This is a deeply personal film, which may feel unexpected in a Pixar movie. But the pains of growing up and feeling stuck between youthful adventure and the tradition of your family are resonant for any viewer, regardless of their own experience with puberty.

After Yang is a beautiful film, both in how it looks and in what it evokes.

Originally planned as a vehicle for Ben Affleck’s bland Batman, Reeves’ version hits left of center, offering a vision of the character not yet explored on film.

Dog may be man’s best friend, but Dog, a snooze about a boring 1500-mile road trip shared by a dog and a man—both war-ravaged, brain-damaged soldiers—should have stayed in the kennel.

The Automat was owned by the people, and it’s the people who loved it, remember it with passion, and still shed a tear when you mention it now.

A riveting homage to an extraordinary force as dynamic as she was unique.

In the same way F9 made no sense but was mostly fun to watch, Uncharted sometimes finds real moments of fast-paced entertainment. It moves quickly and it’s a good diversion, even with the drag of Wahlberg.

It’s mildly entertaining with a likeable cast. And when it ends, it’s a relationship you’ll move on from quickly.

There’s an old-fashioned panache to the film that just works, offering viewers an undeniably enjoyable journey.

The Worst Person in the World is a poignant reminder there is beauty in that uncertainty if we can only accept it.

It’s fun, not in a way a computer or a boardroom might interpret fun—pixels taking the shape of something familiar, regurgitated across the screen—but rather, in an unabashed way, where it winks at the audience without apologizing for its gimmick, without being insincere or self-deprecating, and without sacrificing what makes popcorn horror movies such a reliable collective ritual.

As much as there is to wonder at in Belle, the film is weighed down by its convoluted narrative.

The net effect of all this techno-philosophic yackety-yak is the not altogether pleasant feeling that you are simultaneously watching a movie while being trapped in an elevator with someone desperate to explain what it’s all about and why you should like it.

The pace is always zippy but rarely hyper, and there is just enough space for the film’s many emotional beats to resonate.

This is Gyllenhaal’s directorial debut, and in her capable hands the story is purposefully hazy, unfolding in both present day and disjointed flashbacks, opening space for the audience to question the behavior of these characters and the societal pressures driving their actions.

In its best moments, The King’s Man feels like you and your friends have just dumped out your great grandfather’s dusty crate of tin soldiers to create a game that has no rules whatsoever beyond doing something ridiculous. But the movie’s politics? Ugh. They are the cinematic equivalent of your British uncle complaining about cabbies with foreign accents or claiming that Brexit didn’t go nearly far enough.

It’s diluted, a little flat, but sweet and familiar enough to evoke long ago memories, if not quite strong enough to give you a reason to bother to remember.

This is a West Side Story for both the past and present, as pleasing as the best movie musicals used to be, and as relevant as today’s headlines. It makes you feel like you are actually on the turbulent streets of New York’s west side, not a sound stage.

From its predictably gorgeous yet unimaginative visuals, to its familiar songs and predictable story, the film does feel rather safe despite being superficially groundbreaking for the studio. And yet, when the film dives into the specificity of its portrayal of Colombia or its themes which share similarities with the seminal novel One Hundred Years of Solitude, it becomes an exciting, nuanced, complex magical realist adventure that pushes the nearly 100-year-old studio forward to a new era.

One of the truly great animated films this year, one that now places Imbert alongside fellow countrymen Jérémy Clapin (I Lost My Body) and Rémi Chayé (Calamity) as part of a new generation of French animation talent that is delivering high quality animated projects in both story and style.

Licorice Pizza is the moment between the leap and the impact—the feeling of weightlessness even as you plummet.

Juicy, extravagant, glamorous, decadent and a crowd-pleasing carousel of euro-trash camp, Ridley Scott’s sordid saga about the rise and fall of the Gucci fashion empire has something for everybody.

It is true that with Ghostbusters: Afterlife, Jason has entered the unofficial family business of trying and failing to recreate the inexplicable magic that made the original Ghostbusters such a frothy delight.

As the focus of Mayor Pete, a fascinating chronicle of his 2019-2020 campaign, he’s living proof that decency, integrity, and liberty and justice for all still work in American politics. His story is like a good book you just can’t put down for fear that you might miss something.

The memories are vivid, but there’s no plot to connect them, and the film is rendered almost totally incomprehensible by accents as thick as congealed week-old mutton stew.

Except for her accent and hair style, Stewart practically plays herself, creating a living document not only of recent British history, but of contemporary stardom, and the intimate emotional fallout of a gaze that most people only know from a distance.

A film five years in the making about the poisonous effects of movie fame on the young, this fascinating but dismally depressing Swedish documentary is well worth seeing, but never fully escapes the feeling that it’s all been seen before.

Depraved, delirious, and downright stupid, Last Night in Soho is two hours of amateurish drivel by B-movie director Edgar Wright (Baby Driver, Shaun of the Dead) that pretends to be half-retro Swingin’ Sixties comedy and half-horror thriller.