Hit Man is far from one of Linklater’s best, but in the context of his career it’s a welcomed addition, and on its own a damn good time.

That Silva achieves to both criticize the overuse of online personas (particularly in the white gay world) while becoming a piece meant to be meme-d and TikTok-ed into oblivion is truly remarkable.

It does a disservice to what should be an intriguing story, but unfortunately Amerikatsi contorts itself too hard to fit the mold of a stereotypical crowd-pleaser to satisfy as a historical drama.

Besson hopscotches from slapstick comedy to lachrymose junctures where Landry Jones is asked to conjure a sense of catharsis Dogman never really earns. His performance is a showcase of primal gestures and bare-breasted torment, but what the actor’s tasked with embodying isn’t a character, only the chrysalis of one.

A quiet, funny, confounding mystery.

Hello Dankness ultimately feels like a lockdown project; an in-joke between friends, assembled when there was nothing better to do in the world, and now an irrelevancy.

At the end of the day, Priscilla’s multifaceted brilliance comes back around to Coppola’s immaculate sense of restraint in both screenwriting and direction.

DuVernay’s dedication to rawness and realism puts literary and conceptual devices to good use to make an affecting, vital film for our times.

The Bikeriders is at its best when it’s a loose look at an inconsequential motorcycle club in ’60s Chicago. In our current era, where real subcultures are generally extinct from the Internet’s monopoly on shaping culture, a straightforward, fun, albeit idealistic look at what public community can offer men would’ve been enough of a statement for audiences to consider.

It is ironic that a documentary all about the creativity of an avant-garde artist has no creativity in its own construction.

For what a discomforting and despairing experience much of The Beast is, when I’ve thought back to it, its moments of real, uncomplicated cinematic pleasure, its verve and sense of joyousness, are what mark my memories. It’s romantic, without a capital-R.

Shot entirely in infrared and using augmented reality effects and AI imaging tools, Aggro Dr1ft appears like the fever dream of a day spent drinking lean, watching music videos, and playing God of War and Grand Theft Auto. At times it’s funny, dazzling, almost beautiful; at others ugly, misogynistic, numbingly dull.

Penélope Cruz steals the show as the pistol-wielding Laura. . . It’s a great performance founded on a sizzling bitterness that manifests the film’s only (darkly) comedic moments in bursts of scathing monologue.

With The Killer, David Fincher returns to form in a film that plays to his directorial strengths and artistry.

As a director Cooper gives it all he’s got; his eye and visual sense are possibly still developing, but he knows how to corral lively, motivated performances out of leads and supporting ensemble.

There hasn’t been such a delightfully strange and thoroughly developed cast of characters in years.

Neither twee nor saccharine, Anderson’s aesthetic tends to mirror the auras and oddball personalities of his films. In a work suffused with stupefying mysteries, the strange visions Henry Sugar teems with echo its drifters’ wide-eyed wonder as well as their creator’s. It’s an infectious feeling.

Cinema rarely looks towards solitary old age with such a sense of pleasurable relief. That Blackbird does so feels revelatory; thus I couldn’t help feeling a touch shortchanged to see the film lose its nerve at the very last, giving in to easier laughs and less-satisfying sentiment––even if Naveriani ends things less on a full stop than a question mark.

Piaffe is an enrapturing, ultimately inconsistent work where two halves that challenge in different ways don’t entirely add to an effective whole. Yet the journey itself more than compensates for where it eventually lands.

Carpet Cowboys would ultimately be a much stronger film if it was entirely focused on James and those in his direct orbit; his struggles and eventual attempts to relocate speak more to the state of the industry and the American Dream in a recession-ravaged nation than MacKenzie and Collier could have ever predicted.

Yannick may boast fewer visual flourishes than the director’s previous, but this more minimalist approach only heightens the young rebel and the film’s own fight: an attempt to change the rules of the game, to blur the divide between author and viewer, and open up the medium to the absurd––if only for 67 exuberant minutes.

As someone feeling rather down on the modern horror film, I was strangely delighted to find one that could get under my skin.

Without Jann and Jack’s relationship at its core, Gran Turismo would just be a well-produced commercial for a declining video game franchise.

A bit of a bad feeling about Demeter‘s overall direction came when the “save the cat” screenwriter device, as penned by Bragi Schut Jr. and Zak Olkewicz, was used less than ten minutes in.

Instead of coming across as an objective, analytical view of Ted’s life and experiences, it ends up a tapestry of ancient memories, intricately crafting a portrait of a relationship and a man that might not be the exact one who breathed.

Statham is continually up to the challenge, kicking, punching, and fighting people and sharks alike. He’s on a run of mid-tier movies unlike anyone else in Hollywood, and once he gets going, jet-skiing around an island taking on three megs, the film finally transforms into pure entertainment.

The most interesting thing about Lola is what Legge achieves with such economy—it feels kind of big at times.

This is a studio offering that coasts on likability and enjoyment––luckily, there’s enough of that fun to go around.