In taking a centuries-old piece of mythology as its source material, Undine ultimately forgoes the inventiveness and sensuality of its first half by slipping into relatively bland predictability. And for a filmmaker who thrives on disregarding narrative conventions, it feels a fatal error. “Relatively” is the key here. This is still Petzold after all, if not peak Petzold.

Woman Who Ran looks and feels like a pleasant farce in comparison to much of Hong’s recent output.

It’s a film that carries emotional power more in its moments of natural reflexiveness than the weepie genre’s more conventional emotional beats, anchored by two focused lead performances that thankfully don’t succumb to melodrama.

The vast majority of the film functions as a hypnotic if frankly monotonous dialectic (ruminations on Christ, honor, “we were just following orders,” war, love etc. that become more heated as time goes on) that is assured to alienate most anyone without a minor in philosophy or the vocabulary of academic text.

This is Jóhannsson’s first and last film, and its hard not to recognize that this is a director who arrived fully formed as a visual artist. His dreamy combination of sound and images, the editing and pacing, and his use of Sturla Brandth Grøvlen’s grainy 16mm cinematography combine with strange potency.

The Invisible Man is full of tension and surprise, a brooding midnight movie traumatizer packed with the constant threat of unhinged energy that roars with a crowd.

All the Dead Ones is an accomplished film by directing duo Caetano Gotardo and Marco Dutra, rich in the nation’s poetry and music, daring in highlighting women’s voices while commenting on Brazil’s history of inequality of wealth, class, and race.

The characterizations are threadbare and simple: Saul and Zama are the downbeat 99% (his creepy mask recalls both Joker and Anonymous); Miller’s character represents soulless commerce. What Funny Face lacks in social commentary, however, it makes up for in mood.

Embracing the sci-fi genre, they take out the world-saving doom and frightful creature effects this breed of films is known for, and instead deliver a light, cuddly adventure that’s a step below its predecessor in shear (sorry!) inventiveness but still containing a wealth of delightful comedic gags.

Sheridan lends his role the necessary nuance it deserves and de Armas imbues hers with a wealth of unspoken pain, but neither effort receives its payoff. The film conversely squanders both instead.

A lot happens during the course of director Matthew Pope and co-writer Don M. Thompson’s Blood on Her Name … too much. This can prove problematic for what starts as a simple plot before things start turning convoluted real quick thanks to new revelations shedding light upon secrets and lies. Surprisingly, however, that perpetually escalating noise is justified.

Saint Frances is a character-driven effort that tackles big themes in a wonderfully down-to-earth manner. That’s a tricky balancing act, but Thompson and O’Sullivan pull it off.

Often charming in the most confrontational way possible, Straight Up pays due respect to the endlessly creative ways people delude themselves into avoiding difficult realities. It may talk (and talk) a good game, but it’s in the quieter moments of silence when it speaks volumes about the perils of modern alienation.

All in all, Young Ahmed is not without merit. It’s an admirable attempt at portraying an immigrant experience relatively unfamiliar to the Belgian filmmaking pair, expertly directed with a number of noteworthy performances from its largely non-professional cast. Still, there’s the failure to provide nuance to a story and subject matter that practically necessitates it by nature of the intended tone.

The plot’s obviousness melts away because we’re having a genuinely great time as these flawed men grow ever so slightly with each passing minute. They feel real.

What’s mostly a vérité document of lead character Tina’s (Carlie Guevara) trajectory towards chemically transitioning from male to female despite being an undocumented immigrant in an expensive city like New York, Flavio Alves’ The Garden Left Behind is also a rather potent expression of humanity’s collective dysphoria.

It is worth reemphasizing that all assembled players rise to the occasion, and Emma. generates most interest when the effects of its verbosity begin paling against non-verbal turns.

Ultimately, it’s the upbeat energy from Sanders’ direction that keeps the engine going. The Call of the Wild is a welcome adventure for a cold winter’s night.

McArdle and Brallier have thus rendered VFW an efficient us versus them scenario with Fred’s crew possessing an infectious, three-dimensional rapport opposite Boz and cronies leaning into their one-track yearning for a fix. Begos then brings the grainy and gritty aesthetic its predecessors possessed to really deliver a throwback vibe augmented solely by new advancements in violently realistic gore.

Nélisse and Pniowsky are a big part of the drama unfolding authentically with ample disdain and irritation respectively, but The Rest of Us truly is Graham and Balfour’s show.

Thankfully you can still bank on Carrey and his obscurities (there’s a delightful scene where he dances inside his laboratory) to paper over some of the cruelty and staleness.

This is both Serra’s most uncompromising film and his most enjoyable. In a way, it’s perhaps a stunning refute to the notion of “edgelord” as pejorative term; someone has to deliberately provoke to show us something we haven’t seen before.

Kroll is very good in a role that allows him to pivot away from his usual comic relief persona to be sweet and funny and complicated, but Pappas is even better as a woman unsure of her very identity outside of the sport to which she’s dedicated her entire life.

Cleverly constructed and bursting with well-planned action sequences–the carnival brawl near the film’s end is positively delightful–Birds of Prey is the rare comic book adaptation directed with a real, tangible vision. And as Quinn, it’s hard to imagine anyone else than Robbie bringing her mix of middle-finger savagery, surprising vulnerability, and utter likability to the role.

Sulking and seemingly concussed, Wood stands at the center of nearly every shot, those kind eyes in perpetual awe of the awful things that people can do to each other. It would be hard to imagine any other actor pulling off this sort of feat without diverging into irony or cynicism.

The result is at once empowering . . . heart-wrenching . . . and inspirational.

The messy creativity on display is something to admire.

Frankly, one wishes The Glorias was a bit more radical in its presentation. As it stands, the film gets the job done.