Unfortunately, Zoom movies do not really benefit anyone, Morales or otherwise (but hopefully this means, she gets another opportunity to do it for “real” out in the world). Duplass’ Spanish is good (a nice plus), and the movie’s intentions are in the right place; it’s warm, warm-hearted, and even mildly bittersweet, but in short, no more Zoom movies, please, and thanks.

Michelle Ford’s Test Pattern, with patient specificity, probes the institutional injustices suffered by black women to potent, provoking effect.

The most Crisis will give you is the empty gift of occupying two, completely uneventful hours of your life.

The whole thing is a wildly uneven, extremely repetitive mess that could have used a few rewrites, as well as another look at the genial, genre-bending source material.

It’s worth a look. And as another voice added to a growing chorus of Asian-Americans who were taught to be quiet, I guess I’m glad it’s not polished, that it’s coarse and impolite.

For a film that so often trades in claustrophobic close-ups, some of the strongest compositions in Natural Light are its grander landscape shots, making a sinister beast of Hungary’s jagged treelines.

Most of all, the chance to spend 90 or so minutes in Fonda’s orbit offers a welcome reminder of what cancellation actually means. For her, and for F.T.A., it means silence. Bravo to the folks responsible for putting the film under a spotlight at a moment where a lesson in genuine cancellation is so desperately needed.

The true drama in the admissions scandal is not the ringleader or the celebrities and hedge-fund magnates who hired him but what this Hunger Games scenario means for all the children whose parents cannot afford his services.

Come True” is a surreal, mysterious, and efficient mix of science fiction references with an original ending.

ZSJL is a fan cut as much as it is a director’s cut, with all the indulgence that the notion applies. As for any continuation of the story, as the fans hope, that seems gravely unlikely considering the direction Warner Bros is headed. But for a director who had to abandon his grand superhero project because of a family tragedy and because a big movie studio tried to wrestle control of the film, which was too much to bear at the time, one supposes, this postmortem collectible for die-hard, is about as good as an outcome as one could get.

Superbly executed, Quo Vadis, Aida? is a masterful high wire act of tension and devastating humanism.

Brühl works confidently as a director and star, however, hopefully with the potential to be a little more ambitious in the future.

One finds oneself hard-pressed to find a wasted frame here.

Far from being copraganda, A Cop Movie, the new feature from director Alonso Ruizpalacios (“Güeros,” “Museo”), is a formally daring and incisive deep dive into their performance of authority.

Rejoice action fans, Frank Grillo is here to save the action genre, and Boss Level proves that he has the goods to perhaps do just that.

It’s infinitely more fascinating as a personal exorcism of old demons than as a piece of documentary filmmaking. That said, despite its cliched stylings, it succeeds through its intimacy and emotionality, as well as the smart arrangement of its footage.

Introduction initially feels like a smaller, quieter addition to the filmmaker’s oeuvre. Still, it proves to be another delicate and profound testament to how our lives can always be intertwined with those from our past, to the everyday human interactions, and especially to the honesty and wide-eyed possibility of youth.

[A] benign, only marginally-amusing-at-best nostalgia cash grab.

Its achievement lies in the space it creates for these children to open up a dialogue they rarely get to have – one that inevitably asks more questions, but that welcomes them as mature thinkers, keen to understand more about those raising them and the conditions in which they are being raised

More than a sardonic subversion of the tropes we fall for time after time, Schrader’s thoughtful romantic study digs into mundane neuroses and existential fears with wisdom, and empathy, making sure to keep you guessing long after Alma and Tom have stopped gazing into each other’s eyes.

It’s just dull, deeply bland, and unsophisticated, with little to say about any of its themes of intolerance, fear, misogyny, and gaslighting, other than these feelings exist.

In the overstuffed indie coming-of-age subgenre, Sophie Jones makes an unassuming, honest contribution. Which is exactly what it needed to do to stand out among the endless pomp and quirk.

For all the enchanting elements, the kooky lovable sidekicks, and spirited voice performances from Awkwafina and Tran — the warmth shaking the ash from this well-worn story is the gift of family. The family we are born with. The family we make. The Southeast Asian-inspired “Raya and the Last Dragon” conjures some much-needed magic for a modicum of fun.

