I’ll admit that Camp Miasma‘s more winking moments . . . did more to break the movie’s spell than enhance it. When Schoenbrun does decide to stare back into the void, however, their ability to cast a dark spell on the viewer is surely unrivaled in contemporary cinema.

Familiar as it may be, Obsession provides a firm introduction to multiple budding talents while providing all the sick thrills and nasty twists on morality one could ask for.

The result is a wonderful showcase for Aselton. She has written an emotionally complex role that’s built to provide her a stage with which to let loose, to feel the roller coaster that is life beside another human while enduring fate’s cruel hand.

The filmmakers allow their characters to bounce off each other—sometimes genially, usually not—in a series of dialogue-dense sequences that are either caustically funny or just downright caustic. Whether the video-game-cut-scene vibes outstay their welcome will depend on the viewer’s tastes.

Our Land is an urgent film with a bleeding heart that deserves to be seen by everyone around the world. Martel has made an essential work.

Elliott Tuttle’s film seeks to unsettle, question, and, yes, provoke you. But his masterful two-hander wants, more than anything, to extend understanding to both men at the center, asking you to see them as flawed humans with depth and complexity, even if we’d rather not.

Sossai’s movie (which is certainly not without sentiment) definitely follows through on the promise of its title. It might slip into Alexander Payne territory at times––there are a few moments when the trio drive in contented silence––yet if Last One is Sossai’s Sideways, it’s a version with two Jacks and no Miles.

Rather than certify McCarthy’s status as a new master of horror, Hokum reaffirms his potential, and what should have been a step up serves more of a slight misstep.

This back-to-basics homage to disaster pictures of the 1970s has a modest charm, elevated by Harlin’s brisk direction, even if there is little that makes a lasting impression.

Two Pianos amounts to a glimpse into a brief, tumultuous time in these two people’s lives, where they take a short look at what could have been and nearly combust at the sight of it. Desplechin’s ability to find the raw, human qualities in that experience––and to respect them enough to understand that they can stand on their own rather than be weighed down by narrative contrivance––makes his movie an ideal example of what a prestige film should be.

Two Seasons is the rare film that begins with mundane clarity (remember, “scene 1, summer, seaside”) and works its way back, leaving you with the knottier stuff of life. Along the way, Li remembers what it’s like to have fun; the movie dutifully follows her lead.

Writer-director David Lowery sets the stage for Mother Mary, but it’s Coel—playing the jilted, acidic fashion designer Sam Anselm—who steps out center stage. Coel dominates the screen, keeping all our senses at attention; though she has been in films before, Mother Mary feels like her grand entrance.

The Day She Returns is Hong at his most elemental, a work that sheds any semblance of plot to remind you that authenticity—in life as in cinema—comes from those moments we allow ourselves to freely step into the unknown.

Faces of Death gives the people what they want while constantly probing the viewer as to why they want it, all the way through to an ending as bleak as the original Texas Chain Saw Massacre.

Zendaya delivers one of her best performances, externalizing the film’s racial politics by being a perfectly normal, loving partner marginalized by the narrative constructed around her.

As far as dumb comedies go, Pizza Movie is a masterclass in throwing everything at the wall to see what sticks. It doesn’t always land, but when it does, it really does.

Capturing a stressful environment of constant interruptions that distract from medical urgencies, Switzerland’s Oscar-shortlisted procedural is a work of high intensity and acute resonance, even if it lacks a certain personality by design.

Carney has offered a sharp, hopeful crowdpleaser that strikes the right notes.

A funny, often fascinating riff on aspirations both in and out of reach, I Love Boosters is ambitious and, like Sorry to Bother You, explores the systems that make the American Dream possible for only a select few. But the film is also a gleeful celebration of the underdogs scraping by as the cost of living increases.

An agreeable documentary with technically zero drama (and notably no other interviewees) portraying a hard-working icon of street-wise aesthetic and a radical influence on high fashion: what’s the catch? Arguably there isn’t one, but it’s hard to say whether the balminess of the film is a result of a friendly disposition, or if Coppola’s auteurist touch is way too light.

It often feels like a Barbara Hammer film itself while evolving into a sharp, clever montage that moves fast and entertains throughout. It’s funny and disarming and, ultimately, quietly uplifting.

