High among the film’s many standout virtues is how fully Kapadia has captured the faces of this trio.

It’s a feminist musical crime thriller about a transgender cartel boss. Doubly surprising is that, for all its strangeness – or perhaps because of it – the mashup often works.

A lot of emotional weight is packed into this seriocomic ramble if you know where to look.

On the plus side, we get a front-row seat, often closer than that, to some of the wowiest concerts ever committed to film.

Baker is a humanist – there is nothing exploitative about what he does here. He’s after deeper emotional truths.

At its best, the film demonstrates a showbiz truism: It takes a lot of hard work to make something look easy.

The Wild Robot, above all else, isn’t just a life story. It’s a love story about community and intimacy, about what can be imitated, but never duplicated. It is the quintessential fable. Like any great parent, it offers lessons while remaining fun. The wilderness might be harsh, but we don’t have to be.

Ostensibly it’s a tradition versus progress fable. In actuality, it’s a movie furiously, perhaps intentionally, at odds with itself.

The movie is infused with enough of Burton’s beguiling gothic vibe to kick off the Halloween season, but the plot holes are large enough for the Great Pumpkin to fill.

The film is an indictment of a cultural tragedy; a testament to the steadfastness, against all odds, of the Indigenous community; and a plea for healing.

What grounds the overflow of incident are the many human touches that personalize both the anguish and the stray glimpses of freedom.

It offers a refreshing perspective on mental health that draws in new audiences while reminding the rest of us why we continue to watch the studio’s films.

[Berger] honors the animation medium by investing it with a full range of feeling – just as if he were making a movie with real people. This is another way of saying that “Robot Dreams” is a film for adults perhaps even more than for children. I

The power of this film sneaks up on you. It glides from jubilation to heartbreak without missing a beat.

The best addition is Austin Butler as the baron’s bald-pated, hypervicious nephew. It’s official: Butler no longer looks or sounds like Elvis Presley. Villeneuve is adept at staging grand-scale battles, but the movie’s best set piece is the climactic tooth-and-nail face-off between Paul and this grinning gargoyle.

Understandably wanting to leave audiences with a measure of hope, Garrone in some ways falsifies what is most powerful about his movie. But there is power, too, in dramatizing the endurance of people such as Seydou. Epic stories require epic bravery.

It’s a wonderful movie, and an Oscar nominee for best international feature. It is also proof, if any were needed, that the rhythms of everyday life, no matter how seemingly mundane, can resonate when beheld by an artist’s eye.

The film periodically risks turning into a swoony fantasy. But it is a fantasy we can favor because it’s one we all can share.

Yes, we can draw links between then and now, but, in a way, Glazer’s film contradicts his own public sentiments. His depiction of this agonized world is so enveloping and unrelenting that, at least for me, it stands wholly alone, untethered to our current traumas.

King is above all a pleasure-giver. He wants to heighten the knockabout joys of unfettered high spirits.

American Fiction is a serious-minded satire about race relations that is often exasperatingly at odds with itself.

To call it “immersive” is an understatement.

Directed by Cooper, who also co-wrote the script with Josh Singer, the film serves up so much Sturm und Drang about the great man’s messed-up private life that it barely bothers to explore his creative genius.

What enlarges Giamatti’s performance, and makes it ultimately more than a glorified comic turn, is how he gradually articulates Paul’s self-awareness for us.

An honorable try, the movie nevertheless doesn’t fully capture the enormity of the tragedy. At best it’s a sorrowful, necessary dirge. Other times, it’s like “Goodfellas” on the range but, understandably, without the spring-coiled momentum of that film.

The film is very good at laying out the forensics of the case, but Triet is after something larger. I’m not sure she altogether succeeds: She wants to show how Sandra is being judged not just for the murder but, in effect, for everything – for her failures as a mother, a lover, an artist.

Carrère, wisely I think, doesn’t turn the film into a reformist anthem. Shooting in a semidocumentary style, he allows us to absorb, along with Marianne, the relentless accretion of injustices. He also gives us some of the most believable portraits of female friendship I’ve ever seen in a movie.

Perhaps inevitably, it falls short of its ambitions. But it’s bracing to see a studio movie these days, particularly one with such huge scope, that at least attempts to serve up more than recycled goods.