An impressive debut feature from Felix Thompson, King Jack is a powerful day-in-the-life drama.

De Palma is a fascinating, revealing, and compelling overview of a remarkably eclectic career, but it’s also a seldom-heard first-hand account of what it’s like to work inside and outside the Hollywood system.

Through it all, Vigas’ writing remains non-judgmental and keenly observant. He doesn’t attempt to explain everything with words, but the raw honesty of his voice compels every step along the way.

At times it may be difficult to watch, and the plot does feel episodic, but it remains powerful, challenging filmmaking.

Honeyglue has a very good movie inside it, but decisions brought on by inexperience prevent it from sprouting its wings.

It’s surprisingly enjoyable even if you aren’t already in the bag for the turtles.

Rather than intelligently grapple with the complexities, the filmmakers let various people have their say and then call the whole thing done.

Miller’s New York, full of academics who still have the capacity to act like children, isn’t exactly new, but plenty fascinating.

Samberg and company are keen observers of pop culture and every facet of its insanity, doing their very best to out-size that which already feels larger than logic. They don’t always succeed, but when they do, it’s more than worth it.

Just how seemingly uncomfortable the film feels in truly inhabiting the musical and inspirational biopic genres is tipped off by the often desolate images.

Credit Rosenberg for keeping things ambiguous because it does make the film more interesting. Without this lingering sense of potential artifice, Approaching the Unknown becomes a slow-moving descent into acceptance — not quite a riveting plot with the suspenseful intrigue a descent into madness brings.

The film proves more than its conventional story presumes. We’ve seen its depiction of mid-life and quarter-life crises—many times with the music industry at its back—but this newest iteration possesses an authenticity rendering it worthwhile nonetheless.

The final sequences about loss, and art as a “cure” (in Jodorowsky’s own words), are heart-wrenchingly powerful.

How a documentary about the genesis of an artist’s album can evolve into a narrative about another’s perseverance with great things happening to great people is anyone’s guess, but here it is.

It’s not wretched; just boring. A faintly damned improvement, but an improvement nonetheless.

Designed and choreographed with stupendous pizzazz, it’s an explosion of colors, noises, and murderous zest that floods the senses, reminding you in a (skipped) heartbeat how frightfully entertaining these supposedly artless horror flicks can be.

This film is especially good at making courtroom scenes engaging, where many would hurry through the choicest soundbites before moving on to the next part.

If anything, it’s familiar and authentic while being completely on-the-nose, with certain passages of dialogue that should have been internalized over the course of a few drafts. Derivative of much better mob and boxing movies, it’s not bad, but one can argue the former might be worse.

Lacking the earlier stylistic exuberance, Dog Eat Dog loses all momentum, taking forever to come to a conclusion both foregone and deeply dissatisfying.

The Ones Below needs some B-movie embellishment to set it apart from every other wannabe thriller, but it hopes it’s too serious for such things. So exacting and severe, we see the strings and grow bored of their inevitability.

What Zero Days lacks in subtlety and formal innovation, however, it compensates for in breadth and lucidity.

It’s a moving portrait, but it’s also a very familiar and transparently constructed one, preventing the narrative from generating the urgency necessary to endow its moral implications with genuine vigor.

Elle would be unimaginable without Huppert, who delivers a performance of such virtuosity that she turns what is essentially a raving sociopath into one of the most alluring protagonists in recent memory.

This is Kore-eda at his very best, facing up to the hardest truths with honesty and a nervous laugh — uncomfortable, invigorating, and ultimately cleansing, like the cinema’s equivalent of a cold shower. And I mean that in the best way possible.

Two Lovers and a Bear is at its most vibrant and enjoyable when Nguyen allows the surrealism to flourish. There’s a good film in there somewhere — one with fewer lovers and more bear, perhaps.

Apart from a middle stretch during which the narrative loses momentum and Staying Vertical feels temporarily aimless – something that Guiraudie soon rectifies by amping up the weirdness – the film is as engaging and consistently uproarious as it is perplexing.

Disappointingly, the film feels like someone trying very hard to imitate Li’l Quinquin, pulling off but a pallid counterfeit.

Sieranevada’s mise-en-scène is one of suffocation, making for a dense and demanding viewing experience. However, Puiu’s exceptional script – both in terms of the quality of the dialogue and the painstakingly progressive characterizations – foments a burning wish to figure out all the character configurations, conflicts and backstories, ensuring that Sieranevada remains consistently, intensely engaging.