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.