The initial draw of Sea Fever might be as a monster movie, but this is a profoundly humane and humanist film whose ideas stays with you longer than the nightmares.

The meaningful topics of female sexual expression, repression, and desire for acceptance that “To the Stars” portrays are relevant, but it’s a shame they’re not more poignant and persuasive.

Even the most egregious issues of the film are quickly forgiven when Marks and Liberto are on the screen. Prepare to be delighted by their interactions and relationship, transporting you back to the times you would needlessly drive long distances on impromptu adventures just to spend time with your best friend.

Crip Camp indulges a fair number of documentary clichés: the talking heads, the emotional reunion, and the inspirational montage, to name a few. But it’s hard to feel bothered with a film that tells an urgent, overlooked story so compassionately and clearly.

Hampered by a character growth problem, tonal inconsistencies, shoddy mime work, and a collective French accent trainwreck, the film fumbles the few opportunities it does have at something better.

Emotionally and psychologically, The Ghost Of Peter Sellers, is an A-grade film. Aesthetically, however, it’s a little flat, and kind of takes too long to truly reveal itself even at a scant 93 minutes. Still, it’s ultimately an emotionally cathartic and absorbing movie about a man who can’t let go, yet wants to be free.

The superhero film equivalent of the worst kid at the playground.

Chalk this Team WahlBerg’s latest collaboration as a massive swing and miss, which ranks among the city’s worst cinematic disasters.

A movie about deep regrets, taking them head-on, forgiving oneself and more, The Way Back, on paper, has so much potential for clichés about demons in a bottle. Instead, and triumphantly earned, this affecting path to redemption is a piercing portrait of man and actor who, when the clock’s winding down, can drain the shot that matters most.

Alice and the Mayor isn’t bad, per se; it’s just routine. Not radical enough to be the political call to action that it so desperately wants to be, and not fully developed enough to the character study that it eventually reverts back to, it’s a strange hybrid of a film, with the two disparate sections never really working in conjunction.

Saint Frances is truly a stunning debut, both in its overt treatment of problems women face all the time, and its sheer unconventional approaches to, what on the surface looks like, a conventional narrative.

Maybe the film will squeeze a tear or two from your eye. What it won’t do is give you a reason to remember when, or why.

The wandering, strictly bush league movie, unfortunately, cannot reprise the unbridled strut of Quintana’s ‘Lebowski’ braggadocio, suggesting perhaps we should leave the resurrection of beloved characters to the professionals.

The Roads Not Taken is perfectly satisfactory in terms of style, but the film leaves much to be desired when it comes to content.

Siberia juggles a number of intriguing ideas without any real success at marrying them. It’s an enjoyable watch, if only for the confident surrealism, albeit one which could inspire confusion and/or disgust in many film fans.

Petzold’s unsettling film is awash with wonderful ambiguities and strives to challenge both its audience and filmmaking conventions. They’re incomparable and largely succeed through their independent nuances.

Levitas’ unusually even-handed approach works to balance the film’s inspirational true story with its tragic real-world context, by refusing to overstate Smith’s personal heroics, while sensitively outlining the everyday heroism of the ordinary men and women most grievously affected.

The meandering narrative flow leapfrogs without any sense of rhythm, almost as if the collection of scenes was augmented by a haywire randomizer.

This experience is one of rare, absolute immersion.

The Invisible Man is inarguably well done, and this is one of Elisabeth Moss’s best performances, but this is the kind of subject matter you can’t short-shrift. This is life-altering, traumatizing stuff, but in privileging horror shocks over emotional reality, this film unmasks itself. It’s not as interested in abuse victims as it is cheap thrills.

A hypotensive urban fairy tale with not quite enough “tale” to justify the tag, it’s a collection of impressions, in often striking imagery, of a New York borough imagined as a faraway land of rooftops and distant lights and corner bodegas where every day—every moment even—seems to start with “once upon a time.”

While My Salinger Year is not always successful in the larger debate it tries to have around how we can define authorship, and how the commercialization of writing infringes upon creativity, the film’s central narrative following Joanna’s conflicting aspirations as a writer largely succeeds.

Despite featuring an intriguing set-up and good cast, The Night Clerk offers nothing new to the genre, predictably hitting the same beats, without variation.

Sacca’s script is an exercise in poor plotting.

The horror genre also comes with a short list of demands that must be followed: Build a tense mood, a terrifying atmosphere, and tumultuous characters. “The Boy 2” rejects all of these. Instead, director William Brent Bell settles for a basement full of cliches.

