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.