On its own, it’s still an incredible achievement, amplifying a blood-soaked adventure epic in the haunting specters of witchcraft and folklore that will still challenge viewers without leaving them fully out in the cold. Odin willing, it can offer a window for folks to look into Eggers’ more Bergmanesque works, and inject a little more cinematic curiosity into a palate that’s often dulled by CGI sameness.

The unbridled mess that is Aline is just off-kilter enough to warrant a look, no matter how well you know Céline Dion.

Metal Lords, though it hits some nice high notes, never quite grabs you like the best coming-of-age movies thanks to Peter Sollett’s flat, uninspired direction.

Ambulance tightens the story’s frequent ridiculousness into genuine tension; it’s just retro enough to feel like an old-fashioned thriller done up with some newfangled tech that doesn’t choke the images with overly obvious CG.

The Bubble works in fits and spurts, especially in its first half. The cast is game, and even the respective branches of the Apatow family tree get plenty of chances to prod at the validity and privilege of Hollywood actors finally enduring a crumb of suffering. But it suffers from the same issues as most Apatow pictures; it’s too long and aimless, swimming around its critiques of Tinseltown without really nailing a concrete target for its satire.

Morbius, at best, will be remembered as the latest effort on Sony's part to make its nascent Sinister Six franchise happen. And, like "fetch," it's hard to see that happening.

Amid all the razor-thin editing, constantly shifting film stocks and styles, and purposefully opaque worldbuilding lies a curiously personal, universal story about the overwhelming noise of the world, and how impossible it is to deal with it.

Directors Adam Nee and Aaron Nee manage to find just the right balance between action, comedy, and romance to make all three work harmoniously together, while playing with a team of all-stars who make the material sing.

But that’s the interesting thing about Under the Influence: What started out as a puff-piece doc about YouTube’s golden child was forced by circumstance to become a chronicle of the ways the platform facilitates abuse and drives both creator and audience alike to ruin. It’s a blessing that Neistat rises to the challenge.

Windfall has all the ingredients for an unusual crackerjack thriller: a game trio of actors putting in solid work (and, in Segel’s case, tapping into previously unseen layers of menace), some stylish direction, and a cheeky noir aesthetic from the credits to Danny Bensi and Saunder Jurriaans’ brass-heavy score. But the whole thing never quite builds on its mercurial concept the way it ought to; the characters are meant to be mysterious, but instead come across as mere ciphers.

The result is sleepy and somewhat solipsistic, but that’s part of the charm of a Linklater joint, especially the personal ones. It truly feels like a filmmaker opening his mind to us and inviting us to share in his dreams.

Skating fans and Hawk aficionados will find a lot to like ... But it’s frustrating to see Jones’ approach fail to dig much deeper into the man than we’d already expect, opting instead to more broadly elaborate on the low-key death wish a lot of skaters seem to engage in.

Lyne’s return to the sweat-soaked stage trades bodice-ripping intrigue for repetitive boredom and psychosexual mind games with a straightforward descent into semi-madness.

Ti West’s X is a strange and wonderful return to form for the indie-horror phenom, an ode to the life-altering magic of cheap and dirty horror pictures. 13 years after his breakout hit in the genre, Ti West has added another great horror film to the canon.

The truth of the matter is that even a subpar Ryan Reynolds movie features a crap ton of Reynolds Reynolds-ing it up in every scene, and that can be a pretty enjoyable flavor of ice cream, in moderation. The problem is that like ice cream, there’s not much nutritional value here; there are far worse ways to spend 106 minutes of your life, but The Adam Project seems likely to fade from the memories of Netflix viewers relatively quickly — meaning it’s pretty in line with most of the Netflix original films that have come before it.

It’s worth watching for its disorienting and intoxicating atmosphere, but there’s not much narrative substance beyond that.

What this film does achieve is telling a solid new Batman story, one with some pretty compelling twists and a strong point-of-view on who, exactly, the Caped Crusader is. By default, that makes it one of the better Batman movies ever made.

Loud, gory, sometimes silly, sometimes scary, and nearly always constant fun, Studio 666 is tailored to a pretty specific audience but has the potential to break outside of that niche, thanks to its commitment to old-school horror tropes with a hearty side of rock and roll.

While Uncharted will never be a classic on par with Spielberg’s original swashbuckling adventure, it does no dishonor to that tradition, and even manages to deliver a few unique thrills.

It’s impressive what Jeunet is able to pull off with a shoestring budget, but the ideas and characters underpinning his visual imagination leave a lot to be desired.

It’s better than it could be, but it could have been great.

A far more intimate portrait of the detective than one might expect.

It’s not that a great disaster movie can’t be made in two hours or less, it’s that Roland Emmerich doesn’t know how to do it.