Slightly disappointing denouement aside, The Vigil is an effective, stripped-down exercise in pure terror, and a strong argument as any for a new wave of Jewish Horror.

Whether you’re a fan of her music or not — and for as many die-hard fans as there are, there’s plenty of dissenters — it’s fascinating to watch a singer come into her own, establishing her still-forming identity in a rapidly shifting industry. Hopefully, Cutler will stick around, watch the development and, see what more can emerge in the future.

There’s a great film waiting to be made about the opioid crisis. But much like “Hillbilly Elegy,” “Cherry” can’t conjure up the cause and the toll of the devastation without relying on pastiche. Even the ending, meant to be a moment of healing, reduces Cherry’s concluding journey to a mere saccharine montage.

It’s a mixed-at-best effort with a strong lead performance, but one that ultimately cannot honor the legendary song (or singer’s life) it takes most of its emotional and spiritual cues from.

Look, America certainly needs relief, support, escape, and laughter, yes, but good god, ‘Barb & Star’ is not it.

It’s doubtful you’ll be shocked by any major event in the film, but it’s the ability of The Map of Tiny Perfect Things to surprise you with the emotional resonance that ends up being its biggest strength

No, it doesn’t make much sense. But holy shit, it’s a wild-ass ride.

PVT Chat is a nasty, unflinching, discomfitingly watchable experiment that, if nothing else, proves once again that Julia Fox should be in all the movies, all the time.

This movie is literally and figuratively saying music can save your life, but the execution is all treacle and dust—overly sweet and utterly empty.

Mostly compelling but unfocused, Wild Indian dips its narrative feet in a slew of themes, all worthwhile, and doesn’t commit to any of them as its guiding star in the murky sky of its ambition. As the filmmaker tries to bind all of the moving parts, the whole turns scattered-brained and structurally disjointed.

For a movie about the inequities inherent in both parent/surrogate relationships and expecting father/expecting mother relationships, the stakes hover surprisingly low in the plot stratosphere.

Beneath the layers of fuzzy frequencies, feverish absurdism, and kaleidoscopic tints lives an inconspicuously poignant movie about existentialist dread, the very human need to reduce the noise, and the genuine longing for connection in a chaotic, jumbled up world.

The entire ensemble rolls with the fast punches. And Crosby and Knapp show real comedic potential. But First Date takes too many big bites without the ability to digest any of its gummy sweets. Crosby and Knapp’s First Date, an at-times hilarious California pleasure trip, dissolves under the weight of its self-evident ambition.

One of those movies that starts off so well, that shows such promise, that its slow unraveling feels less like a disappointment than a betrayal.

Filled with fascinating yet long-forgotten anecdotes ... "Street Gang" ultimately focuses on the correct subject: the artists and educators who made "Sesame Street," and how much of its power and influence seems an outgrowth of the unique chemistry created by those specific people, at that specific moment.

Transmitting such a deep and moving paean of a band, the music they’ve created, the complex humans behind it, and bow-down respect for the long-haul resilience they’ve demonstrated over years of ups and downs, Wright presents a movie like a superdeluxe mixtape gift, adorned with loving attention to detail, gorgeous artwork, footnotes, and other bells and whistles, that is extremely easy to fall head over heels for regardless of your conversant knowledge of the band or its odd, but catchy music.

No one would deny Sisto clearly has a vision of what he’d like to accomplish and shows flashes of humor here and there, but the almost overt influences of any number of other filmmakers (Michael Haneke, ‎Yorgos Lanthimos, and Sean Durkin immediately come to mind) have the cumulative effect of making the proceedings feel numbingly familiar.

Ulman’s black and white freshman feature is an absurdly and assuredly packed jack-in-the-box that’s short, sweet, and, incidentally, a quirky sharp, vainglorious commentary on these post-crisis, Robinhood Redditor times.

The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be Quiet is a visually realized film with perhaps too much on its mind for its limited runtime.