As an existential sci-fi, Project Hail Mary doesn’t live up to the mid-2010s blockbusters it’s attempting to emulate, but it does eventually soar when it allows the hangout buddy comedy to take center stage. It’s a gorgeous feat of practical effects on a gargantuan scale, but its biggest pleasures lie in the most intimate character moments.

Chomet’s film is finally an edifying, educating piece of work, beautifully drawn and composed.

Earth Coincidence is crammed with so much information and so many detours it seems designed to leave your mind agog.

The two powerhouse performances at the heart of Dreams manage to stand so tall that it seems a love story like theirs can overpower even the trademark brutality one has learned to expect in every Michel Franco film.

Our Hero Balthazar is an effective entry point into a crisis that truly needs more coverage in both documentary and narrative cinema.

Rarely has maternal trauma been so well-dramatized on the big screen with zest, humor, and genuine appreciation of the ambivalence baked into these relationships.

American Doctor is hard to watch and it should be. It’s hard to live in a world like this, where things like this happen. Where we let things like this continue to happen.

Yellow Letters‘ heart is ultimately in the right place, but good intentions alone can’t make for the rousing call-to-arms against creeping authoritarianism that Çatak and his co-writers hope. It feels effective in the moment, but becomes more hollow in retrospect for the lack of specificity in what it’s standing firmly against.

Needless to say, Hüller is magnificent in a role that relies heavily on her abilities as a physical performer. Schleinzer is, naturally, not in the business of cheap sentiment, but when something vaguely resembling happiness presents itself in the story, the restraint with which Hüller allows Rose’s heart to thaw is still remarkable.

Ford’s witty crime caper employs a nonstop pace that grooves slyly along to Emile Mosseri’s quick, bass-heavy, snare-driven score, which hangs ever-present in the backing soundscape. It has, for better and worse, the feeling of a montage that never ends.

It functions just as much as a standalone movie as it does a conclusion for a beloved project. If Johnson and McCarroll never reach these comedic heights again, just be glad they managed to get the Canadian government to fund and release this.

Shimmering and sparkling, Ha-chan carries the rarest maturity about sex, love, grief, and allowing yourself to take life one step at a time.

More Velvet Buzzsaw than The Square, The Gallerist suffers from piling on the references and refusing to give audiences a chance to breathe.

The film is at its best in moments of warmth, humor, and kindness—that is where it really shines, without needing to amp up the stakes or shift forms.

Wicker amounts to a can’t-miss curiosity, adeptly weaving humor, social commentary, and a potent contemplation on the self-destructive perils of jealousy.

The film’s focus on skin, fluids, goo, and fingers in orifices signals her highly sexualized take. Yet it never quite erupts or––to evoke its own imagery––gushes. If anything, it feels tame.

It’s an adaptation that expands and contracts its source material in different ways––some successful, others less so––and a perfectly fine bit of psychological horror that understands the strengths of what it’s working from, even if it has little interest in trying to make them stronger.

McKinley’s intense and, at times, brutal thriller is crowd-pleasing without being pandering. He melds a winning premise, breathless sequences, and lush photography with the right cast to draw you into the treacherous journey.

In the Blink of an Eye is 2026’s first true dud.

An uproariously funny take on modern relationships.

Mohammed Ali Naqvi’s Hanging by a Wire is not without thrills and human drama. Yet it seems focused more on a death-defying rescue than on what could be done to prevent this from happening again.

As the world continues fermenting its vile culture, the gang behind The State and Wet Hot American Summer is back to save you from the merciless onslaught of bad news. At least for 90 minutes.

While not fully engaging on a narrative level, the project at least demonstrates Kogonada hasn’t lost his filmmaking mojo, crafting a movie that may seem more personal to him than most viewers.

This is a quiet, sad, lovely little film with wonderful, small character moments.

Despite fine performances and a riveting premise—prisoners finding meaning in caring for their elders, even a violent white supremacist—Frank & Louis falters by putting its characters in predictable, nuanceless boxes.

This tension between profit and protection, between exploitation and conservation, is explored in much more depth in Vanden and Weisman’s latest feature, thanks to yet more stunning compositions and some crucial historical context provided by Inuit narrator Mike Tunalaaq Gibbons.

Harper does good work here, building on a sturdy portrait of these heroes over a 100-minute runtime.

