Despite the reasons House of Gucci doesn’t work, none are damning enough to make a bad movie. It’s forgettable, sometimes playing like the sort of cable-TV fare that displaced these tales from the silver screen over the past decade. Yet Scott’s efforts, and especially those of Johnson and Bentivegna, just don’t keep up. And what’s the point of going big if you’re not going to go for it all?

Watching Matthew Heineman’s documentary The First Wave isn’t therefore a casualty of diminishing returns due to a false sense of redundancy. If anything, it proves more powerful from accumulation.

So Late So Soon proves a warts-and-all expression of love, companionship, and the struggles intrinsic to the proximity inherent in both and how age makes everything harder.

Smith has found a character whose egocentricity and dynamic range matches his own itchy movie star persona.

Not all choices that Williams and Jones make pay off—including a late-act decision to explicitly spell out the reasons Cadi is seeking revenge—but The Feast is a compelling addition to the burgeoning genre of eco-horror, one of the more gruesome, nasty films in recent memory.

Faison’s performance in the role is not one to be forgotten either. He’s playing a man with obvious psychological trauma, but never in a cartoonish way. There’s a brilliant authenticity to how he shifts his vocals depending on who he is talking to too.

The pace is never stagnant and the final moments are pointedly effective. Ultimately, The Real Charlie Chaplin is an imperfect film about an imperfect filmmaker.

It’s hard not to see the film as one of the worst results of our infantilized culture.

Garfield is funny and charismatic to draw us in and devastating when presenting the palpable shame that keeps us caring. Broadway cameos aside (some even get to sing during the biggest set-piece of the whole on “Sunday”), however, Garfield can’t carry the full weight of the story alone.

Director Jake Scott has crafted both a concert documentary and exploration of the Britpop era and what it meant.

Violence becomes both a weapon and a tool throughout the proceedings while words do the same since both must sometimes be wielded as the former in order to be successful as the latter.

Hansen-Løve largely focuses on how, despite the great distance and difference of perspectives between the two, a chance of forgiveness and reconciliation is still there; that the passing of time can still heal the wounds these two have. And this is what eventually gives the film tenderness and sense of hope, despite its tragic premise.

Finch is inconsistent, but ultimately charming, even as it will likely be a footnote next to the Hanks star vehicles it’s desperately trying to emulate.

Though not an entirely colossal failure, Eternals has a Sisyphean problem with authenticity: the greater its attempts at specific, deeply felt connection, the more it feels like a broad, insecure, corporate pander. It becomes increasingly tough to appreciate the handiwork of Zhao or her cast when you can imagine Kevin Feige singing “It’s the real thing!” under every ersatz Terrence Malick tableau.

While Speer Goes to Hollywood effectively shows the delusions of Speer’s mythologization, one wishes it didn’t skirt around more complicated questions of cordiality in the filmmaking process when dealing with such monstrous history.

Chess of the Wind is a shining example of how familiar genres and tones can meld together to form something that feels brand new.

Joy Ride is the perfect example of “less is more.” One imagines there could be a three-hour cut of these adventures, but who needs that? This feels like the best bits from the bunch, and Goldthwait is economical in his pacing.

The purpose of Nelson and Curry’s film is to therefore turn the focus of what happened back onto the real perpetrators rather than the victims who have been vilified as such instead.

Bulletproof doesn’t offer many new insights, but it does function as a valuable capsule of the stark consequences that have come as a result of so much hype followed by indifference.

Gossling populates this little town with so many horrible people that you assume the tornadoes are coming to purge them from society. It’s therefore somewhat jarring when she lets impending tragedy provide them redemption instead.

Antlers is at its best when grounded in familial trauma haunted by the mythical terrors of the beast.

Unflinching in her questioning of the abandonment and how it affected each individual party, the film moves throughout Jin’s life with persistence and without rush. The result is an affecting, brutal look at the real-life trauma of the One-Child Policy for one economically struggling family in a rural area of China.

There is nothing that ever feels particularly inspired; even when operating at its best, Ron’s Gone Wrong still cribs far too closely from other films to ever stand on its own two feet.

Ultimately, The Phantom of the Open is one of this year’s most charming films––a broad crowdpleaser that stands a good chance of winning over even the most cynical audiences.

Minyan is at its best when it is observing its characters. Often the narrative turns feel a bit abrupt, even forced. The slower bits work the best.

This mammoth final effort by Ôbayashi, an artist who so often destroyed the conventional boundaries of cinematic space in works like 1977’s Hausu, is a completely humbling viewing experience.

Maskell is great in the title role.

Every kill on display here is to someone superfluous, immediately forgettable, or both. The special effects are decent at points, but at what cost? To bridge the gap to next year’s final entry? There’s just no impact here.