Like caring for someone at the end of their lives, Last Flight Home might not be the easiest film to experience, but it is an accurate representation of the ups, downs, and mixed emotions of those times, crafted with compassion, nuance, and great warmth.

Saint Omer isn’t a movie concerned specifically with a verdict. It asks you to listen, to observe and consider a tragedy and its ripples within a community.

It reaches past the usual rock clichés to recognize that the struggle these women face is more immediate than striving to perform for sold-out crowds or become signed by a label. This is about surviving a chaotic environment marked by past violence while still entrenched in present-day political revolution.

A chief problem with Hellraiser is that we never feel its lead’s dark past.

It’s completely inoffensive but also lacking emotional heft, a result of sloppy story structure and flashback-heavy plotting that may have worked well in the source novel by Tim Winton (who also wrote the screenplay), but drains the tension in this adaptation.

For a Lynch diehard, Lynch/Oz will be catnip. For any average moviegoer, it digs into the well of American cinema history with enough fascination that it’s worth a watch.

Don’t expect to know how it’s all going to end; Pereda makes certain to save the blood for the finale.

Rheingold is a smooth watch that coasts on the fun, eclectic nature of its source material. If this may not be the return to form for a Cannes- and Berlin-winning filmmaker some anticipated, it’s a rousing good time nonetheless.

That you can’t always tell—the movie arbitrarily pivots from serious conspiracy to buddy comedy throug every scene—only highlights the chaotic tonal friction at its core. There’s enough heat to call this a lukewarm mess.

The inescapable problem at the core of any omnibus or anthology film with multiple cooks in the kitchen is, by all design, things will be uneven. Yet V/H/S/99 is fun enough in the context of TIFF’s Midnight Madness—including standouts from the usually gross and reliable Flying Lotus and Johannes Roberts, whose film is genuinely terrifying before turning a bit silly in its final moments.

With little in the way of narrative outside a real-estate scam subplot, the company of its characters and Zombie’s formal verve are The Munsters‘ selling point. It’s a true case of “your mileage may vary.”

The film zooms in to project humanity’s struggle onto Vesper. With one gust of wind (and some tragic losses), health and prosperity can be hers (and ours) again.

Farrelly does everything to make this beer run as unfunny, plodding, and needlessly repetitive as possible.

Rather than aim high, Sick is happy to make the most of what it has to work with, and shows how sticking to the basics can still provide a hell of a fun time.

Raymond and Ray, while far from terrible, is more damning for how content it is with mediocrity. We know Garcia and his cast are capable of much better—they’ve done it.

Ticket to Paradise represents the genre at its laziest, coasting by on the natural chemistry between its two beloved lead stars, who eventually struggle to mine any humor from a script that quickly prioritizes unearned sentimentality over genuine laughs.

To say The Swearing Jar is an uplifting film without a clarifier such as “bittersweet” is perhaps a tough sell, but that’s exactly what it is.

I left the film having learned more about Parkinson’s than I did about Moran and Jones—and for a supposed tribute to their careers, that’s a real shame.

It’s a delicate scenario that treats its characters with the respect and complexity they deserve.

Iliff’s script and Hughes’ direction might not provide anything we haven’t seen before, but both allow the actors the necessary room to give us what we need to stay invested.

There’s enjoyment to be had with The Menu, even if it amounts to echoes from the belly of the beast it’s targeting.

Empire of Light would like to remind us of the power of movies when it does a far stronger job recalling better ones.

The tone throughout Confess, Fletch is refreshingly casual and the dialogue is usually clever. The silliest bits are some of the accents and a twisty plot. Hamm anchors all of it, as funny as he’s teased at being for the last decade or so in supporting roles.

What begins like a feel-good tale of one woman’s quest to be the best, Stephanie Johnes’ Maya and the Wave quickly transforms into something much bigger. More than simply attempting to rejuvenate her career after three back surgeries, anxiety disorders caused by the trauma of the accident and its public backlash, and a loss of sponsorship, Maya’s journey became a fight for equality.

The provocativeness in Sparta is not necessarily in Ewald’s actions, but in the sympathetic, or at least non-judgmental, view that the film shows toward its main character. The film’s villains instead are more plainly the children’s absent, abusive fathers or the system that neglects these youngsters to the extent that they fall willingly into the arms of a would-be predator.

Coupling a minimalist (albeit loud-and-thumping) score by Volker Bertelmann and a cold, unfeeling color scheme by cinematographer James Friend gives a menacing, unwaveringly serious savagery to director Edward Berger’s aesthetic—danger and imminent violence are palpable even when there is hardly any action onscreen.

It’s maybe dull for critics to praise compactness or pureness in one Hong film after another, and Walk Up will definitely not be anyone’s favorite, but it’s hard not to be sympathetic to something so personal.

The director’s bravery and ingenuity—by continuing to create new work, advocate for himself, and also entertain us—remains an utterly inspiring thing.