Expect a breezy affair with good-natured laughter and low stakes. You’ll learn some things and remember others en route to watching as Poitier’s legacy is reinforced with a carefully curated mix of family and friends driven by the sole goal to immortalize their hero.

Master Gardener is another of the old Calvanist’s prayers of absolution—honest and personal to a fault, and a satisfying close to one of the great contemporary trilogies.

A stirring tribute to a man of many talents, Chevalier gorgeously gives a once-forgotten virtuoso violinist the cinematic treatment.

The role of Alice is very much internal and, as such, very reliant upon putting her thoughts onscreen. That we can also see those thoughts in our own minds simply through Kendrick’s thousand-yard stares, moments of lashing out, and visibly draining anxiety is a testament to her commitment to the character and the script’s nuanced complexity to allow her to say so much without saying anything.

O’Connor, who also scripted, adroitly manages the feat of making a 19th-century period piece burst with contemporary feeling.

Pugh’s performance is more adequate than impressive, a result of her character having background and motivations laid out so there’s little else to take from what’s onscreen.

It’s hard to imagine mal intent from the mind behind The Father, a film laced with an intoxicating empathy, but it’s not hard to imagine a lesser work. If we’re giving Zeller benefit of the doubt, it just goes to show how difficult it is for a director to make back-to-back bangers.

It’s lucky that Neugebauer has such strong talent to elevate what she’s working with, as it helps rescue Causeway from a forgettable collection of indie-drama cliches into something more respectable.

A safe film for a rebellious protagonist, even if still maintaining a warm, humanistic quality makes it not a total loss.

Despite a third act that rushes what could have been a deeply profound conclusion, Clerks III is one for Smith’s loyal fellowship. He returns to the well with a mix of sharp, geeky humor and affecting life lessons—an outing that feels refreshingly old-school.

The warm, witty Fabelmans is Spielberg at his most revealing, and watching him reflect on his past is downright extraordinary.

While Glass Onion is not better than the 2019 outing, it is almost as enjoyable––a noteworthy victory in and of itself.

However easy it is to admire Polley’s efforts to provide an example of the solidarity and courage it takes to build a better world, that alone doesn’t equate to good filmmaking. Women Talking doesn’t meet the moment so much as show up for it.

It’s important to note how successfully and stylishly Poitras and [her editing team] cross-cut between exposition and narration on Goldin’s long, fascinating biography and present-day passages where more information on her various campaigning efforts against the Sacklers comes through.

Undeniably funny, very well-acted, and wise in its tonal focus, Weird plays as entertainment that could have been much, much more. There is still much to admire and enjoy, not the least of which is a genuinely triumphant, note-perfect performance from Daniel Radcliffe.

Amongst the stars, Love Life (named for an Akiko Yano song of the same name) is jarringly everyday in color palette and setting, but has just the right amount of scope, filmmaking nous, and unusual choices to hold its own and even stand out.

Positioned as a work of autobiography from first-time director Elegance Bratton, The Inspection is a flawed, if highly compelling promise of a new talented dramatist in American cinema.

If it comes up a bit short against the true downer masterpieces of punishing Euro cinema, Godland’s beauty shouldn’t be taken for granted. It’s just psychology-through-landscape that remains the greatest trick to actually pull off.

Ana de Armas’ portrayal of Norma is powerful, her performance suggesting layers and levels Dominik just isn’t interested in probing, perhaps because it would disrupt the headlong intensity of his thesis, and of course, the often brilliant cinematic language through which he creates a woozy sucker-punch impact on the audience––though there’s no question the rush of momentum he harnesses also manifests in a sadism towards her.

There’s confidence and verve in his style, ample sensitivity in Amalric’s direction—particularly with his actors. But the whole becomes a bit lost in its jumble of beautiful parts.

While a murky, laborious affair, Pinocchio never feels wholly inept with the consummate craftsman at the helm, yet it’s certainly the director’s laziest time behind the camera.

Dead for a Dollar is derivative by nature, but not in unpleasing ways.

Without his trademark vulgarity and narrative absurdity, McDonagh’s challenged himself to draw humor and meaning from the mundane. And he does.

Ultimately, Don’t Worry Darling is an elaborate game of house with little pay-off, the movie version of a fake tan: it gets the job done, but might sour your interest in the tan itself in the process.

LaBute is meticulously escalating the danger by providing Hap his wildest dreams in a way that reveals to the audience how their ability to come true is reliant upon him losing control.

The Whale is Aronofsky at his most trimmed down.

I couldn’t bear another minute of A Couple, but I’m perfectly happy it exists.

Gavras, for better and worse, is a creature of spectacle; not apolitical, per se, but more concerned with triggers and semiotics than manifestos.