After masterfully plotting the slow build of dread, the climax feels rushed and derivative of other, better horror movies. Yet moments in the climax do succeed; the explanation for that banging-on-pipes sound is unnerving.

There’s a lot in The Incomer to be admired. Unfortunately, it lasts a bit too long and makes the same joke too many times.

In Araújo’s vigorous directorial vision, a heightened sense of anxiety courses through, hinging on the precise ways a girl in mental free-fall, rightfully lacking the words or life experience to find a footing, will react to each daunting new situation.

See You When I See You is a miss for the generally consistent and solid Duplass, but it’s good to have him back in the director’s chair.

The Only Living Pickpocket sympathizes with Harry without forgiving him.

These profiles aren’t intended as obituaries, but end up as something similar, only greater. What separates them from a standard obituary is Green’s approach, which feels intimate and personal.

An immersive and masterfully rendered documentary that presents a living, breathing oral history of the Harlem Renaissance. Watching it feels like unearthing treasure.

Although just under 100 minutes isn’t enough time to capture every nuance of 10 years with multiple subjects, One in a Million is an ambitious, affecting declaration that a complete sense of freedom will only arrive when personal independence is fulfilled.

By and large, Buddy proves that high-concept, short-form premises can be expanded to a feature format effectively, so long as the final film isn’t too winky and its stakes feel grounded.

The steady two-hander never quite soars, but is elevated by an eclectic batch of supporting roles that supply bursts of energy in the right places.

Even with a dense backdrop and textured surroundings, Union County sits on the shoulders of Cody, and the movie succeeds largely because of Poulter’s still, shy performance as a young man quietly reckoning with life on the ropes.

It’s neither as funny as it needs to be nor as gross and gory as you’d hope Raimi’s first R-rated feature in more than two decades would prove, while still clearly salvaged by a talented filmmaker and two exceptional performers doing their best to elevate one-note, thinly sketched material.

With a cavalcade of hilarious bits, inspired cinematography, and a willingness to earnestly be about something, The Moment serves as a bold reinvention of a mockumentary genre that, until now, was content to stick with pithy jokes.

I Want Your Sex is not quite the comeback for Araki that’s been advertised, but it holds bright spots.

For those willing to meet Wilson on his wavelength, The History of Concrete is a joyous ride full of his now-trademark detours and persistent, underlying sadness at both the state of New York (his first and true love) and, on a secondary scale, the world at large.

Dazzled and conflicted are some of the best things a documentary like this can be, and that clear passion for the subject, as well as Bezinović’s cinematic flair, makes for infectious, often-hilarious viewing.

Retaining its narrow action-mechanical focus, the film struggles to paint a convincing interpersonal relationship as much as demonstrate the value of a co-op partner.

With very few locations or characters, the film perhaps operates with a deliberate, necessary austerity after so many resources went to Boyle’s predecessor.

Holding Liat quickly reveals a much more complex picture: a constellation of personal opinions, politics, and viewpoints coming from the Israeli-American Beinin family.

Cameron wrings the most from his environment and its inhabitants, not just for the sake of going-for-broke, but to deliver something thematically resonant, folding the first two films on top of each other.

This Un Certain Regard jury prize winner is a darkly humorous, cautionary character study in letting one’s long-lost creative dreams drive every decision––one in which Soto, more often than not, finds empathy as his protagonist circles the drain.

There’s a bitter honesty to that which we aren’t often confronted with in a world where stories try to give us some way out, some bit of hope. But Goodbye June can’t tackle this material with the same kind of dimensionality present in, say, Tamara Jenkins’ superb The Savages.

That I Only Rest in the Storm should overflow with ideas is not in itself an indictment; it’s that the film should gradually shed so many of its mysteries and ambiguities.

One of the more fascinating elements of the documentary WTO/99, directed by Ian Bell, is that while it visually suggests a relic, the political observations feel as predictive as they are reflexive.

Running at a slim 92 minutes, 100 Nights of Hero was clearly never intending to match the sprawling scale of its literary inspiration––but that doesn’t absolve it of inefficiencies, modernizing its source in a way that’ll make you glad we still have the classics to hold onto.

Gornostai’s documentary is a powerful reminder that even under the worst of circumstances, humanity will always find a way to endure.

