There’s a running joke that Chris Morgan will take this franchise to space since it’s all gotten so out of hand. Honestly, if he were to take these characters there, he’d figure a way to keep us engaged and involved.

Raise Hell: The Life & Times of Molly Ivins is a funny portrait of a quick-witted satirist who called it as it was, unafraid to be a little mean to the narcissists who were just glad to see their name in print.

López’s fairy tale is one seeking to remind us of an innocence not yet stripped clean.

Even seven years after his passing, that formidable presence and iconic voice envelop every frame.

It is entirely to Stefanov and Kotevska’s credit that Honeyland rarely comes across as a simple “individual tradition vs. societal modernism” narrative, even if the outlines show themselves on occasion.

Much like his beleaguered lead character, Jude manages to maintain a rousingly lewd sense of humor for the duration of the film’s substantial running time.

The sections about the school are good enough on their own that trying to fold them into a larger statement on Afghanistan as it is now dilutes the potency of those smaller stories. Still, as a fresh view of life in a country Americans may too easily dismiss as a hopeless hellhole, it’s a welcome piece of work.

It is a swan song but not a melancholy tune, more a joyous celebratory coda to the director’s life and work, a film that feels purpose-built to dispel any notions of solemnity around her passing.

A big part in combating the otherwise obvious plotting and overt coincidences beyond their family-friendly messaging is that Dreyfus commits to this performance.

Its effective visceral hold on our imagination guarantees its inevitable cult status.

The film, although likable in passages, keeps the problems it explores local, with a narrow focus rather than creating a national call to action.

One of Crawl’s greatest joys, however, is how it doesn’t overstay its welcome. Instead, it merely delivers the goods and then cuts to black. No cheeky bullshit, no wink-wink, nudge-nudge, ain’t life so damn cruel all the time? This sincerity is refreshing, like dunking your head in the pool at the height of a blazing summer day. Just check the water first.

Ferrara has never been so concerned with making people like him–just wait for the audacity of the last 10 minutes. But given the brutal honesty of his latest, one of the most candid movies of its kind, it is difficult to not simply be happy for the man when Tommaso reaches its surreal point of catharsis.

Diop speaks her own language–and Atlantics’ is one of seductive, confounding beauty. This is a story that treats its unspeakable tragedy as such: a world-shattering crisis told not through conventional storytelling, but conjured up from the realm of dreams, nightmares, and visions. A reverie as perturbing and hypnotic as the sea that washes it ashore.

At its least, this film is a moderately engaging submarine thriller. At its most, this film serves as a pertinent reminder of the dangers of a government embroiled in bullshit, misguidedly confident in its own presumed greatness.

Despite a few laughs, it’s a film that panders to a general audience with the funky musical score of a blaxploitation flick but none of the heart, spirit, or outrage.

Affleck has always been a wonderfully understated performer and he has taken that minimalist approach with him behind the camera.

Sword of Trust proves an enjoyable curio of eccentrics getting themselves in way over their heads.

These two couples are literally here to be targets and are thus more frustrating than not whenever they unsurprisingly escape the multiple harrowing moments of homicidal fun.

The events onscreen are semi-autobiographical for Sama and thus a document of the turmoil those his age at the time faced when external expectations and internal hopes clashed. At its center: love. The power it has to bring us together opposite its potential to tear us apart.

Spider-Man: Far From Home, riding the highs of its charismatic players, and intermittently teasing compelling notions, is–like its hero–somewhat out of its depth.

I was entertained and perplexed in a way that seemed intentional — my confusion a result of Naishtat giving his audience the credit to read into things with their own historical and political interpretations.

While humor is present (to varying effect) thanks to its teenage protagonists and its roller coaster ride of random encounters does prove more unhinged than The Conjuring‘s streamlined confrontational drama, it still revolves around intimately personal battles independently fought within Judy and Daniela.

Midsommar basks you in sunlight and dread to present something far more fun to unpack than its predecessor.

Euphoria is undeniably a missed opportunity at creating a drama of frayed sisterhood that feels fresh and unique. The film is also too restrained and unambitious to make a grand statement on mortality.

Toy Story 4 was somehow baked to perfection.

Child’s Play becomes a matter-of-fact A-to-B progression devoid of wiggle room where obstacles manifest as physical impediments to survival instead of narrative blockades to our understanding of what’s happening.

In the rare moments when this just becomes a film about a woman who loves country music with every fiber of her being, it separates itself and becomes far more than just another story about a star being born.