These jackasses up there on the screen are breaking bones, facing fears, and throwing their bodies against anything they can think of because they find a joy in it. There’s joy amongst this fellowship of freaks, and they’re sharing it with a worldwide audience that’s faced mostly melancholy for far too long.

Formally, it doesn’t reinvent the wheel ... But this straight-shooting approach mostly works, even if it doesn’t pin Davis down as concretely as some would like.

Lucy and Desi feels like a critical watch for anyone working to carve out their own corner of the incredibly difficult entertainment industry, particularly young women. In Poehler’s hands, it’s a worthy testament to two pioneers whose stories began with a date and a dance.

With its painterly, brutal beauty and folk-horror underpinnings, it’s tempting to dismiss Stolevski’s You Won’t Be Alone as “Terrence Malick’s The VVitch.” But it’s so much more than that, a devastating yet highly-attuned exploration of the brutality of the world, and our yearning for identity and connection to protect us from nature’s capriciousness.

There’s a lot to sink your teeth into with Emily the Criminal, between its strong Plaza turn and a pitch-black moral core that refreshingly commits to the bit. But outside of those devilish comforts, a lot of Ford’s debut is frustratingly thin, more concerned with giving Plaza plenty of opportunities to bore through the screen with her eyes in extreme close-up than in really breaking down her psychology and the perverse romance at its center.

What this movie offers is a refreshing, grounded take on a part of life that can be frightening and difficult, giving it the attention and care it deserves without veering into unnecessary sentimentality or aiming to be a tearjerker.

The results are deliciously off-kilter, even if the sci-fi world Stearns has created is somewhat clumsily reverse-engineered to make his central premise possible.

There’s little to latch on here apart from its purpose as an actor’s showcase for Boyega, Beharie, and Williams, and its bittersweet status as a sendoff for the latter’s illustrious career.

It feels timely and relevant, and Eisenberg demonstrates clear aptitude both as writer and director. For as many questions as it raises, though, it’s a shame the movie itself isn’t quite sure how it wants them to be answered.

The series moves forward with the succinctly-titled Scream, the first without Wes (this new film is dedicated to his passing), and one that goes full-tilt into horror movie metacommentary, perhaps to its detriment.

Even the most grounded of James Bond movies has a certain level of goofy fun baked in; it’s inherent to the genre. And if The 355 had been a bit more conscious of this, it might have been a far more successful movie.

As any good therapist will tell you, you can't embrace the future without coming to terms with your past. Resurrections is very, very conscious of this.

Separated from the most exciting/controversial/unexpected moments in play, and without the element of surprise, does No Way Home hold up as a good story well told? The answer is yes to a degree…but it could have gone further.

The biggest problem with McKay’s stuff is that he thinks he’s the next Paddy Chayefsky, bringing down untold wisdom from on high and proclaiming disdain at the blinkered, media-soaked vagaries of our world. Unfortunately, he’s bought too deeply into his hype as a vivid truth-teller of society’s ills, and that smugness has infected too much of his films’ fabric.

It’s just one symptom of the disease afflicting Being the Ricardos, which tries too hard to pack too much in, and ends up incapable of saying much at all as a result, which is baffling, because it’s such a talky movie. There’s a great film to be made about these two iconic television talents and their respective egos. Unfortunately, Sorkin’s own ego casts too large a shadow here for us to be able to see it.

It may not have the sharp edges of a classic ’40s noir, but del Toro’s softer touch invites us in like one of Stan’s credulous marks.

By all means, watch it for Gaga doing The Most, or Leto pulling out the most eye-poppingly bad performance of the year with every falsetto lilt of his voice. But be ready for Gucci to try in vain to steady the ship and Get Serious about the all-consuming power of greed, and to yawn when those moments seem to linger too long. Believe me, I wish House of Gucci had a greater share of Lady Gaga death stares and pointed sips of espresso.

While Afterlife is not a terrible movie, it can’t escape the burdens heaped upon it.

It’s undoubtedly one of the best films of the year, and of Anderson’s career.

If you don’t mind your action comedies laced with a bit of meta, Red Notice is a treat.

While it’s probably got some of the best production value since the last theatrically-released entry in the series (1997’s Home Alone 3), and is replete with a cast of genuinely funny actors, there’s something rotten at the core of Home Sweet Home Alone that makes it harder to swallow than a pool ball to the kisser.

When we’re able to take a breath and spend some quiet time with the Eternals, their family dynamics and desire to reconnect resonates. And if you’re able to pay attention, the story’s implications for the scope of the MCU are tantalizing. Unfortunately, you have to sit through two-and-a-half hours of muddled motivations and facile exposition to experience any of this.