Truthfully, Marty Supreme is so entertaining, so visually bountiful, that it doesn’t require pronounced thematic coating to lend import; it would probably suffer if Safdie and Bronstein insisted upon such.

It’s inspiring to watch. Isseks provided the tools and the idea, but the students took the cause to new heights, a symptom of their strong feelings about the governmental negligence occurring in their backyards.

Cutting Through Rocks, like its subject, is resilient. The film is ultimately the sum of small, powerful moments.

With his debut feature, Arco, Ugo Bienvenu puts a unique, thought-provoking twist on the solarpunk genre.

The most spectacular sequences here are when [Wright] allows himself to let loose, working towards his instincts rather than against them.

Paul Andrew Williams’ Dragonfly largely succeeds because it never quite telegraphs where it’s going until its third act.

It’s a gorgeous piece of animation to consume. It envelopes the viewer, providing a casing similar to the bubble Amélie lives in for her first two years.

The documentary proves an inspiring tale of the perseverance of those who refuse to cater to corruption and exploitation while also rejecting the alternative of quitting.

Mumenthaler doesn’t want to give us the answers––she just wants us to wade through it and find our own way to shore.

The screenplay is overflowing with memorable meditations, blunt-but-heartfelt exchanges, and piercing affection for its people, all rooted in the natural world around them.

The most interesting thing about Gabe Polsky’s new documentary The Man Who Saves the World? is that it is unsure of its intentions.

Opting for very few close-ups, Hosoda mistakes a large scope for compelling images and achieved something fans never thought possible: he’s made a film that looks generic.

Director Shih-Ching Tsou’s solo debut Left-Handed Girl is a simple but striking drama about growing up in a family living paycheck-to-paycheck.

For all that the film proposes to convey about a unique industry and intimate access, we’re left with a lot of pretty surfaces made all the more frustrating by how close it brushes something greater.

Jan Komasa’s Anniversary should be in the running for least-subtle movie of the year. It should also be in the running for most terrifying. This ruthlessly effective thriller rarely beats around the bush with what it’s trying to say, nor does it ask its famous actors to rein in their performances––despite occasionally needing to––but it certainly hits its mark with unnerving accuracy.

León and Cociña, per usual, have their fingers on the pulse, and their particularly material approach to storytelling and the nation-psyche makes The Hyperboreans a poignant, experimental film-warning urging you to never forget.

Perhaps the saddest, most effective thing about Orwell: 2+2=5 is that it all seems so obvious. The evidence, the crimes, the lies––all of it. So many of these despots lack any nuance or fortitude. Raoul Peck remains a steadfast beacon of truth. In this time when fiction is fact, we need as many of him as we can get.

Hadžihalilović has formed an homage to cinema as an enchantment-casting machine.

It’s clear Verbinski hasn’t lost a step in his nearly 10-year absence from the big screen. For good or ill, this is a Gore Verbinski movie through and through. A little overlong? Perhaps. But it’s never dull, in part because it’s so hard to predict what’s coming next.

The younger Day-Lewis has crafted something haunting and exquisite, a slow-burning, two-handed meditation about grief, regret, and the kind of absence that irreparably fractures a family. Mostly, though, it supplies the elder Day-Lewis a chance to flex his dormant muscles, most prominently with a couple of monologues—one humorous and scatological in nature, the other reflective, darker, and more vulnerable—that sneak up on you in overwhelming ways.

[Anderson's] made a largely thrilling populist action movie with some of his most spectacular cinematic formalism, and disciplined, linear storytelling, but lacking the dark beauty and profundity of his best work.

The definition of an oddball, Manfred / John is a brilliant character for Mads Mikkelsen to experiment with; mostly, it’s a role that’s not physical in a way that showcases the actor’s plasticity. He’s a bespectacled middle-aged man who’s timid and quiet until he’s volatile and hysterical––a surprisingly infantile character that brings out of Mikkelsen something we’re not used to seeing.

In a satire like this, the laughs start heavy, but Early’s best trick is ending this journey in an earnest, emotionally authentic place. He’s not playing a punchline so much as a humorous, painful truth.

Taking the guise of a downbeat New Hollywood character drama you’d get from Bob Rafelson or John Cassavetes to unintentionally hilarious ends, the film at least bears enough eccentricities to be a more pleasurable sit than most bigger-budgeted studio slop.