Margaret Qualley and Christopher Abbott make an exceptionally good team here, in a film that requires a deep sexual chemistry but keeps sex itself almost entirely out of the picture. Careening from one kind of intensity to another, the encounter excites without prurience and, like the transactions it depicts, is more concerned with psychology than sex in any case.

Big George Foreman isn’t bad exactly, merely serviceable. You keep waiting for it to deliver a knockout blow that never comes.

The film’s wildly imaginative visuals are another plus, with the proceedings feeling so bizarrely trippy at times it’s as if Gunn is aiming to create a midnight cult classic rather than a blockbuster superhero film.

Lowery and Halbrook overstuff the narrative, which begins to wobble and drag under the weight of its obligations. Nevertheless, there are interesting changes and subtle ways the duo correct the original text.

If Nuclear galvanizes a handful of people and even convinces a few more around nuclear power issues, good for Stone. But the movie itself is barely a filmed TED Talk.

The doc is stuffed with great archive material. But it largely squanders an ideal platform through which to reaffirm the subject’s vital place in pop music history and reclaim disco as a genre whose influence has never waned.

While the drama never exactly ignites, Schäublin keeps us constantly fascinated with his detailed historical recreations and keen observations on science, manufacturing and technology, and how they weighed upon the souls of workers and owners alike.

Twilight is a procedural with little procedure and, by design, no satisfying answers. The mood it builds is soul-shaking.

There’s a lot of heart in Rare Objects, a film that tries to render with compassion the jagged aftermath of trauma.

Fletcher conducts the high-speed chase more than competently, but it’s the sparks generated by de Armas and Evans that keep it buoyant.

It is a responsible and uncomplicated adaptation, one that capitalizes on the story’s lore and legacy. But it’s not withholding, either. The film crucially invites a new generation to join Margaret in the weird, challenging and sometimes wonderful experience of getting older.

This is a serious-minded, well-acted drama that shows just as keen an interest in character, specifically the integrity of two men from vastly different cultures who provide the story of brotherhood and survival with its racing pulse.

In Hilma, Hallström delves into the fiery and sometimes messy personal story as well as celebrating, in fittingly enthralled, immersive fashion, the singular fusion of nature and spiritual mystery that drove her.

It’s a documentary of sterling musical moments and clever connections between culture and the city that all the principals here so clearly adore.

In contrast to Bellucci, who underplays in dignified fashion, Collette works hard, very hard, to sell the concept and her character. That she fails is not an insult to her formidable gifts, but rather due to the flimsiness of the material, which seems better suited to the small screen.

It’s Phoenix who keeps you glued even through the film’s sometimes challenging longueurs, in a performance as fully, insanely committed as any he’s ever given. If the character invites more cringing pity than emotional investment, that’s more to do with the distancing effect of Aster’s surreal approach than anything lacking in Phoenix’s raw, gaping wound of a characterization.

While these stories are relatable and well-acted by a sturdy cast of exciting talent, they lack the potency of depth. How to Blow Up a Pipeline is skillfully executed — it hits all the right beats as a genre film, especially when it comes to ratcheting up the tension ­— but suffers from the same narrative limitations as Goldhaber’s equally compelling debut feature Cam.

Defying any logical narrative, the film relies on poetic images and associations. It suggests that the most frightening thing in the world can be in your own mind.

This lyrical and poetic effort about a single mother raising two children who happen to be half-human and half-wolf features the sort of metaphorical, sophisticated storyline that, with the exception of Pixar’s best efforts, is all too rare in American animated films.

As its title suggests, the movie embraces generic types, but smart writing, unforced direction and a superb cast give the sentimental-but-not-gushy comic drama the messy specifics and narrative friction to lift it well beyond been-there-done-that.

Despite Wilson’s on-the-nose caricature and the enjoyable comic performances of such supporting players as Lusia Strus and the ever-reliable Wendi McLendon-Covey, Paint never delves beneath the surface.

Directors Aaron Horvath and Michael Jelenic, creators of the Teen Titans Go! series, deliver a reasonably faithful big screen adaptation that, while it features plenty of juvenile humor, wisely doesn’t lean toward broad satire.

There’s a satisfaction to hearing Blume, a sharp woman with a winking sense of humor, talk about her path to writing. Her meandering trajectory toward the medium and her challenging journey to harnessing her craft are a refreshing contrast to the contemporary system of publishing, which rewards the young, gifted and confessional.

For viewers who resist the temptation to flee for the nearest exit, this fascinating and probing look at modern surgery is a memorable experience, making us ponder our own humanity as we watch humans reduced to pure flesh-and-blood organisms.

The only real amusement comes from the casual asides delivered by Sandler and Aniston, the latter also providing perfectly calibrated slow-burn reactions that too often become overshadowed by the overproduced mayhem surrounding them.

At well over two hours it’s way too long and heads more or less where you think it will, but it’s fun to watch Byun and Jeon deliver the goods both viscerally and, at times, movingly.

While Americana doesn’t particularly reinvent the Western, Tost’s portrayal of characters driven by unfettered greed or justifiable need gives voice to often-ignored segments of society as they strive for agency and respect — an admirable quality in any narrative genre.

As a look at Kubrick’s methods, madness and burning intelligence, Kubrick by Kubrick is fluent and discerning. Monro shapes the material wisely, without imposing “meaning” on any of it and giving center stage to the maestro himself, a man for whom moviemaking was a matter of “working miracles.”