This is a movie terrified to explore the interiority of its protagonist, and that approach will work just fine for the fans who just want to watch an uncomplicated ramble of a movie that plays all the hits.

Bugonia, the newest movie from Yorgos Lanthimos, features a simple-enough structure, some stunning performances, and some twists that make it damn hard to write about without getting into spoilers.

To be clear, Dragon is not the worst live-action remake this year — congrats to Snow White on holding onto that prize. It’s just a slightly distorted copy of what came before. Its best attributes are fully a credit to the original, while its worst qualities all come from the foolishness of adapting a movie that was just fine the way it was.

Eve’s backstory proves relatively trite, and the character is given nothing to connect with before or after she sets off on her quest.

At the end of the day, the best parts of Snow White are the parts that feel genuinely real and authentic. If only there were more of those, and less screen time spent dancing in the realm of mind-breaking absurdity.

Kinda Pregnant is a relatively painless, if predictable, diversion.

Truly, Flight Risk has its funny moments, though none of them are funnier than when the end credits start and you’re reminded, once again, that this movie was directed by Mel Gibson.

All of Ridley Scott's glorious pageantry is undercut by a script tragically burdened by cliches and characters who make stupid choices.

Sometimes you’re laughing at the movie, not with it. But there are plenty of laughs, no matter what.

Phillips’s sequel proves to be a muddled love story that falls apart due to its inability to express anything thematically substantial or original.

Really, the madness of Megalopolis is the kind of thing where you actually do kind of have to see it for yourself. Especially because there are moments that feel audacious in the way that Coppola’s The Godfather shocked audiences back in the day, choices that confirm this is not a filmmaker playing it safe. That’s an instinct to be admired. Even if it results in this.

The real problem, sadly, comes down to script and execution, along with a failure to tackle that one big question all reboots really ought to answer: Why this story, and why now? Why did we need a new take on The Crow, after all these years? Just having the rights to the IP isn’t a good enough reason. And yet sometimes, it feels like that’s the only reason a movie like this gets made.

Trap does have one brilliant touch: At its best, Shyamalan has given us a perfect portrait of the power of straight white male privilege.

MaXXXine can’t decide whether to be a showbiz parody or a giallo sendup or a cute ’80s throwback, and it stumbles when it tries to be all of the above.

There was a point, midway through the film’s major third-act climax, CGI beast raging against CGI beast, when a thought came to this humble critic: “This shouldn’t be boring.” And yet this is what happens, when there’s no emotional weight to the stakes, and the characters themselves feel as hollow as the earth they live on.

Underdeveloped characters and a mishandling of their queerness make the film feel both exploitative and disappointingly flat – and while all the whimsy, color, and dance-punk needle drops are welcome, they’re only brief distractions from Drive-Away Dolls’ speedbumps.

Schwimmer’s great in a role that’s very much in his wheelhouse, but the second half never quite lives up to the first half, and the first half feels incomplete as a narrative, which leaves the whole film feeling like a disappointment.

As Stefan might say, this movie’s got everything (you’d expect from a Sundance movie): A period coming-of-age story inspired by the filmmaker’s own life, broader political themes, known stars like Linney and Harrelson playing eccentric characters, and a weepy conclusion.

Unfortunately, the 99-minute run time on Norwegian zombie drama Handling the Undead feels infinitely longer, and lands more as a meditation on grief than an intriguing entry into zombie cinema.

Momoa’s raw on-screen energy remains infectious even in the driest scenes, and Wan does wring a real sense of human connection out of the scenes between Momoa and Wilson, whose tempestuous fraternal bond is the emotional core of the film.

Just don’t expect it to rewrite the genre playbook.

Besides the gags, there’s little to grasp onto, and try as it might to echo Barry Lyndon’s naturally-lit tableaus, Scott’s film lacks that film’s acid-dry wit.

It’s steamy and transgressive in a straightforward way, an in-your-face bacchanal of sex and violence of the kind Fennell so delights in depicting. But as the film barrels toward its bonkers but highly predictable twist, the shine on Saltburn begins to fade.

Though it may not be an awards contender, there are still sparks throughout to appreciate, especially in Blunt and Evans’ performances. Thanks to them, there’s a lot of humanity to be found in the film — the best and the worst of it.

Every time you think Hypnotic has fully lost you, it’ll do something just interesting enough to pull you back in.

At its best, Paint is a delightful and occasionally awkward ode to art, and how it defines us as creators and consumers. But at its worst, Paint feels, well, pointless.

The action’s not flashy but competent, the set pieces are a bit easy to predict but deliver some reliable gags, and there are even a few meta moments that generate a chuckle or two.

Take away the delusions of grandeur, and the film is a perfectly acceptable – even enjoyable – tour vlog of a particularly interesting set of shows.