Uneven though it is, the film is peppered with enough cherishable dialogue tics and dummkopf punchlines to make it a enjoyable watch.

Few would argue that Oldman isn’t one of the finest actors of his generation, but this is a tour de force portrayal that will define his body of work for decades to come.

Silveira sets herself up for a balance between realism and aesthetics that she can’t quite navigate.

Without a single weak link in the exceptional cast...it’s a film that makes you feel a lot. But overridingly you feel lucky — lucky to be watching it, lucky that something so sincerely sweet, sorrowfully scary and surpassingly strange can exist in this un-wonderful world, and desirous of hanging on to as much of its magic for as long as you can after you reemerge back onto dry land.

Heady, bold statements about humankind are both the film’s best aspect and its chief flaw: There are just so many of them.

Disengaged and detached, the film’s greatest crime may be its inability to make any kind of impression.

Pilgrimage has all of the parts of a strong, engaging film. It just never learns how best to fit those pieces together.

Maybe if the film gave us the relief of a satisfying ending, the grimness, the ickiness, wouldn’t be so pronounced. But it doesn’t.

If the film is tender, it’s merciless at the same time.

Wingard’s film is an incoherent mess of tones and styles, confused character motives, and murky narratives.

Even in a future bereft of new ideas, it’s fun to watch Noomi Rapace act against herself six times over and her game performances in the midst of fast-paced action make What Happened to Monday? a mostly enjoyable thriller.

It’s not merely that The Only Living Boy in New York is reductive, corny and uninvolving; it’s that it tries to be something more profound and enlightened than it actually is.

It’s not an easy movie to love and it’s not an easy movie to hate either. It’s annoyingly, persistently just okay.

Unfortunately, some fumbled melodrama and the thorny issue of nationalism that hung over Hayao Miyazaki’s “The Wind Rises” compromise the finer impulses in In This Corner of the World.

In only his second film, it’s evident that Chon possesses a forcible voice for storytelling and a keen eye for character building.

Wherever you may fall on its ending, The Wound is a movie worth watching for myriad reasons, not least of which is the fact that it’s as emotionally and dramatically compelling as any American indie to come out this year. Seek it out and see it on the big screen.

Delightfully twisted, Thirst Street takes the ideas of desire, romantic longing and desperation — desperation as the world’s worst cologne — and bathes it in a sheen of frosty colors, genuine vulnerability and sardonic unkindness.

Intimate, but never actually involving, The Glass Castle at least has admirable performances to watch.

This isn’t a movie about despair in the face of seemingly implacable problems; it’s about the heavy lifting that constant hope requires. Disappointingly, that surging energy which animates the activists profiled here, in ways both intimate and caught-on-the-fly, never coalesces into the desired blueprint for reform.

If anything can happen (and, trust me, it does), then there’s never a way of predicting where the next scare will come from. And for a genre that oftentimes feels threadbare and hopelessly predictable, this cannot be commended enough.

The movie has its flaws, but they’re tough to remember in the face of the fun it provides for two hours.

Brigsby Bear is easily the biggest surprise film of the year and is worth every laugh and tear that it brings.

With a deep understanding of the connective power of cinema, Weinstein manages to present this little Hasidic community upon relatable grounds by giving us Menashe, a resonant human being full of relatable pains in the face of a lifestyle kept secret.

The Dark Tower is a tepid non-starter from minute one.

Message from the King isn’t a chore to watch by any means; and there are moments that suggest the more colorful neo-noir that might’ve been.

If nothing else, Reybaud’s debut flaunts his knack for casting, particularly with the lead performance by Pascal Cervo.

While Detroit may try and cover too much ground, thus occasionally stumbling on its ambition, the sheer visceral power of Bigelow’s direction is worth championing.

This is a brilliantly constructed, whip-smart, and laugh-out-loud-funny romp from a filmmaker whose precision and craft is nearly unparalleled. It’s hard to think of a movie this year that has been as singularly delightful, one that, with each passing moment, reveals something charming or odd or real.