What’s strikingly revolutionary in Pleasure is how Thyberg’s gaze provides Bella’s story much-needed context by embracing the mundane aspects of this particular world.

It’s not very good except sometimes when it’s fantastic.

With an incredible ensemble and an elegant eye, Hall’s Passing is a high-wire act of a debut that tackles its several thorny issues with nary a scratch.

King comes so close to rendering Hampton’s life and legacy anew for a younger generation. But for all of the film’s eloquent crafts and the audacious performances from a deep ensemble, which includes an under-sung Dominique Thorne as Black Panther member Judy Harmon, Judas And The Black Messiah doesn’t fully encapsulate either its Judas or its messiah.

A good movie exists in On the Count of Three. But a film with such challenging subject matter needed a more experienced director capable of shading the dark comedy and the heartfelt spirit with an assured visual hand.

For a good hour of the film’s running time, Kranz’s restraint is admirable, his script allowing his four superb actors to find and flesh out their characters, so it feels like we’re watching people, not merely a situation. Each of the four manages the changing colors of their monologues.

Despite some pretty vistas and a typically watchable performance from Wright, Land proffers rather too tidy a reiteration of things the movies taught us long ago, about how embracing life means embracing pain and how it’s only through connecting to others that we can truly know ourselves.

Ascher’s appropriately discombobulating stew of queasiness, comedy, and terror seems well-cued to the subject matter, even while missing a certain editorial sharpness that might have brought some of its notions into greater clarity.

The film’s lived-in craftsmanship provides structure in an unstable world. Collins’ superb performance gives it soul.

“How It Ends” is not actually an end-of-the-world film at all; here, the Apocalypse is just a well-shucks excuse for a bunch of yak sessions between goofy (but attractive!) oddballs doing quirky shit and Speaking Their Truths on an accelerated timeframe. With all due apologies to the plants, animals, and 7.5bn other souls about to be incinerated in a doomsday fireball, #teammeteor.

In the Earth isn’t a complete washout; there are moments of bleak humor, genre fans will enjoy the striking imagery and gross-out shivers, and the director has an undeniable gift for setting and maintaining a mood (he gets a big assist on the latter from Clint Mansell’s synth score). But ultimately, it’s kind of a slog.

To say it’s a stellar feat of cinema is something of an understatement.

To watch Cryptozoo is to open a Disneyland-size kingdom of ideas that never cease to astound.

The genuinely revelatory combined effect of the interviews, concert footage, and pure elation aside, there remains an undercurrent of bristling frustration bubbling beneath the film’s surface. 52 years? That’s how long “Summer of Soul” sat unseen, hidden from the public? If work this important can be squirreled away from view for this long, and if we let our imaginations run wild, then who knows how many other stories lie buried in anonymity, or where.

It becomes pretty obvious early on that CODA is one of those movies where you know where the story is going pretty much the entire time, but the elements harmonize so beautifully it still sucks you in.

Censor is an impressive, visually-stunning, deeply disturbing debut from Bailey-Bond and a showcase for Algar, who gives a truly spectacular performance.

Although the actors are a joy to watch (as always), honestly, Edith and Basil’s real-life story just isn’t that cinematic, and the film never makes their discovery feel like our own.

Especially in its upending, pivoting-away-from-crime norms, morally ambiguous ending, Hancock’s picture reveals itself to have much more on its mind than expected, and becomes a thoughtful meditation on the rigors of police work and the psychic toll that it takes on the soul.

Sam Levinson’s Malcolm & Marie is a purposely self-absorbed meta-narrative about a navel-gazing director at odds with his muse—an enticing premise on paper—that too often obscures its heart in lieu of tedious diatribes.

Though vastly different, Spoor is a fascinating counterpoint to Darren Aronofsky’s “mother!,” as both feature a feminine inflected natural sphere attempting to defend itself from the depredations of a boorish patriarchy. But where Aronosky’s allegory flattens its Mother Earth figure into an eternal victim, “Spoor” plays a more subversive game, suggesting that the repressed will rise and that victims will not always remain that way.