The Last Duel is a testament to male self-delusion and self-mythologizing, and the impact it has on the women around them.

The Humans is magic.

The movie is too vividly realized to be boring, but it spends a lot of time scrambling out of the gap between pulpy fun and serious allegory. It’s also hobbled by the fact that it’s very much, as the opening credits say, Part 1; no real resolution is offered by the end of its 155 minutes. It’s just half a movie.

Desperately seeking stability while her marriage to Prince Charles crumbles, Diana is tragic and three-dimensional in the hands of Stewart.

Knocking is an uneven film. Despite strong direction by Kempff in her feature debut and a daring, go-for-broke performance by lead actress Milocco, there’s just not enough weight in these hollow knocks and the payoff doesn’t feel earned or substantial enough.

Lamb takes on the ominous, warning air of an old fable, the kind of pre-Grimm fairy tale meant to threaten the gullible with punishment for transgressing against the natural order of things. And in that respect, it’s a mighty debut, one worthy to see what else Jóhannsson has to offer.

A sloppy, blinkered epilogue that wastes everyone's time.

Even if C’mon C’mon occasionally feels like navel-gazing, it’s too open-hearted and generous of spirit to miss.

Campion’s take on the Western is an elegant, sometimes unnerving accomplishment.

Todd Haynes obviously loves rock and roll, which makes it all the more impressive that he’s spent his career making movies about key figures in its history while avoiding the usual lionizing cliches.

Simon Rex gives a virtuoso performance.

Though he’s been accused of re-carving the same dollhouse-scale miniatures over and over again, The French Dispatch finds Anderson continuing to fill out his increasingly elaborate skill set.

The results are deeply, charmingly dumb, especially the extended focus on the tete-a-tete between our tic-heavy underdog and his murderous companion.

Fukunaga’s direction is crisp and assured, if occasionally languid, and the script creaks under the weight of its myriad responsibilities to both its star and franchise. But it hits where it counts, and sets up a new chapter for the saga, a blank slate upon which the creatives that come next can paint a new vision for 007.

Coen’s version of Macbeth is a canny, fascinating hybrid of a theatrical sensibility and a cinematic translation, shot in ghostly monochrome.

Sopranos superfans will find plenty to love about the prequel film.

More than a concert doc and less than an artist profile, Oasis Knebworth 1996 hits that sweet spot of giving misty-eyed Oasis fans what they want: A glimmering look back at one pleasant weekend and the life-changing music that defined it.

One of Eastwood's most pleasing character studies since Million Dollar Baby.

If you’re looking for a heartwarming, affirming doc about how yes, you’re right to love Alanis Morissette, it’ll probably work for you. But don’t expect to learn anything new, or be wowed by its presentation.

It’s doubtful that die-hard Kenny haters will come away with a new understanding of or appreciation for the man. But for those curious about where he came from and those who want to consider why his beloved status rubs so many people the wrong way, there’s a lot to like.

Anyone who has a heart for 1960s London and its cultural output will find something to appreciate in this sleek and stylish love letter to the era. Anyone who likes either of the types of films that Last Night in Soho is trying to be will probably find something worth watching in it, too. Few will get any proper satisfaction from it, though.

It’s genuinely funny at times, but at two hours, it drags on for far too long, and Chastain suffers from having to hold up too much of the film’s weight on her thickly padded shoulders. It’s a killer performance looking for a movie to support it, and it’s just not here.

Winstead may be a bonafide action hero, but the world around her just isn't interesting enough.

Sacha Jenkins' doc is a warts-and-all examination of the funk-punk superstar, refusing to editorialize his sins and successes."

Candyman pays homage to the original, while still maintaining its uniqueness with a fresh and provocative plot

What the doc explores [is] the divide between the personal and business halves of Bob Ross, and which one should be allowed to occupy his legacy. Is he a face on a logo that sells increasingly kitschy merch of the man? Or is he the father of a son who loves him and wants to determine how he's remembered?

If Shang-Chi is the best MCU introduction since GotG, it’s also the best standalone adventure since Black Panther. There’s a storytelling maturity that demonstrates Marvel is still willing to go back to basics — even as it gets more fantastical. It’s also a visual feast, with some of the most outlandish SFX scenes in any MCU entry.

When Joy lets us peek in these tiny, intriguing corners of her speculative world, Reminiscence comes alive the most. Otherwise, the rest of it fades like a memory you’d just as soon forget.

All of the events of Respect are to be expected. No new truths about the Queen of Soul are unearthed. But the film itself is well-crafted, and each performance brings storied characters to life.

There’s murder, exploitation, and cunnilingus galore. What more do you expect from a collaboration between Leos “Holy Motors” Carax and Sparks?

