It’s hard not to wish the film were a little longer and could push its musical element harder. It doesn’t quite erupt into a rapturous extravaganza—seemingly by design, as a twinge of defeat emerges when the film makes a hard ellipsis back to the future in its final minutes. But in this mad dash of relevancy, maybe a bit of half baked-ness just comes with the territory

Martelli has managed to create an accurate portrayal of that feeling of naiveté which permeated Chilean society in those years while simultaneously creating a highly metaphorical work.

While Star and An fantasize and joke about wishing they could become trophy wives of old, their roads are not paved in gold. Having each other sitting shotgun, however, does make the trip a whole lot brighter.

We’re witnessing a nuanced reorganization of priorities within both Dong-Hyun and So-Young at different speeds.

As with every epiphany, It Is Night in America is both unsettling and liberating.

It’s a Marvel entry surprisingly free of any ties to broader property outside of the first two volumes, but mired in the same bag of tricks with a bit more slime on it.

Both Fiennes siblings are smart to never get in the way of Eliot’s words. By simply putting them in front of us and adding some air underneath, the film becomes a piece all its own, made for now.

Emma and Josh are experiencing this weird journey together just like they did the enriching if celibate one before it. And we want them to come out the other side stronger even as they spiral out of control.

Schaefer and Lawler pack their rounded vignette of full-frame 16mm film with contradictions, thematic mirrors, and unexplainable phenomena that confounds in its beauty just as easily as it enlightens through its complexity.

Abbott and Qualley unload everything from physical to emotional to psychological abuse, both roles desperate to solidify their respective superiority and restore the status quo. Rediscover balance by admitting their desires. Who knows? They might just fulfill them too.

It’s not at all surprising that Peter Pan & Wendy, which Lowery co-wrote with Toby Halbrooks, feels effortless and joyful. The filmmaker clearly has an affinity for the material, and seeks to bring some of the depth of understanding that adulthood affords to the story. While the results are a little uneven narratively, the breathless action, stellar performances, and beautiful compositions carry the story to rousing heights.

Ultimately, Winter Boy becomes too much of a broad, all-encompassing exploration of grief within a coming-of-age tale, ringing trite while it should be personal. It’s undeniably heartfelt, but the most moving moments are rooted within Lucas’ home life; in straying from this it feels uncomfortably generic.

Unrest leaves the mind purring. How did we, you begin wondering, get ourselves into all this? Humans, the film argues, have only ourselves to blame for constructing a system that would eventually imprison us, yet Unrest is not short on levity, and not least in its beautiful closing image or in the energizing sensation it leaves in the nervous system. If a quieter work of agitprop exists, you might struggle to hear it.

Long movies are not necessarily good or even ambitious; Trenque Lauquen is both. Notwithstanding a few minutes that could be shed here and there, everything from its sweet, intriguing Part I, the strategically placed and electrifying title sequence, and deliciously ominous Part II feel purposeful, organic.

Long movies are not necessarily good or even ambitious; Trenque Lauquen is both. Notwithstanding a few minutes that could be shed here and there, everything from its sweet, intriguing Part I, the strategically placed and electrifying title sequence, and deliciously ominous Part II feel purposeful, organic.

There are things to cherish: busily moving between sterile offices and boxy, lived-in apartments, the film keeps you guessing about the practicalities and implications of its central conceit to such an extent that its moments of real poignancy can catch you off guard. A lot of this comes down to Baisho’s heartbreaking central performance.

Caught between a horror action flick that delivers gallons of splatter and a well-cast high-concept comedy, both seemed pushed aside for mediocre thrills and a few chuckles.

In general, the film is a losing battle between loftier aspirations and genre requirements.

At times, It’s Me, Margaret the film, just like It’s Me, Margaret the book, feels a little too raw and embarrassing: like going to buy a bra at a department store with your mother, there is something unspeakably intimate and horrifying about existing in its world for too long.

For the most part, The Covenant is about the bond between brothers and sisters in arms, and the need to rely on each other when systems fail their pledges. Third-act qualms aside, Gyllenhaal and Ritchie emerge as a well-meshed Hollywood duo here. One hopes this is the first of a few collaborations.

For a film that seldom lets us step outside Andrew’s car, this is a most evocative, soul-replenishing journey; for one that just as rarely lets us look at its protagonist in the face, this is an astonishingly full-rounded, richly textured portrait of a life, epic in size and scope.

Beau Is Afraid relies on subverting expectations so frequently that its twists become predictable, if not rote.

In Suzume, they deliver a general lack of focus or full realization of any one of dozens of well-intentioned ideas.

The idea of a moralist ghost story to be read under the covers with a flashlight isn’t so bad, but it gets lost under so much art-film ostentation.

The Super Mario Bros. Movie isn’t an actively unpleasant way to spend an afternoon, but the glib literalism with which it applies cinematic narrative to video games’ abstractions can’t hold a candle to the wrenching pathos and self-discovery of a night on the track with real-life loved ones and Mario in his original medium.

There is something occasionally fun in watching a film with questionable choices bookended by over-the-top musical numbers. It’s not hard to imagine a spirited programmer getting a crowd excited for it at some point in the future.

In many ways, AIR embodies the last decade of sports movies that have pivoted from showing action on the field or court, instead peeking into corner offices and classrooms to examine the power players and dealmakers pulling the strings.

Flowers, in that, feels both ancient and novel. It’s a film whose visual experiments invite one to see the world anew, even as the demons that fuel it harken back to a passion for storytelling that’s as old as time itself.