Aligning itself with the director’s prior works, Costa’s cinematic dissertation on the impermanence of life, love as a sacrificial commitment and the existence of God requires a refined attention span and a liberal tolerance for a slow-burning narrative flow, but viewers in search of a visually masterful and emotionally desolate arthouse feature could find Vitalina Varela to be one of the most thought-provoking international features to debut in quite some time.

In a movie landscape cluttered with coming of age stories, it’s worth asking what distinguishes a straightforward example such as Premature. Two things do – authenticity and Zora Howard. Howard is a breakout talent and she endows this story with grace and passion.

This is the cinematic equivalent of eating a macaron, a bourgeois treat best enjoyed for its prettiness rather than its substance. But much like a good macaron, a well-done period romance – interesting, well-paced, relatively pro-woman – is a deceptively hard thing to make. This is one exquisite petit four.

Buoyant first-time actor, Levan Gelbakhiani goes from unknown to galvanizing star in a unique role. His presence is one of stunning physicality, proving there’s strength in what others see as a weakness in his character.

Sonic the Hedgehog might nail the outrageous energy and outlandish hyperactivity of the video game, but it’s the effective and poignant force of friendship that truly powers this video game adaptation to level’d up triumph.

Ultimately, no amount of champagne, pretty faces, and New York real estate porn can turn dull lovers and a dramatic lack of focus into a pretty picture, and this is the reality The Photograph captures in the end.

Fantasy Island is even worse than you’d guess. Both artistically and intellectually, it’s an absolutely bankrupt enterprise.

Talking head interviews from his victims, business and works partners, and friends mesh together with archival photos, videos, and audio recordings of Weinstein for a compulsively watchable, yet not definitive, look at the man whose predatory behavior spearheaded the #MeToo movement.

As a comic book movie writ large, as an adaptation of an imaginative, gonzo, frenzied, devilish graphic novel not meant for kids, Birds Of Prey is arguably perfect as a blast of that kind of feverish dynamism. However, as a movie, Birds Of Prey can’t really break free from the cage of quirky insanity it is so content to nest in.

The supporting cast, fine craft, and the appealingly idiosyncratic approach to history, legacy, and storytelling summon as much energy as they can and fling it Tesla’s way. Whatever he’s made of in Almereyda’s film, it’s a perfect insulator and generates no sparks.

Taymor’s latest manages to be both a loving tribute to American trailblazer and the power of collective action to bring social change. It’s also visually vivid and unexpected, but unfortunately, fairly uneven overall.

For all the impressive craft, sense of harrowing anxiety and searing performances on display, Lost Girls doesn’t seem to know how to wrap things up and it hurts the picture overall.

Nine Days is the sort of original cinematic art that, these days, is few and far between.

Outside its value as a cautionary tale about introducing a power dynamic into a friendship between former equals, there’s an emptiness at the heart of The Nowhere Inn which might be part of the point (ah, the vacuity of celebrity! the hollowness of fame!) but the observation of emptiness is not the same as actual substance.

Brie’s work is worth celebrating, and the ambition of the project is admirable. But a picture like this has to float on more than good intentions.

Despite the efforts of Hopkins and an outstanding ensemble, Zeller can’t divorce his feature directorial debut from its theatrical origins.

It ultimately crashes into a heap due to a host of rambling non-connective ideas and tonally grating dialogue.

Charm City Kings is beautiful and important, unabashedly Black, yet rarely traumatic, and almost always determined statement. Soto has crafted an incredible empathetic narrative, one mile of road at a time.

Although Boys State provides its four leads some talking-head reflection moments, the documentary is largely verité and linear. This gives the project a decidedly honest and organic feeling, but yet it does slow it down at times, depriving it of momentum.

Overall, Blake Lively and Reed Morano have presented a slightly new take on the spy genre, where emotional pain and personal stakes take center stage instead of worldwide destruction and action hero one-liners. It’s a refreshing, admirable idea and makes The Rhythm Section feel more personal and wounding.

Palm Springs adds meaning to the seeming meaninglessness of life, with infectious fun and introspective pleasure to boot.

The film that follows is, admittedly, a bit of a mess. It’s also compelling, energetic, and well-acted, finding one of our most intriguing filmmakers all but flinging herself outside of her comfort zone.

The Nest is a somber, grown-up sort of movie, made with remarkable poise and maturity, and a level of craft so compelling it can be difficult to tear your eyes from the screen.

There is barely a manufactured minute in the film. Everything fits together organically and in a narrative film that is much harder to pull off than it sounds.

