Infidelity has long been one of Hong’s central subjects, but The Day After might just be his greatest film about the ails of mixing business with pleasure.

If Hong is often a filmmaker who can be accused of making the same movie over and over again, this latent muse brings a veritable freshness to his output by offering an emotional gravity that hadn’t significantly figured into his creative sphere.

The infectious joy of a long childhood summer is brilliantly and boldly brought to life, unfolding, like Baker’s vital last film “Tangerine,” in a vivid present tense.

The Killing of a Sacred Deer is Lanthimos with the gloves off, and it makes the absurd, amazing “The Lobster” seem like a warm and cuddly experience by comparison.

The Beguiled only ever lets its freak flag fly at half mast, and until the end where some very enjoyable archness is allowed to creep in, this Southern Gothic tale of female sexual jealousy feels surprisingly dated.

The amiable and undemanding Meyerowitz evokes so many other media — television, short story, theater — that it’s a little unclear as to quite why it’s a film.

Wonderstruck lives in the glory of its filmmaking — its photography, its costuming, its set design, its brilliantly variegated Carter Burwell score.

Its insistence on trying to balance wannabe sincerity and earnest actions with laughs is a tonally misconceived idea. Ultimately more forgettable then deplorable, Baywatch isn’t so much a disastrous spill in the ocean as it is disposable garbage making a mess.

With no plot to speak of, a baggy tangent across Europe in the mid-section, and no forward momentum, War Machine soon descends into the quicksand of its own design and never recovers. From there it’s an enervating slog of two hours that invites sleep.

Everything, Everything is appealing in its own way. It’s good-hearted, if poorly conceived, but perhaps most crucially, Everything, Everything leaves you with very little worth remembering.

The film is not unlike a classic rock supergroup reuniting to play all the greatest hits, with the payday at the end as the only true motivation, rather than returning with something new to say about their work.

While Corsicato treats his subject extremely gently – there’s barely a hint of criticism of Schnabel and interviewees tout how controversial his work is without explaining why – his almost idyllic portrayal of Schnabel at work and play nevertheless makes for a largely seductive and engaging experience. But the lack of context often derails the entertaining film.

Bobbi’s failures, goodbyes, successes and reconciliations are beguiling, often heartbreaking to witness, but ultimately, it’s the artist’s thrilling dedication to her craft that offers the most sublime state of grace.

The Boy Downstairs straddles a patchy line between comedy and drama with mixed results, but when all is said and done, the auspicious film acts like a mature consideration of the scariness of vulnerability and laying your heart on the line.

This is a gorgeously realized popcorn movie of the most satisfying, comforting, restorative kind: full as its heart is, it has a lot on its mind, yet you’d also quite like to curl up on its belly and doze in the sun.

Handsome is modest and mild-mannered, the type of comedy that likes to keep things content and mostly carefree.

Armed with commanding performances, striking cinematography and exceptionally well-calibrated direction, The Wall is a haunting, engrossing death march, one that’s not entirely original but also not easy to shake.

Far from being a perfect film and wearing its shortcomings with confidence, Flames is a film very worthy of curiosity.

While the film never reaches the kind of emotional peaks of James’ best work like “Hoop Dreams” or “The Interrupters,” Abacus: Small Enough To Jail is no less compelling. And it serves a very important reminder, particularly at a time when more than ever, it seems banks are putting profit in front of people.

The film is very, very funny, consistently.

This is an exquisitely shot suburban tale of trauma, stretching the “show-don’t-tell” golden rule of filmmaking to the furthest reaches.

Ritchie’s ‘King Arthur’ is a pleasing big budget spectacle, oddly aligned to the filmmaker’s thematic interests and startlingly compatible with his signature razzle-dazzle style. In fact, the soggiest moments in the movie are the ones that adhere the closest to that ambitious multi-film strategy, lessening the fun, and emptying its impact.

Somehow, Scott manages to balance it all: meditations on being made in god’s own image, the fan service of “Alien Origins: Xenomorphs,” and feminist agency. Balance doesn’t necessarily mean execution though. There’s friction with all these ideas fighting for airtime.

Tamblyn’s at no loss of interesting things to say and show on screen, and Paint it Black has some real gems among the jumble, especially Shawkat, who ably shoulders the task at hand, and gives a raw and sensitive performance of a woman dealing with the loss of a lover far too young.

These are strong performances, committed to the truth of the scenario however grim that might be but Young’s talents extend beyond that. Having also written the script, he clearly designed this film to allow him to show off some impressive, expressive visual storytelling.

The filmmakers squander a boundlessly fascinating figure in service of yet another paint-by-numbers info-doc with all the dramatic heft of a book report.

The characters in The Lovers and the problems they face and struggle with feel entirely authentic, as does the magnetic chemistry between the leads.

A movie that forgoes solid storytelling for an atmosphere that keeps you captivated, director Jamie M. Dagg has made a film that plays with genres from neo-noir to thriller to even horror.