But there’s something surprising about its approach to both blockbuster filmmaking and Ryan Reynolds star vehicles. It’s at once a Deadpool riff and the absolute opposite, a violent video game movie that’s about how fighting isn’t actually the answer. And what’s more, it commits to those lofty aspirations, couching a sweet little love story in the CG-addled mayhem of a Ryan Reynolds action-adventure flick.

Gunn keeps throwing enough inventive kills and comic-book antics at us (aided by the wildly disparate skills sets of our antiheroes) to keep the R-rated mayhem from getting too repetitive.

David Lowery deconstructs the hero's journey with this sumptuous dark fantasy.

Old, for its part, is quintessential Shyamalan of The Happening mold, a slick, amped-up B movie that hardly ever gives away that it’s in on the joke.

While the Fyre Festival was infamous for its crowded venue, poor infrastructure, and slowly devolving sense of social order, Woodstock '99 feels like the OG version of that kind of entertainment trainwreck.

Sarnoski’s debut is a scintillating tone poem about the inextricable links between love, creativity, and commerce, and what happens when the latter encroaches too much upon the former.

As a reintroduction to the cinematic universe after a year off due to the COVID-19 pandemic, it’s definitely worth a look. Here’s hoping more Marvel flicks take inspiration from this one: shrink their scope, focus on the characters, and get the action right. And for God’s sakes, give us better third acts.

Though the movie ultimately minds its business about a lot of the personal affairs it brings up, it imbues its characters with a bounty of implied off-screen life. No Sudden Move is somehow both a stylized genre exercise and part of a larger, less rigidly controlled tapestry that reveals itself as it goes.

Some may well dismiss Luca as “mid-tier” Pixar, perhaps out of frustration that it doesn’t fit those aforementioned molds. But in its stillness and modesty, I found a lot to adore; it’s a simple, charming story of two boys having the summer of their lives, and the big and small ways it changes the both of them.

Watching Roadrunner feels like engaging in a kind of collective mourning, a desperate bid to understand a man who meant so much to so many, even if we never met him. For those of us who cared about Tony, whether through the television or a recipe, this is essential viewing.

Sure, it commits wholeheartedly to its bone-dead stupidity more than the first film. But it leaves a final product so scattered and uninspired that, less than 24 hours after seeing it, the vast majority of it escapes my memory.

Honestly, points go to Chaves and crew for trying something different with The Devil Made Me Do It: perhaps recognizing the formula was getting stale, they decided to try balancing it with some new procedural tricks. But all it ends up doing is scattering the film’s sense of identity even further; we still get the scares, but they don’t work as well, mostly because they deal with people we don’t care about.

Despite its frustrating flaws, In the Heights ultimately succeeds in its aim to craft a big, rousing, blockbuster musical meant to escort us handsomely into summer.

Stone, Thompson, and the gang are all having a ball wearing incredible costumes and living up a squeaky-clean version of ’70s punk fabulousness, and it’s hard not to let that infectious glee take over for a while.

For all the unexpected charms of Emmett and Regan’s Last of Us-esque trek to salvation through an apocalyptic wasteland, Part II feels a bit more scattered and perfunctory than the first.

Spiral is a frustrating animal: In its first half, it styles itself as a prestige sequel/revamp of a cult horror series, lifting it from its nu-metal origins into a moodier, Se7en-styled police thriller. But despite its promising start, the latter half of Spiral succumbs to formula, like a bloodied Jigsaw victim fainting from their wounds so the blades can finish the job.

Snyder’s momentum starts to lose steam around the 90-minute mark, and there are too many kooky concepts left frustratingly unexplored. But as a showcase for Snyder’s deft command of action and ink-black sense of humor, Army of the Dead is an exciting piece of brain-chewing fun.

In What Drives Us, Grohl reminds us of the transcendent, transformative power of live music on both sides of the stage and makes the itch to get back in the pit that much more tantalizing. It gets lost a few times along the way to its destination, but the journey is certainly a lot of fun.

Many shots fired, all of them misses. This is a film without quality, care, or any real decency.

Though it often feels like the safest, most predictable version of the film we could’ve gotten, Stowaway is a tense, chilling space thriller that coasts to victory on the strength of its premise and the believability of its cast.

Freneticism like this isn’t for everyone. But as far as martial arts epics go, MK is a high-gloss geek show that repeatedly delivers.

Better than My Super-Ex Girlfriend, sloppier than Hancock, it’s nothing dynamic but fun all the same. And frankly, not every superhero flick or comedy needs to be the Super-person of its domain. Likability is sometimes an underrated super-power, and Thunder Force is bursting with it.

Jakob’s Wife is a fun throwback to gory vampire horror, but its gory surface covers some troubling implications. The problem lies in presenting two oppositional arguments and not fully interrogating either of them.