In nearly everything other than its visuals, Early Man feels as ancient as its time period, a forgotten relic hibernating in development until its belated release. But coming from a studio and director who’ve repeatedly found new ways to reinvent the wheel, it’s extra disappointing to see them release something so primitive.

While Red Sparrow ultimately doesn’t earn its all-consuming, grueling dourness, there are a few thrills to be had, and following the best performance of her career last fall, it’s certainly another fearless step forward for Jennifer Lawrence.

While Ryan Coogler’s deep dive into the titular character’s Wakandan homeworld keeps the assembly line working, it heralds not only an improvement on the MCU, but a striking and grandiose fantasy in its own right.

While the execution of every weak excuse for a twist and turn is really the culprit behind Looking Glass‘ failure, I would be remiss to not point a finger at Cage too.

Ultimately, the whole is not as great as the sum of some very effective scenes.

While Fifty Shades Freed, like its pair of predecessors, has many laughable elements, Anastasia’s reclaiming of her well-deserved pleasure is certainly not one of them.

Basmati Blues is an inoffensive trifle. It does not warrant outrage; it’s not bold enough to risk it. Yet there is some heart, and undoubtedly, some ambition.

Much of the film is forgettable in the sense that you’ve seen it all before. But where the jokes at the beginning feel tired, the drama at the end lands.

The 15:17 to Paris is a long stretch of boredom culminating in one jolt of interest.

The struggles that Chris and Carol are put through may be brought to life with an authentic touch by Shelton, but they are explored with much complexity in better, more substance-filled endeavors.

Not containing the wit to be smart, thrilling sci-fi nor the chutzpah to embrace a fun, B-movie shlock vibe, it unfortunately feels like an uninspired TV pilot that any other network would’ve permanently locked in a vault.

Greenfield’s earlier documentaries, such as Thin and The Queen of Versailles, serve as better explorations of the topics this somewhat shapeless movie presents.

Beirut has zero character as a setting, reduced to a generic backdrop of rubble and sand. It’s not a real place with a distinct culture in a time and political situation which any writer worth their salt could cull mountains of rich material from – it’s Scarymuslimabad, capital of Clicheistan.

John Callahan’s life is a fascinatingly complex one, and Phoenix is certainly the ideal actor to portray him, but Gus Van Sant’s maudlin, erratic approach leaves too little of an impression.

We’re shown damning cycles feeding on each other that prove worse when their hypocrisy and irony is acknowledged. And both Wood and Stone will make you scream and cry depending on what they allow or ignite.

Fuglsig’s job was to document, commemorate, and inspire. He does all three.

There’s also some commentary about twenty-first century technology and cellphone culture, but I don’t think Taylor goes far enough to make it more than throwaway insight soon forgotten for crazed violence. As far as the latter goes, Mom and Dad delivers crazy in an exciting way that never bores.

While I really like how Kalashnikov doesn’t inject himself into the footage with chapter titles, narration, or government officials explaining things, it’s difficult not to wonder if a bit more guidance could have helped The Road Movie from risking reductive criticism as a glorified YouTube playlist.

The film possesses a low-key tone and overall modesty of presentation that, though at points borderline sleep-inducing, departs pleasingly from the trope of the tortured artist who wrestles with inner demons in the direction of the camera.

There are countless openings for the plot to take wild left turns and embrace its overt severity as entertainment, but Proud Mary would rather stay the course of its one-note trajectory and remain earnest in its desire to be taken seriously.

Most admirable in Saturday Church is the palpable level of conviction that the cast and filmmakers give to this story of a queer, marginalized youth. Despite a script that seems to service didacticism over genuinely achieved dramatic moments, you can feel Cardasis’ compassion for his characters and the joy the actors bring to their roles.

Compared to the rigidity and self-imposed formal restrictions that can plague a lot of indie titles, watching Dim the Fluorescents unexpectedly bifurcate its narrative or collapse its characters’ own drama into their mini-plays with such assuredness is legitimately exciting.

The film never loses its spirit of harmony, even during its lengthy railroad chase ending. Throughout, it is a marvel of humor, dazzling visuals, and unique characters.

A manipulative mess from start to finish.

If Collet-Serra put Neeson on a merry-go-round and added some danger, I’d gladly show up.

As Grisebach never allows her film to reach a canter, her tight thematic rein remains a deep aesthetic pleasure.

Well-acted and handsomely lensed by Aaron Kovalchik, Blame is an engaging debut that subverts the male gaze that might be associated with this kind of teacher/student relationship drama. It is objective without being titillating as it delivers low-key character driven thrills.

Salama and co-writer Omar Khaled ingeniously use the death of Michael Jackson as the catalyst to go back to Khaled’s adolescence.