Ham on Rye is not obviously political, but it is also deeply political, pointing out, in lazy, absurdist, carelessly clever frames a​ deep-set​ American wrongness that was quietly murmuring away long before the current blowhard moment, and that will continue long after.

All the narrative ideas are sound—comparing and contrasting schoolyard perspectives based on age, gender and experience is a great premise—yet for all of its resonant human ideas and modest aesthetic strengths, Mouannes’s film feels a little half-finished.

Ultimately, nothing transpires throughout the course of its near-two hour runtime to save “Outside the Wire” from the bottom of a department store bargain bin nestled snuggly against a battered DVD copy of so many duplicate films that came before.

Resembling a patched together sketch of an idea, and a thrown-together filmed play, set (mostly) inside a house, Locked Down should have just been terminated in the lab, instead of rushing out like a vaccine of entertainment that cured absolutely no one of their doldrums.

Acasa, My Home explores how bureaucracy sucks the life out of families, one by one, by turning them into 40-hour-a-week workhorses. It ruminates powerfully on the meaning of freedom, positing that our only chance at control may be a place far, far away from civilization, a place where the reeds sway gently and the fish are plenty.

In the end, The Mauritanian is an efficient procedural that condemns the Bush-era treatment of detainees more effectively than any other recent narrative film. It’s an affecting, but nevertheless tragic, watch.

While not the sweeping historical exploration of “Kingdom of Silence,” Fogel’s film vigorously interrogates the reasons and methods behind Khashoggi’s murder, creating a humane portrait of a fiercely political journalist.

The revelation here is Zengel, who has says little (none of it in English), yet has the presence and gravitas of a silent film actor, putting across her history and trauma primarily in her haunted eyes and loaded expressions.

It’s a bold and terrifying story, but it’s told with all the usual bells and whistles, basements and attics, creaks and bangs.

Greenland isn’t some self-insistently timely movie and it probably isn’t the movie we “need” right now. But it’s the movie we have, and its honest to goodness but unintended genre resonance makes it easy to embrace.

A movie that is fundamentally ill-conceived, poorly written, and missing most of the basic charms that made the original “Wonder Woman” such a delight (minus the last act). Directed again by Patty Jenkins, the film is also something of a nonsensical mess narratively, even by the most lenient and forgiving standards of superhero movies where fantastical, impossible things routinely occur. Suspension of disbelief is crucial to this genre, but ‘WW84’ is constantly breaking or conveniently upgrading its rules in ways that definitely break or at least always test your suspension of disbelief.

Chemistry wise, Miller and Luna work wonders together. Miller’s intense dynamic range: from impassioned to ebullient and afraid, plays well off of Luna’s boyish charm. They imbue these characters with troves of insecurities and mountains of love.

Speaking from personal experience as a fictional creature made of three-parts shamrock, two-parts rainbow, and one-part outdoor plumbing, I can tell you “Wild Mountain Thyme” is a very accurate portrait of modern Irish colleen/gombeen relationships. ‘Tis true, we none of us own a computer or a mobile phone (the air’s so thick with faeries and Catholicism that you can’t get decent Wifi anyway).

It leans a bit heavy into big swing emotional moments and has a few shouting matches too many, but Asgari gives an absolutely tremendous performance that hits like a wrecking ball and may make even the most stone-hearted tear up.

Shrouded in an elegiac reverie, The Midnight Sky is a frequently beautiful movie, from the mechanical ballet of the bird-like Aether to the brief glimpses of K-23, where Jupiter looms in a purplish night sky. But its inability to make a strong connection between the separated stories, and a tone that slips sometimes from poetic quietude to sentimentality, keep the movie from taking a long and honest look at the devastation its reticent mood only suggests.

Education ends “Small Axe” on unsuspectingly grand terms. Yet the compact 63-minute coming-of-age film never loses its soft devoted touch. And McQueen, already an incredible filmmaker, shows another facet to his immense range.

Despite hanging back at times too much for its own good, Mayor remains a fascinating portrait of what city politics look like under extreme conditions.

