringe at his swimsuit choices.

Perhaps it’s just not-the-best-translation of "Taiyō no Uta," the title of the 2006 Japanese original, but I’m (unfortunately) not a language scholar, so I can’t be certain either way. What I can tell you is that this remake kind of sucks.

Utter rubbish compared to its 2013 precursor. Enter with low expectations and you might just have some rock ‘em, sock ‘em, let’s-ravage-Tokyo fun.

There’s a naivete about the film that only a teen at heart could love.

When the movie shifts from psychological to physical terror, the film (like Sawyer) unravels and finally loses its bearings.

It is beautiful, lyrical, tragic, redemptive, and focused down to the last tick on a dog’s nose. His animated characters have all the grace, quirk, and charm of any live-action performance.

This new iteration of Ms. Croft, played in a far more realistic fashion by Vikander (of Ex Machina fame), is somewhat more serious in tone, but altogether more fun to watch.

All the action in Souvenir happens in such a dreamlike haze, that it’s my personal pet theory that none of it is actually real and Liliane has been sitting in front of the TV the whole time.

It’s a cliched happy ending, one you’ve seen countless times before, but never in this way.