They Live in the Grey is a modest indie with thematic layers and evergreen mortal dread that could use two or three more editing bay passes.

There are glimpses of comparably daydreamy thrillers like Come True or The Feast that give themselves to the fantasy of mania, but A Banquet fails to grab attention like these more ambitious companions. It all builds up to a cinematic Irish exit.

For a work titled Gehraiyaan (Depths), this much-anticipated film doesn’t delve much below the surface. Like a pretty skipping stone, it skims across some ostensibly choppy waters, only to submerge with a gentle plop at a distance—leaving me confused and perplexed.

Uncharted spends a lot of time scraping up meager points for what it isn’t, rather than what it is. It isn’t a superhero movie, despite the budget. It isn’t CG’d within an inch of its life; there appears to be some location shooting in the mix.

Writer/director Kipp expands his short into a feature that at times struggles to elongate an otherwise poignant message, leaving other worldbuilding details behind in a way that undercuts structural integrity. I’m all for awareness, but wonky narrative stumbles aren’t ignorable.

Catch the Fair One is a grim and powerful watch. Its taut thriller structure keeps the story moving along.

Poor writing and direction suffocate Neeson so thoroughly that he can’t be charming, nor weathered, nor any other distinguishable feature; instead, the stalwart of old man action is just an expensive vessel for Williams’ half-baked ideology.

More studio comedies should take chances on their principal cast members the way I Want You Back does. Even if little else here worked, at least Day and Slate do.

The Sky Is Everywhere is an emotional ride, one that frequently skirts the line between sharply truthful and painfully saccharine. (Usually ending up in the realm of the former, but not always.) Yet its whimsical, fairytale feel generally keeps the story from feeling like something you’ve seen before.

Marry Me shapes up as a two-hour ode to rom-coms themselves, which have famously suffered a bit of a downturn in recent years.

If only Jeunet had instilled his story and characters with a little more of that ingenuity, then Bigbug might have been a more substantial watch.

With a solid cast and decent predecessor, Tall Girl 2 could have been a compelling watch, if only it didn’t make the mistake of relying on a premise that the first one had to go to unreasonable lengths (or heights?) to disguise as something else.

Wandel’s movie is immersive and bruising, full of empathy for its young characters, and unrelenting in its depiction of the challenges they face. And it makes you wonder, with utmost sincerity—how did any of us ever reach adulthood in one piece?

Still, despite the fact that there is hardly anyone in the cast that hasn’t either been accused of being a cannibal or anti-vaxxer, or is lacking in charisma, or both, Branagh does a masterful job of keeping the film’s spirit alive.

Zoë Kravitz playing an endearingly awkward agoraphobe is always entertaining to watch, and often elevates the film in spots where it otherwise might flounder.

Expressive and appropriate costume design looks the part, but the experience doesn’t fully embrace what kill-or-be-cracked-open thrills are openly promised.

Book of Love ends up being a surprising mix of sweet and salty, silly and sincere, that earns those coveted rom-com sighs.

Gorgeously realized and bolstered by amazing performances by Souleymane and Alio, Lingui, the Sacred Bonds is a prescient portrait of what tribulations afflict—or await—women who are barred from receiving comprehensive reproductive care.

In a world full of soulless, self-conscious CGI-rampant action flicks and superhero movies that seem like they were made by robots, Emmerich seems to really care about this movie. And that’s a trend I can get behind.

It is short, snappy and succinct. It also effortlessly fits in everything we look for in a doc like this: A retelling of the crime and the investigation (the latter being, in this case, even more interesting than the former), non-distracting reenactments and an engaging tone, which Swindler accomplishes by whipping around the globe to exotic locations—all paired with a lively soundtrack.

More casual viewers’ mileage may vary on which stunts are laugh-out-loud funny and which are abjectly horrifying, and the rickety carnival rollercoaster ride works better when the other passengers—whether fellow audience members or the on-camera talent—are screaming and laughing along in equal measure.

Compartment No. 6 may strike some as a boozier Before Sunrise, but it’s more like the drier, Eastern European answer to Before Sunrise’s romantic Western sensibilities.

A joyous, resonant snapshot of growing into one’s own, and challenging even your own expectations of who you thought you could be.

Sundown is not a sunny film, it’s true. It’s deeply nihilistic and unpleasant, and even a bit silly. But Franco’s film is nonetheless a warped and fascinating take on class as it ties to egotism.

As wacky as it all sounds (and there are certainly punchlines to appreciate), Escobar’s creation can be shockingly moving.

It’s best when it fully commits to its subtlety. Long passages without dialogue highlight the wavering music and Todd Chandler’s artful, sometimes wry editing.

While the doc is ostensibly yet another pop star chronicle in an era of constant pop star chronicles, it emerges as a surprisingly universal study in being a creator of any kind in the digital era—watching in horror as your ambitious self-imposed deadline approaches, navigating how generous you should be with your audience, saying unkind things to yourself for no real reason, and so on.

Coster-Waldau and Greis-Rosenthal have a fierce chemistry and passion that coats every conversation they have with one another, whether it comes from a place of love or, later, of disdain. They push each other to their limits in nearly every scene, upping the ante with each glance and loaded word.