The intangibility of Jamojaya‘s storytelling is both a blessing and a curse: it keeps things streamlined, but also prevents us from really being able to dig into just what makes James and Joyo tick. But that’s what’s so intriguing about the picture, even in its flaws.

Watching Twilight, I was floored by how earnest all of this was, how seriously everyone involved took what is clearly a horrible, unhealthy, doomed relationship. And is there anything more teenage than that?

Concussion tries to “tell the truth!” but its filmmaker feels compelled to surround the truth with tales of a man whose life is just not that interesting.

Moondog’s antics aren’t all that funny or captivating, even when divorced from their assholery.

Despite the bait-and-switch of Chan’s limited presence in the film, The Foreigner is slightly better than it appears on paper. Chan and Brosnan offer believable, intense performances, and Campbell coaxes Chan’s style into an abrasive brutality with moments of occasional invention.

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?

While American Fable isn’t without its share of flaws, it’s the type of inventive production that hints of happier endings to come.

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

Although "Wuthering Heights" remains a deliciously horny film, it does summon a certain degree of pure romance, especially in the few moments when its leads are able to see past their misunderstandings and actually connect.

It’s a shame to see a movie this ambitious and well-cast turn out so wobbly, but The Devil All the Time inevitably sinks under the weight of its self-importance.

It’s a film in which provocations are punchlines and treading into potentially offensive territory is an end in and of itself. It consistently pushes every boundary it comes across, and then just sort of stands there and shrugs about it.

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.

The direction and editing are slick and workmanlike, letting the performers do the work without overplaying the limited setting in which most of the film takes place.

Yesterday is too trusting, too confident in its silly dream, and not fun or passionate enough.

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 film’s comical bluntness could also be construed as off putting, but to criticize that is to deprive yourself the joy of such pulp. And this is pulp, from the brazenness of its violence to the dull bite of its clunky dialogue. What Election Year offers isn’t nuanced satire, but rather a kind of catharsis, a release that’s not so far off from what the Purge itself purports to provide.

Whether you like Wendy will depend almost entirely on your continued tolerance for the baby-Malick stirrings of Zeitlin’s style: roving, evocative camerawork; the unpolished roughness of unknown child performers; treacly sentiment pouring from each horn blast of Romer’s score; or France’s storybook narration. At nearly two hours, that’s a lot of syrup to pour down your throat, and the unapologetic mawkishness of it all can rankle after a while, even if you’re attuned to the film’s wavelength.

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.

Aquaman is a pure piece of bright, ridiculous spectacle, hammering its Saturday morning cartoon sensibilities down its audience’s throat with a huge, cheesy grin on its face.

While the best thing about this movie is its clarity of intent, the worst thing about it is that it uses blunt force to call out its reference points, name-checking both Die Hard and Home Alone repeatedly.

There’s an immense amount of baggage weighing down what proves to be a vaguely competent superhero adventure, albeit one that fails to add anything significant to the genre by the end.

As with most Duplass-produced films, Rainbow Time perhaps ambles a bit too awkwardly into its ending. But, if it weren’t already clear, this is a messy movie about messy people, unique in both its character dynamics and worldview.

Despite failing to offer much in the way of freshness or originality, fans of the original will still find this new adventure a suitable companion piece. If nothing else, Double Tap should help to raise the public awareness of Zoey Deutch’s greatness, which is reason enough for the film’s existence.

Bitch‘s third act is an improvement upon its second, mainly in that the movie allows itself to be weird again.

Although the film lacks his absurdism, there’s a musicality to Wain’s direction that’s addicting, and the emotional punch in the final five minutes proves there’s a future for the filmmaker that goes way beyond the yucks.

It’s true that few movies are this aw-shucks nice these days, and for a short while The Fundamentals of Caring finds ways of retaining that kindness without lapsing into platitudes.

The Prom would be glitzy, high energy, and for the most part, harmless — if not for James Corden’s laughably cliched performance, and the film’s inability to figure out which narrative should take priority.

In the end, it’s less the Circle of Life and more the Line of Indifference.