Unique and unfazed, hilarious yet philosophical, Black Bear is the comedic form reinvented and re-conformed to mad and intoxicating ends.

At almost two-hours Worth somehow feels almost twice as long. Granted, we understand it’s a cliché to describe a film in such terms, but Colangelo and Borenstein are trying to cover too much ground that is, for lack of a better word, repetitive.

What you take away from Wendy, however, is that Zeitlin’s talent to soar cinematically remains intact. He can transport you to a fantastical world without the benefit of massive CG effects or a massive set on a gigantic soundstage.

Dominic Cooke’s Ironbark is blessed with fantastic turns from Benedict Cumberbatch, Jessie Buckley and Rachel Brosnahan to up the stakes and make it all feel a bit fresher than it actually is.

The value of Downhill comes from merging this story with these two distinct comic personas, and seeing what they do with it (and each other). That’s probably not enough of a reason for it to exist. But it’s not nothing, either.

If Ritchie had been willing to reflect on his relationship to his own body of work a bit more – the tropes of British gangster films that he himself helped create – then perhaps The Gentlemen could’ve found that next gear that would’ve made it something truly special. Instead, Ritchie’s film proves he might be best served by walking away from the genre entirely.

One of the masterstrokes of Sarah Gubbins’s screenplay is how deftly she underscores the differences in the perception and presentation of the sicknesses within this marriage.

There’s no denying that Fennell is playing with dynamite here, and knows it; the brashness of her approach and style is welcome, and her work is often riotously funny (especially when edging into darker territory).

Possessor is a bloody existential fever dream that, at its best, is unnerving and thrilling, and, at its worst, is tiring and misbegotten.

Its approach may not always work, but the film is undeniably ambitious, and implemented in an affecting way.

Bruckner’s elegantly crafted film falls some way short of its grandest ambitions, but still sends you out into the night with a chill in your bones and the hairs stiff on the back of your neck.

It’s a film that requires you to indulge its patience-testing pace, monotonous dialogue delivery and frustrating anti-characterization for a very long time before you earn the right to unwrap the borderline transcendent gift of its absolutely beautiful ending.

As an embodiment of existential anxiety, it’s often effective, but other than stunning composition work and a few blips of vibrant harmony, it’s largely empty as a romance.

It’s when Johnson strays from strict adherence to the concept that the most profound insights come.

Blank knows exactly what narrative territory she’s in and uses the dramatic conflicts at bay to make a number of decidedly funny and oh, so painful points.

A heavy film about the indignities victims of domestic violence have to experience to be safe, Herself still possesses much grace and doesn’t dare to wallow in its misery. It’s also a poignant film about what it takes to be at peace and how it is everyone’s duty to make sure their voices don’t go unheard.

By the time that the sun is up and Peggy Lee is singing “Is That All There Is?”, Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets has proven to be an impressively affecting and even slightly tragic piece about the homes away from home that provide comfort, as well as just how fleeting that comfort can feel in the bright light of day.

The film is more of a curiosity, preaching to the already converted.

What an extraordinary film this is.

Empowering, saddening, amusing and aggravating in roughly equal measure, with a very small side order of social critique, Bravo’s film marks a huge step up for her and a definitive answer to the question that @_zolarmoon posed to Twitter in October of 2015: yes, y’all do wanna hear the story about why she and this bitch here fell out!!!!!!!!

Simien’s strengths come to the forefront once again and that’s what makes it so difficult to pinpoint why the final product doesn’t exactly gel together as it should.

Like a Boss is screamingly funny at times, thanks largely to the talented cast.

While The Sonata has no shortage of gripping moments, it’s still missing the weirdness and stylishness that made the similarly themed “Rosemary’s Baby” or “The Frantic” classics.

With a lackluster script, shaky supporting characters, and weightless dialogue, Disturbing the Peace is the rare film that feels void of purpose or direction.

One of the strongest emotions that come through in the documentary is that the singer wants to be in control of who she is, her narrative, and her choices. So, it’s only fair that she is in control of her documentary because it will be watched by millions.

Characters this lovely only come once in a blue moon.

Zombi Child is the rare film that’s both rich in ideas and fun, a reckoning with forces colonial powers would like buried, but that won’t stay dead.

It’s a dull, plodding retread with new souped-up VFX that’s deeply uninvolving.

What the newbies can’t recreate is the coked-up, jet-fueled delirium of Bay’s efforts, particularly the second “Bad Boys,” which may be as pure a peek into a narcissist’s id as has ever been captured in a summer studio picture. It’s a loathsome, ugly movie, but fess up, it’s one you’re still thinking about. Bad Boys For Life is, by most standards, a “better” movie. And you’ll forget it by next week.

