We’re left with a muddled portrait of a young man unaware of the creativity within him, a charming artist in the making who invited us into his life a little too early.

There’s something about the overwrought relationships and hidden connections that amplify our excitement. Jung is moving things so fast (despite a runtime just over two hours) that we’re never afforded a pause to roll our eyes or laugh. We instead buckle down since each revelation means Sook-hee is given another reason to fight.

Chon has a vision and a voice and a good story to tell, full of social relevance and fiery emotion. Something this energetic and cared for is hard to criticize all that much. It’s a film worth seeking out and telling others about.

The tone is playful, to be sure, but it’s hard to see past the collateral damage. Blame it on the times. Make no mistake, all of this could be forgiven if The Hitman’s Bodyguard had enough laughs. It does not.

It insists on being on the right side of history, but is so concerned with portraying the extent of the violence that it forgets about victims in the process.

Only when I was certain of the stakes could I sit back and let the proceedings unfold, my skepticism evaporating to appreciate the sadistically laid plans.

Without trying to spoil anything, it is important to note that the way in which catharsis is ultimately depicted in Strange Weather that makes it a compelling, deeply moving, and earnest study of loss and moving on.

Only when limbs literally start flying through the air did I truly find myself invested in what was onscreen. It’s too bad it came way too late.

Where O’Shea succeeds and Hollywood often fails is acknowledging the pain and sorrow so many feel can’t magically disappear. To be cognizant of your own evil is to accept its cost. Realizing you are the monster might be the worst punishment you could ever endure.

Where things go is easy to guess considering the plot’s rather simple trajectory of personal growth and emotional maturity, but the pathway is always surprising.

Most of the humor stems from the humiliation of its protagonist — the binding thereof — and it is all quite funny, in a demented, cringy way that makes it difficult to sit through. Here, Bravo’s experience directing theater shows, as long extended shots with exquisite framing wring out the painful anxiety in each scene.

As written and directed by Matt Ruskin, the tragic story of Colin Warner doesn’t so much come to life on the screen as it is responsibly recalled in Crown Heights, aided by effective performances and some streamlined storytelling.

A stronger character investment up front would have led to a fuller character study as we watch Cathleen walk through the fire.

Destin Daniel Cretton’s adaptation of Jeannette Walls’ memoir The Glass Castle is more affected than affecting.

The meticulous script by Lafosse and his three co-writers prompts the viewer to parse each of their sentences for underlying meaning and backstory, maintaining a necessary level of ambiguity that constantly shifts the perception of who’s in the right and who’s to blame.

Like much of their work, there is a lot to enjoy from this experience, yet despite this high level of filmmaking and attention to detail, the concept doesn’t stand out in originality when compared to their impressive oeuvre.

In 4 Days in France, writer-director Jérôme Reybaud establishes that almost any connection between humans, whether physically or digitally, can never truly be meaningless.

Despite a stacked cast and some impressive physical comedy, this film slips into ridiculousness without the laughs to back it up.

Occasionally clunky pacing aside, the film is a delightful bit of cinematic comfort food.

This is electric material for a story, but Fogel just gets shocked instead of channeling it into something great.

From start to finish The Dark Tower, directed by Nikolaj Arcel from the popular book series by Stephen King, feels like something salvaged from something else. The result is a mostly entertaining piece of fantasy pulp that is a victim of trying to do too much and too little at the same time.

The Force examines one of the most talked about issues in America from an ideal vantage point, revealing disheartening complexities with an intriguing momentum.

Women Who Kill is a smart comedy about the fear of finding oneself vulnerable.

The cracked joints and blunt force trauma are where Atomic Blonde excels.

Logan Lucky‘s spell is light, the magic casual.

Killing Ground’s twists might be effective, but stylistically speaking, it’s sub-Eli Roth.

A constant movement unmoored from all but the present moment (however porously “present” is defined here) pushes Nolan forward as a visual stylist and suspense-crafter — lots of portent in the images of armies and crafts, plenty of faith in his actors to look concerned or outright distressed — as it stalls out Dunkirk in most other respects.

With all of its ingrained sadness and complex shifts, both the fabricated idyll of youth and distressed independence of adulthood are executed as if they were a casual dream, never becoming as nightmarish as they ought to be.