The film is at its best when it lets Audrey be her own story. There is something quite beautiful in the unassuming way she carries herself walking in refugee camps, hugging orphaned children not because there’s a camera around, but because she couldn’t live in a world where a child had no one to hug them.

Through its meticulous recreation of historical circumstance both personal and collective, Dear Comrades! beautifully counters these natural feelings of indifference through a blisteringly precise style of dramatic filmmaking that never shies away from revealing the fascism propping up all the propagandistic bluster.

Once the story reaches its emotional crest, all the foundational work gets lost in the plot’s momentum.

The simplicity of McQueen and Siddons’ screenplay is a feature, not a bug. More than any other film in Small Axe, Education resembles a kitchen sink drama in the vein of films from Mike Leigh or Ken Loach, where the political messaging remains crystal clear but is still filtered through personal narratives.

Fatale works well as an updated throwback. It’s a well-made, well-acted neo-noir absent any sort of self-seriousness or superfluous posturing. An hour-and-a-half has rarely moved faster.

At first glance, Ric Roman Waugh’s Greenland appears to be a spiritual sequel to Geostorm. Also starring Gerard Butler, that 2017 film is a silly, diverting disaster-action epic. Greenland is decidedly more nuanced, cerebral, and, frankly, memorable.

The film’s vibes are melancholy and Scandi-modern, cozy and bougie, here are lovely interludes of fallow fields in white-nights summer twilight, and scenes filmed over FaceTime or as video messages nicely evoke the textures of this interconnected, transient century. The becalmed mood and associative dramaturgy at times recalls Angela Shanelec, though Hartmann is not quite as rigorous.

Can’t decide if it wants to be a countryside farce, magical realist parable, or eccentric romantic comedy. So it tries to be all three at once.

What’s really great about Archenemy is that Mortimer never shies away from that darkness. By toeing the line of mental illness, he can expose the cost of comic book heroics and the evil being fought against.

Hudlin has this thing firing on all cylinders to be the tearjerker, against all odds crowd-pleaser Oprah fans love (the McElrathbey episode plays during the credits). It’s highly effective. Just don’t ignore that it’s also highly manipulated.

All My Life recalls the formula employed by Hallmark Originals, which have predictable beats, lack nuance, and are a kind of cinematic comfort food––this is the cinematic equivalent of drinking your Carmel Frap while crying your eyes out to the new Hasley album.

Possessor Uncut indeed looks beautiful––in a fucked up kind of way––but despite my visceral enjoyment of its visuals I couldn’t help but wonder what purpose they served.

Although Come Away purports to be a new take on old tales, it tediously goes through the motions of a story that’s been told a thousand times.

If it is possible to make a good David Bowie film without any David Bowie music—and without the blessing of Bowie’s family—then this certainly isn’t it.

I Lost My Body is aesthetically beautiful, surreal, clever, and truly profound in its offbeat dealings with trauma. But, more than anything, it succeeds in humanizing a bloody hand, elevating its absurd concept into a film that demands to be seen.

Like Fences, Ma Rainey is an actor’s showcase, yielding exemplary work from Davis and tragically indicating a complex range from Boseman in a career that was just beginning to blossom. In short, it’s one of the best films of the year.

When the film is focused on showcasing Holiday, it’s a truly captivating documentary.

These fractured pieces aren’t operating with individual wants. They merely don’t have the others to mask and/or mitigate their singular desire’s pure form. This is a crucial distinction that allows Schultz to deliver on the promise of his film’s potential despite budgetary constraints and limited locations because it leaves the true intrigue to this central performance’s distillation of a single complex identity.

As various ideas entertainingly bounce around from conversation to conversation, the film ultimately culminates into a moving and heartbreaking experience.

We’ve seen this story from the husband’s point of view a million times, women like Jean relegated to the sidelines and rarely revisited once they’re sent away. It’s a welcome perspective shift; unfortunately, Hart’s slow burn doesn’t have enough fuel to grab your attention beyond an intriguing premise.

We’re ultimately left with a sense of formal stillness and relief brought about by the conservative spiritualism that feels strangely vague and unearned.

There is an intentionality here that is overwhelmingly optimistic while also insisting on acknowledging all of the troubles of our current moment. And while this does not always mix well with some of the slapstick, the alchemy is ultimately fulfilling.

Surreal comedy turns into surreal horror as hope buckles under futility’s weight.

Overseas is a harrowing story of resilience, an elegy of people pushed to the margins, whom Yoon restitutes as dignified and strong-willed fighters, in a work that dances between reality and fiction to an engrossing extent.

It’s even more fun digging into the tales on-screen if you’re familiar with the pop culture appropriation.

Don’t expect to find yourself on track to the usual happy ending—or usual sad one for that matter. Many of the stops will seem familiar, but the ways in which they’re experienced are authentic and perhaps even surprising.

Great rom-coms can circumvent flaws if they deliver on the joy, the cosiness, and the chemistry, and DuVall’s film offers a generous helping of all three.

It’s the most exciting kind of aesthetic pastiche, one that swirls together so many different flavors that it feels like something wholly new.