Schechter’s ideas remain strong through all of the confusion, and Long’s performance stands out due to its subtlety.

You’ve gotta give Underwater this much, though: it’s not boring. It’s brief (95 minutes), knows exactly what it is, and Stewart and Cassell seem to be having a good time.

Nicolas Pesce is a tremendous talent with a sick imagination that is distinctively his own, but “The Grudge” feels like payday one-for-them compromise. One that unfortunately sullies and derails the reputation of an otherwise on-the-rise filmmaker who should be above this kind of second-rate material.

The problem is not that Cats makes no sense . . . nor that the performances are mediocre (most of them are quite good). The murder weapon is the galling CGI intended to cover the actors in head-to-toe feline fur. Instead, the animation detracts from the film’s capable performers and inventive surroundings, drawing the eye reluctantly in like the sight of a person vomiting in the middle of an amusement park. It makes for a slow death, so overwhelmingly grotesque that it ceases to be interesting at all.

The Rise of Skywalker; is as much metafiction as Johnson’s film was. Rather than asking questions about what we really want from a series like “Star Wars,” and whether we’re ready to allow our childhood fictions to grow with us, J.J. Abrams and crew decide to lean on the emotional warmth of reunions, friendships, redemptions, and goodbyes. There is some heartfelt value here, or at least, some of it does admittedly produce some anthemic feels, but it doesn’t hold much weight.

The film is a pure expression of the id for a filmmaker who thrives on moving at 100 cuts per second; for everyone else, as the expression goes, your mileage may vary.

While Bombshell cumulatively paints an accurate portrait of the culture of silence that enables male entitlement against women they see as expandable, it seems unsure of the right way to handle conservative hypocrisies perpetuating that very toxicity.

Knives and Skin presents an unsettling mix of girlishness, macabre, sweetness, and despondency best encapsulated in a nail polish color sported by one of the characters: Rotting Corpse. Its humans are alien, its script is bizarre, its visuals are gauche. But this so-wrong-it’s-right feminine dirge puts the “fun” in “funereal.”

Authentically pensive and distressingly honest, Colewell remains true to its convictions by prominently exhibiting the uncomfortable truths of growing old. Remarkably, the film’s subject matter is treated with an impressively respectful restraint, opting to stay grounded and not venture down melodramatic sideroads.

If Radioactive spent more significant time with Curie’s eccentricities . . . we might have arrived at a real character study. Instead, the biopic’s strained narrative bonds dissolve, awash in a series of disconnected events.

The proximity and intimacy of the technique render Schofield and Blake’s journey more visceral, and more frightening. And as a result, at its conclusion, the catharsis lands with the force of a hammer.

Little Wome fills and drains your heart, fills and drains your heart, fills and drains the heart. But the best remains the same. ‘Little Women’ lives by vitality and hope.

Ultimately, Autonomy doesn’t have the sort of attention-grabbing hook that can really elevate a doc – there’s no stunning footage or unique personal connection to the material. That overarching lack keeps Horwitz’s doc from being more than something to watch on your couch on a lazy afternoon.

Adding to the fraught complexities of economic insecurity and environmental devastation, When Lambs Become Lions wraps its story in a sweep of broodingly gorgeous imagery.

The director’s best asset remains his indelible style. In his films, he usually doesn’t employ much fluff, limiting how often he cuts. Instead, he relies on pans and savvy blocking. That’s imperative in Richard Jewell, a steady biopic whose best upticks arrive through patience.

Shooting the Mafia is most fascinating when it uses Battaglia’s story, her reminiscences, and her unforgettable photographs, to show rather than tell the painful circumstances of Sicilian life under mob rule.

While lacking the surprise and simplicity of the original “Frozen,” the sequel is still largely wonderful in its own right. It fearlessly transforms the original characters and even its own storytelling format, eschewing the familiar for something grander and more complex.

Queen & Slim is an extraordinary Black Odyssey; a film whose tracks reverberate with echoes of the underground railroad.

Both performances at the film’s center are just outstanding.

It’ll be much too easy to bail on what is a very slow-building first 30 minutes for those watching on a streaming service in the near future. If they make it an hour in, they’ll be pleased to know that John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” is prominently featured, as any West Virginia film seems obligated to boast. But outside of that, the lack of respite is rightly suffocating and will be unfortunately repelling for those who approach film as a mindless escape.