These people and places read more like figments of imagination, part of a borough Holder wants it to be. As such, the movie is a rough, painterly sketch, a first draft that’s easy to read, provokes warm feelings, and deserves just a little more detail.

Mothers can’t leave, and when they do it’s considered to be the ultimate sin. Bronstein’s script is a brave, searing interrogation of the roles they’re forced to play in society and the massive weight of holding a life in one’s hands.

Finding new ways to draw humor out of the MeToo movement and carnal objectification, this is a limber, gratifying sex comedy that has more on its mind than successful innuendos and punchlines.

Sunfish (& Other Stories on Green Lake) captures a bittersweet feeling. That feeling of endings and beginnings, happening at the same time.

Sachs manages to keep the frame dynamic without distracting from the engaging performances of Whishaw as Peter Hujar and Rebecca Hall as Linda Rosenkrantz. What results is an intimate encapsulation of a queer artist’s life from a bygone era of creative vibrancy.

Train Dreams is a quiet, resilient work that will most likely age gracefully.

Cherien Dabis’ All That’s Left of You considers generational trauma on both an intimate and epic scale.

The film seems at least partially aware of the ridiculousness of this story but never threads the needle further, blissfully unwilling to acknowledge or even comprehend the way any viewer would perceive the non-existent “problem” of having a famous parent.

O’Connor is so fragile in his performance, he looks as if he’d crumble if you looked at him the wrong way.

It’s worth a warning for those that watch––some images in 2000 Meters to Andriivka you will not soon forget.

Never laboring too exhaustively on a single trope, yet feeling comprehensive in the breadth of what’s dissected, Shackleton has crafted an entertaining, even self-deprecating investigation into a global addiction.

Flight Risk is never as campy as it should be.

Grief is a messy experience, and Saada’s film never manages to grapple with how much of an impact it can still have that late in life. It’s too neat a portrayal of an emotionally turbulent moment––a Rose I wish had more thorns.

Gandbhir isn’t here to provide those answers, but with her unembellished, formally compelling vision, she gives all the evidence needed for those in power to rethink the laws and systems in place.

The Ballad of Wallis Island doesn’t deliver any revelatory perspective on the idea of moving on, nor is it trying to. It’s a crowd-pleasing adult comedy that manages to be sentimental without being cloying, sweet without being saccharine.

While Blichfeldt might revel in the gruesomeness a touch too much, this is a well-crafted debut––commendable in the unexpected, gnarled ways it finds sympathy with the downcast and dismissed.

Indeed, the most engaging sections feature Liza, who may be a bit frail but retains her verve.

Competently aping David Fincher and Steven Soderbergh’s cold, formally precise styles, director Drew Hancock’s mise-en-scène successfully conveys the antiseptic near-future we’re probably already living in, but can’t seem to work around the stakes and thrills being relatively low. To be more specific about the tension of Companion: it isn’t stupid, dull, or badly made per se, but it’s unlikeable, and awfully smug for something not that high on insight or genuine surprise.

It is often a beautiful film, not least when Carneiro pulls back and allows the landscape to take over. It’s in those moments that Savanna really makes its point, watching from above as locals navigate their way through the same narrow pathways their families have walked for generations––the gradualness of that process a stark antithesis to the bluntness of what may come.

Bestiari, Erbari, Lapidari offers an incredible study of our place on this planet, our fascination with it, and our duty to record and remember.

I was surprised to find Emmanuelle lingered in the memory a lot more than any story about the brief rush of desire should.

It’s a fine return for Whannell after being off the scene these last few years.

If this is a project defined by life in a warzone, that very fact offers some solace for the future––at November’s London Palestine Film Festival, one of the film’s producers remarked that all credited directors are still alive. There will hopefully be one day soon where we can see what their boundless creativity might achieve when not constrained by appalling circumstances.

Goswami gives a subtly powerful performance grounded in perpetual shock, patience to act, and measured wisdom. And the enigmatic screenplay devises a grey area so hazy you’ll be going over it in your head for weeks, if not months, asking yourself what you would’ve done in Santosh’s impossible situation.

August’s script deserves much credit––a lot needs to be made known during preparations for what occurs to make sense. That none of it feels forced is no small feat.

Maybe we’re not seeing the real––or rather full––story of this woman and it’s disingenuous to send the viewer out on a high note, but regardless, I still cried. Who knows what you’ll choose to take away from it?

Even if Gudegast isn’t quite a bold formalist yet, the sequel has both more ambition and variation than the first entry.

While perhaps a little too in-love with its own clever construction to explore its characters’ psyches to the fullest depth, Endless Summer Syndrome is a compellingly subversive concoction that dares raise uncomfortable questions with no easy answers. Take a sip––it’s refreshing.