While there’s something admirable about Girls Like Girls and its refusal to tidy up the mess of queer adolescence (the film will no doubt be an instant classic for young sapphics), it unfortunately never deepens into something fully realized. It only gestures toward the feeling and atmosphere of emotional complexity, rather than materializing its substance in full.

Toy Story 5 is the must-have item of the summer: a poignant, beautiful, imaginative and massively entertaining adventure for anyone who either has children or retains a semblance of memories from their own youth.

There is something stubbornly singular about director Adrian Chiarella’s film that resists easy comparisons to the likes of Obsession and Backrooms.

Jackman, no slouch when it comes to playing men reckoning with the trail of dead they’ve left in their wake, is a godsend in the title role. Much like Cage’s sheer unpredictability elevated every moment of Pig, so, too, does Jackman’s eternally sturdy on-screen presence, even if his calm is meant to underline barely contained bloodlust, keep this version of Robin from becoming just another outlaw staring down fate.

There are enough holy-mother-of-god moments in the new martial-arts extravaganza The Furious during which your brain will melt so rapidly you’ll have to wipe your shirt of any grey matter seeping through your ears.

At its very best, which is not infrequently, Disclosure Day delivers the kind of eye-popping, heart-racing wonder that Spielberg has become synonymous with.

What is far more unsettling than the environment itself, though, is how tedious the excursion winds up being, going from freaky to sleepy in the span of an hour. Once you’ve seen one of the backrooms, which begin to resemble a Leon’s showroom rendered by M.C. Escher, then you’ve seen them all.

Pressure serves as a reminder of the many stories and individuals whose expertise and fortitude created the world we enjoy today. It also gives voice to the slim margins by which the war was decided. Perhaps the greatest act of service Pressure lends audiences, though, is the reflection of what all the sacrifices, violence and destruction was for.

A ferociously slick and rhythmically entertaining heist thriller, the movie feels like a breath of fresh air not only for the independent film space, where genuinely new ideas are a bitcoin a dozen, but for a filmmaker who seems completely, utterly, blessedly incapable of sitting still.

The Mandalorian and Grogu is perfectly suitable as a summer flick to beckon you back to the theatres. But will it make a mark as part of the Star Wars mythology? This may not be quite the way.

While a thrilling watch at many moments, there is also an overwhelming sense that politics and characters of I Love Boosters are struggling to find their full expression against the weight of the film’s undeniably spirited ambition.

This isn’t a movie of easy cynicism or a snide middle finger to horror-movie tradition – it is a finely calibrated shock to a system that Barker obviously grew up worshipping.

This is a 3-D film sorely lacking in dimension. Hit me hard, hit me soft, Cameron, but hit me with something.

As interesting as reading the computer code that was used to create the original Mortal Kombat video game, and about as fun as getting your spine torn out.

By the end, the people being betrayed are the fans.

It’s not half-bad. I mean, don’t get too excited – this is still a bad movie. But it is the kind of better-than-it-should-be bad instead of merely bad-bad.

With a tongue-in-cheek title inviting audiences to immediately dismiss its supposedly intense fear factor, Damian McCarthy’s new horror film arrives ready to play with convention and expectation. The scary thing, though, is that the movie exhausts itself halfway through, revealing Hokum as something closer to hogwash.

It’s not entirely fair to call I Swear a PSA for inclusion. Above all, it is the story of a man who overcame an extraordinary set of odds to build a simple but meaningful life for himself and foster understanding in others. Yet, you cannot help but hope that the film – and the events surrounding it – inspires us all to think about the messiness of life. And how making space for everyone might involve a degree of discomfort for us all. But we can all, ultimately, live with it.

Ultimately, Blue Heron is an epic exploring the power and fissures of memory. But there is no chance that audiences will ever forget what Romvari has accomplished here.

It is the kind of screenplay that erases itself with one minute of second thought.

What could have been a layered, insightful portrait of the most complicated, significant figure in pop-culture history has been reduced to a supersized music video slash concert documentary, the man in its mirror more of a faded reflection than anything else.

Parents seeking comfort in death to stay close to a lost child, as in Don’t Look Now, or being emotionally exhausted providing care in impossible circumstances, as in The Exorcist, feel like items being checked off in Lee Cronin’s The Mummy, not genuinely felt or grappled with.

For all the behind-the-scenes footage and ostensible opportunities to grill Michaels about everything and anything, Neville’s film walks away with the impression and insight that anyone paying even half-attention to network television over the past few decades already knows.

Soderbergh, once again acting as his own cinematographer under the alias Peter Andrews (and editor, with the nom de plume Mary Ann Bernard), finds his own way of keeping the camera swirling and twirling, electrifying lengthy, densely composed monologues that require some visual energy to keep them from landing with a cinematic thud.

The concept might work for especially patient gamers, but rendered cinematically by director Genki Kawamura, the result is a frustrating and ultimately boring exercise in audience endurance.

In an era where studios are obsessed with reviving ostensibly comforting intellectual property, Goldhaber has twisted the end-goal of modern Hollywood radically and beautifully.

The resulting drama, while perhaps predictable in an American Movie meets Cocoon kind of way, is still awfully sweet and warmhearted.

Atkins, a multidisciplinary artist, proudly doesn’t obey the almost obligatory rhythms of documentary filmmaking. There are no talking heads, no manufactured narrative momentum.