Rian Johnson has seamlessly crafted another murder mystery with even more delicious twists and turns than the previous two installments. Maybe even combined. Somewhat hard to believe until you witness it for yourself. And, along with a slightly (and emphasis on “slightly”) more serious tone, the result is often smashing.

It often seems as though Hikari is being pulled toward a prespective that is simply not Japanese enough to provide a true cultural perspective. But, more importantly, Hikari knows how to push enough emotional buttons without the audience sensing they are being manipulated. And, for many, those talents mean Rental Family will lead to genuine tears.

Mielants and Porter end the film in a manner that is almost offensive to the audience. This isn’t about providing a spotlight for kids with behavioral issues or the professionals who commit their lives to them; it’s melodrama for melodrama’s sake, with an awkward attempt at a “happy ending” that is borderline cringe.

McElwee probes the very idea of memory itself, and in perhaps his crowning achievement as a documentarian, fails to come up with any definitive answers, yet somehow still moves closer to the truth than he ever had before.

The movie feels like a cinematic palate cleanser the closer it comes to its inevitable ending.

It’s engaging to watch without requiring viewers to completely turn off their brains. Van Sant makes “Dead Man’s Wire” move like a well-oiled machine, even if he can only get so much mileage from an old vehicle. Simple, familiar pleasures are still pleasures.

Take out a thesaurus for any overused critical buzzword about political cinema – timely, urgent, necessary – and they all fail to capture the shattering impact of Kaouther Ben Hania’s The Voice of Hind Rajab.

For all its faults, whether intentional or otherwise, the ending still manages to stick the landing, in all its strange glory, resulting in something that must be seen; that said, it’s not to be believed, but rather to appreciate, as tricky as that may be.

Solid performances, a clever conceit, and technical over-competence behind the camera bolster what is ultimately a predictable and sometimes unpleasant viewing experience.

Even as Reinhart does solid work with the shaky material, her character remains adrift in a meandering psychological thriller that offers only a superficial look into her psyche.

Oppenheim’s script deepens that burgeoning pit of terror with its sequencing of events and information.

Despite this welcome insight into the muddy rules of their relationship, the approach to Kerr’s addiction is the only time “The Smashing Machine” feels a tad slight, the filmmaker proving perhaps a bit too close to its subject to properly gnaw at the ugliness of chemical dependency and rehabilitation.

The Testament of Ann Lee often proves difficult to pin down, providing enthrallment in fits and starts rather than inducing a consistent state of rapture. It’s a bit slippery in the way that chasing the divine presence in art or life can be: present and tangible, then eluding one’s grasp like smoke.

Despite a “you can see it coming” final baccarat game in the third act, designed to crowd-please, it all somehow feels flat and generic. And, worse, decidedly not fresh.

There is a moment in the final act between Graham and White that will be hard to forget. A moment that is masterfully directed and performed with the utmost humanity. So much so that you almost wish the movie ended right then and there.

Law’s take on the Russian leader feels both real and mysterious — two features that the film otherwise struggles to corral across its unwieldy runtime.

The film exists outside of boundaries of “good” or “bad.” It’s just true, which makes it scarier in many ways. The melancholy doesn’t just live inside Jarmusch’s world. It leaps off the screen and demands to be felt.

Although the narrative is faithful to the book, del Toro rewrites the dialogue almost completely, an exercise whose only chance of success relies on his ingrained understanding of Shelley’s writing and tonal cadence. The result is a stunning piece of text, acutely aware of the labyrinthine nature of our most primitive emotions, and zigzagging through musings on love and loss and want with the careful rhythms of a writer who gets that tackling the grandiose often merits delicacy.

While Magellan is still a haunting vision, the ghosts of a more impactful film you remember most are also the ones that can feel pushed to the margins of the frame.

Zhao has fashioned a masterwork that, once again, straddles the line between narrative and cinematic art in a manner few of her contemporaries can match.

If you’re seeking an escapist popcorn-like thriller, Caught Stealing should do the trick. But if you’re yearning for something more substantive, you may end up feeling slightly swindled. Still, credit Aronofsky for picking your pocket with a deft touch, and stealing a base with style.

Director Park expertly fuses genres, navigating deftly between broad satire and taut thriller while always maintaining a grounding in the humanity of his characters. A hearty helping of gallows humor delivered with a marvelously mordant twist by the talented acting ensemble also cuts across both modes of filmmaking.

A bothersome, ever-present sense of constraint permeates this twisted drama on the complexities of Gen Z morality. The Italian auteur, renowned for gnawing at the knotty edges of controversy with the unrestrained hunger of the unbothered, seems somewhat hesitant to fully dig into the messiness of the piping hot issue at hand.

It is Clooney, of course, that anchors and crowns this dramedy milimetrically envisioned to tug at the hearts of cinephiles (and, for the sake of addressing the elephant in the Netflix room, awards voters).

Low rent, CGI splatter effects by the bucket-full honor the Troma roots of this property, while practical costume, make-up, and production design speak to the reverence of the same. It ain’t pretty, sure: but that was never the Toxic Avenger’s style. Blair and company understand this, and the movie (world?) is better for it.

Bugonia might be as blissfully bonkers as the era of its release, yet don’t let that distract from what a masterclass in directorial control the film represents for Yorgos Lanthimos.

La Grazia embodies much of the Sorrentino appeal, even if it registers in more of a minor key for the Italian auteur. The film is playful when it wants to be and pensive when it needs to be.

She Rides Shotgun sits as a perfect example of every filmmaking ingredient coming together beautifully, balanced in a way that would make Thanos take pause, and as much a showcase for the talent onscreen as for those working to fuse this film’s take on the world that is the neo-western. There’s plenty here to keep eyeballs glued, and every scene gets better.