For those yearning for the dimly lit, stale smelling room, crammed in that weird corner of the mall, where blurps and bloops rang in your ears and faces were filled with a phosphorescent CRT glow, “Insert Coin” will tickle the wistful longing for that unique and exciting atmosphere. And for those who couldn’t experience it for themselves, this scrappy documentary earnestly tries to convey the giddy and anarchic spirit of the golden age of video games.

Though blessed with a strong lead performance by Pettersen, “Disco” is quick to knock the empty spectacle that undoubtedly accounts for significant portions of contemporary Christianity without entertaining the notion that, for some, faith does hold real value in their lives. It’s not particularly challenging to make a punching bag out of any organized religion, but it takes a far more clever piece of filmmaking to acknowledge its shortcomings and benefits while still maintaining a critical tone. Unfortunately, Disco isn’t that picture.

In its new form, The Godfather Coda is still not a masterpiece. But it’s a fine film and worthy conclusion, and its alterations – the repositioning of several scenes, the cutting of others, and a new opening closing –genuinely improve the final product.

In Ryan Murphy’s film adaptation for Netflix, the show’s flaws seem accentuated, with its spectacle too mismanaged to distract that The Prom’s brand of sincerity isn’t necessarily tailored for the screen, or at least not in this form.

Alex Wheatle combines the relevant themes that guide the prior “Small Axe” installments: music as an escape from one’s environment, police brutality, and a character adrift from his community — yet the writing struggles to connect the major plot points for big picture interpretations of Alex’s cultural self-education.

In fairness Superintelligence could skirt by on surface-level examination of its themes if it was funny. Comedy, more than any genre, lives or dies on the delivery of its central promise: If a comedy makes viewers laugh, then it’s a successful comedy. This is not a successful comedy.

It’s the same primitive family-friendly fare that made the original a box-office sensation.

While talking-heady and occasionally self-aggrandizing, Leap Of Faith, still inspires deep respect for Friedkin as the bright and brilliant artist he is. Flaws and all, the filmmaker is a person who commands your attention whether he is sitting in front of, or behind, the camera.

Clear-eyed and clinical without being detached from the human cost, this is a riveting drama of catastrophic amorality told with a cold fury.

What 69: The Saga of Danny Hernandez accidentally confirms is that life would be so much better for all of us if everyone chose to collectively ignore its central subject.

For those willing to spend ninety-plus minutes with Herzog as he riffs on the wonders of space, “Fireball” is a heartfelt tribute to scientific exploration.

If you’re looking for a fun slasher film that offers new twists on old tropes, you’ll come to Freaky for the phenomenal performances by Vaughn and Newton, and stay for the surprisingly sweet story of a girl being empowered and her family healing from grief.

The filmmakers’ inability or unwillingness to actually engage with the discourse it builds Echo Boomers around leaves the film feeling both artificial and hysterical.

As it stands, Gibson and Goggins carry the show and the Nelms stick to their stern tone without wavering. Whatever other marks the film misses, at least it has conviction.

Hillbilly Elegy has nothing to say about the circumstances that caused these addictions and resentments, and it certainly has noting useful to say about “economic anxiety.” There’s nothing remotely thoughtful or even provocative about it, which is a shame – at least that would’ve made it memorable.

There is some pleasure in spotting the winks and legends and shout-outs, but as with any biopic, of any figure, you can’t just bank on familiarity— you have to give the unfamiliar viewer (and, considering the platform it’s on, there will be many) reasons to care. By the end of Mank, even I wasn’t sure any of this mattered all that much.

Its message is timeless. Its performances? Flawless. And if The Killing of Two Lovers can be described as anything more than a must-see film, it can best be defined as a cautionary tale dedicated to the fragility of the family structure in the United States, a showcase of a radically talented filmmaker and a dedication to the painful reality of love.

If Us Kids had shed its extra weight and fine-tuned its focus, the nonfiction feature might have bloomed into a decade-defining documentary.

As a “release it during an election year” film and response to the world’s current political crisis, clearly cobbled together at the last minute, it’s perhaps a fitting goodbye to a flawed character who has resurfaced suddenly to say, in the fleeting final minutes of the film, maybe we can change.