In the midst of our planet’s ongoing chaos, to see a beacon of light emerge from within doesn’t just make for a compelling film. It’s a message of hope, a story found alongside countless others scattered throughout the rubble of war.

Unafraid to shy away completely from the occasional crude humor, especially an early scene begging to be led by Will Forte, it fortunately never overstays its welcome, and for those who enjoy the payoff of hanging onto every line of dialogue, the best jokes throughout are the ones tacked onto the ends of conversations, almost as a comedic afterthought. It’ll make sense once you watch, more so than the plot itself.

Amidst all the noise and nonsense, Hoppers makes a winning case for the enduring value of dignity and respect for all creation.

There’s a floor for entertainment with a cast this strong, especially two leads who can contort themselves bodily and emotionally with such dexterity. But “The Bride!” spends too long operating at that level because it cannot escape the mire of confusion about its own identity.

Once the basic parameters of Franco’s thought experiment in Dreams are grasped, what’s left is an obvious parable about immigration with little to offer beyond spitefulness and a smugly superior sense of self-loathing.

Alas, for a film that sets out to understand the specific malaises of the bourgeoisie at a time of increasing sociopolitical unrest around class inequality, Mundruczó’s drama feels not only tone-deaf but also egregiously vapid.

The material’s dualities trap Ford between continents, not to mention genres and tones.

Honey Bunch is a work of art, but it won’t go down easily for everyone, and it’s sure to be divisive. Definitely watch it with a friend or loved one — whether you’re picking apart the plot holes or reveling in the reveal, you’ll need to debrief afterward.

This film stands comfortably alongside its ancestors, a perfect detour in a time when it’s most needed and a wonderful experience overall.

Fennell leans into excess not as provocation, but as emotional truth, letting obsession swell until it becomes the only language the film speaks. The feeling cuts here not as poetry, but as pressure—barbed wire wrapped tight around a heartbeat. In all its wildness, Fennell seals the film with an embrace and a bruise, then lands the kiss like a sudden dagger to the ribs.

Frank & Louis slips into being a film that’s observed and admired from a distance, not experienced emotionally.

Framed by fearless and charismatic turns by newcomers Bahraminejad and Mana and beautifully shot by cinematographer Ali Ehsani, “The Friend’s House” is a remarkable depiction of life in contemporary Iran that will haunt you for weeks.

“American Pachuo” is just a nice movie about a visionary guy. Entertaining and educational, to be sure, but so frictionless it barely sticks.

The overall point or purpose, beyond showing how a polar bear deals with a nearby human presence and vice versa, is conveyed relatively quickly, leaving the rest of the film to rinse and repeat until that final shot of a drowsy bear, resting atop a snow pile before a setting sun. It’s undeniably gorgeous, but what’s the greater message?

Hanging By a Wire is a nail-biting watch, one that never allows itself to become bogged down in excessive setup or backstory.

The downside is that Lagos is a more interesting character in this film than Lady herself, who Nwosu outlines with far less finesse. Such a glaring imbalance is symptomatic of the script’s overall flimsiness, which stands in contrast to this debut’s heartfelt performances and staggering visuals.

While the kids are pretty fantastic overall, it’s the collaboration between Brill and Bonilla that takes Heller’s screenplay to another level.

Like many Vietnam stories, the film openly contends with the futility of the war, questioning the larger purpose behind it and how it affected these specific men. The film’s greatest strength, then, is in that specificity and its historical corrective.

There’s a good movie about therapy and PTSD inside Jay Duplass’ See You When I See You. The trouble is, it’s buried in a so-so family ensemble film about shared grief and recovery.

The Only Living Pickpocket in New York might not be anything revolutionary, but it sure is revelatory. Segan laments a bygone bustling past, speaks to an uncertain present, and points to New York’s eternal beacon of hope to tease the promise of future renewal.

At its heart, the film is a love story. A love story about two souls who need to trust each other if they want to survive.

Haru’s journey is more soulful and heartbreaking than you may want it to be. And that somehow makes the magical moments even more endearing.

Chasing Summer earns a lot of goodwill with a rowdy climax that plays into Shlesinger’s strengths as a humorist.

Beyond some obvious pot shots and on-the-nose metaphors, it begins to feel more and more like a missed opportunity than smart satire.

Even the most hair-brained of Wain’s films have some quality elements, and Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass is certainly no exception to that rule. But it’s nevertheless a slight disappointment to see a luminary operating at the lower end of his power and promise.

Overall, Manners’ feature debut is perfectly polished. Duggan and Clear are distinct talents who scream future stars (or, at worst, working talents for years to come). But as insightful as it all is as a portrait of those bumpy teenage years for young women, it does all feel a bit too familiar. Maybe even a little too safe and predictable.

Send Help is pure Raimi: a survival thriller that disguises itself as corporate satire before mutating into something far nastier and more fun. It’s ridiculous by design, walking a razor’s edge between menace and mockery, and it thrives in that instability.

Comfort with loveable loserdom is the glue – or maybe the scotch tape – that holds together a rickety contraption careening constantly toward calamity.