Quiet and meticulously constructed, Leave No Trace offers a powerful, affecting look at people pushed to the fringes and hanging on by the slimmest of margins. Harrowing and enthralling in equal measures, it’s a challenging and rewarding experience.

The Gospel According to André leaves you wishing you knew a little more about this complex, elegant gentleman and his lifelong love affair with style.

There is advocacy. And then there is propaganda. The Trolley, with its overcooked rhetoric, falls into the latter category.

Even the heavenly chorus that’s working overtime on the soundtrack can’t drown out the lack of chemistry between Howard and Pratt. And the movie too often defaults to people running around screaming — which is, to be fair, the backbone of this franchise, but it gets awfully old here.

With a Morricone-inspired score, gorgeous cinematography that screams to be witnessed on a big screen, and bleak humor, this film’s tightly executed, meticulously controlled surface barely contains the seething fury within.

The cast is a likable bunch, and I can see how Tag might go down nicely with a couple of beers beforehand; it’s definitely funny in spots, in a we’re-making-this-up-as-we-go-along sort of way.

Despite this rich emotional material (not to mention some gloriously shabby drawing rooms), the film feels surprisingly dull and conventional — two things its heroine most definitely was not.

Casting a dramatic film with nonactors is always a risky proposition; the fresh, natural presence of “real people” is sometimes outweighed by awkwardness when they have to deliver scripted dialogue. But Chloé Zhao’s dreamlike Western The Rider is one of those happy exceptions.

While it’s great fun to watch the Incredibles/Parrs zipping around saving the world (with help from their preternaturally cool pal Lucius/Frozone, voiced with gusto by Samuel L. Jackson), Incredibles 2 gets its heart by being a sweet family story.

The Ocean’s 8 cast makes up for any deficits in its execution (Awkwafina, in particular, can make even the most mundane line funny); these women are just great fun to hang with, and I’d happily sit still for a slew of sequels.

Heavy subtext aside, American Animals remains a slick, smart heist film that entertains from start to finish.

There are a lot of moving parts here, and Pearce fits them together with admirable skill. Originality isn’t his strong suit, but “Artemis” has enough snaky twists and turns and moody energy to make it a fun ride.

At more than two hours, it’s simply too long. However, thanks to Collette’s work, “Hereditary” is a horror movie that really sinks its claws into you.

Fred Rogers is gone and the world is a much scarier place; this film, like a gift, briefly transports us back to the calm we felt long ago.

Darkly comic and submerged in irony, events unfold with the inevitability of a slow-motion car wreck. When the emotional and physical carnage finally recedes, Sigurðsson leaves us with one haunting image that proves the universe has a sick sense of humor indeed.

Woodley and Claflin make an attractive pair, but they’re not particularly convincing playing people deeply, deeply in love. There’s something lacking in the conviction department there.

Ronan and Howle are tremendous in their performances, especially in the way they physically inhabit the characters, transforming from free and unabashed to tense and closed. The bedroom drama, which is almost theatrical in its setting, is riveting thanks to these two actors, and makes the film worthy of regard.

Upgrade is a brutish, efficient and well-executed slice of cyberpunk action horror with a silly streak.

Disobedience unfolds quietly but passionately, with a generosity of spirit toward its three central characters.

Strong performances by Samson Coulter, Ben Spence and Elizabeth Debicki anchor a delicate coming-of-age story that explores masculinity and fear, and, like surfing, is equally about what’s beneath as on the surface

Schrader dissects the roots, hypocrisies and virtues of Christianity through a series of increasingly troubling symbols.... Not an easy watch, but required viewing for ambitious cinephiles.

Book Club is very silly and feather-light, but let me say this: Spending time with this quartet is way more fun than reading “Fifty Shades of Grey.”

Those who love books, picturesque English villages and getting lost in actors’ faces should be very happy

Good fun, and all that, but its flawed central performance ultimately makes “Solo” a distinct disappointment.

The picture is a no warts-and-all look at Francis’ papacy, but rather emphasizes his humanity and humility. Those personal qualities and his words are sources of hope In this politically fraught and fevered age.

The original “Deadpool” caught lightning in a bottle. The sequel sparks only intermittently.

The disappointment of Breaking In is the wasted potential — there are a few plot setups that could have been further fleshed out or brought back around (why was her father being investigated by the DA?) and Union isn’t given enough opportunity to truly display her charms. This thriller could have really used some room to breathe.

It’s bland and forgettable, and director Falcone still hasn’t figured out how not to sabotage his supporting cast (why hire the hilarious Chris Parnell if you’re not going to let him be funny?), but it’s a movie a lot like the presence of McCarthy herself — there’s an inner sweetness that shines through.

As playfully time-oriented as its title, Becoming Who I Was makes reincarnation a central part of its story about a journey through more than one life.

The pleasure of this movie is in Cody’s sly barbs (the rich brother-in-law’s wife has a dog named Prosecco, and a kid whose talent-show skill is Pilates) and in Theron’s soulful, lived-in performance.

Where is Kyra? is a small story — there’s much about its main character that we’ll never know — and a terribly sad one. But it’s a remarkable showcase for Pfeiffer, who’ll break your heart in every scene.

It’s filled with moments that click, but it just feels too big.

The sweet-natured rom-com I Feel Pretty has a well-meaning message, but it gets lost in the telling.

There's a certain amount of cognitive dissonance when it comes to the material and the approach that the filmmakers take, and much that doesn't get covered in this short, 80-minute primer.

You get caught up in the way Tucci lets a round lamp fade into a glowing moon, or how Rush’s posture suggests a lifetime of bending over a canvas, or how a face on that canvas slowly emerges, from a forest of lines — and suddenly, time passes, and art happens.

Watch this movie and you might die, of boredom.

Only two things need to be said about Rampage: It’s really terrible, and I enjoyed it immensely.

Most of Alison Chernick’s sweetly reverential new documentary, Itzhak, suggests a contemporary day in the life of a world-famous musician.

Outside In is about connection, and about two remarkable actors telling us a story.

A Quiet Place is brief, taut and often quite terrifying. And it creates in its audience a fascinating relationship with sound.

Much of this is amiable in the moment, but the movie lumbers from set piece to set piece with only the barest of plausible connecting threads. The film’s sense of physical comedy is woeful, relying more on the suggestion of humor than competent blocking or editing.

Pandas leaves its viewer newly educated, filled with hope, and dazzled.

Isle of Dogs is full of delightful touches, but it’s not Anderson’s best. Nice fur, though.

The emphasis here is on the splashy spectacle with those insider-knowledge elements jammed together in a frenetic hodgepodge.

Lesser actors would have drowned in the muck, but these two almost sell it.

Unsane has an uncanny way of reflecting the world through Sawyer’s eyes, sometimes amplified by the medication she’s forced to take. It’s not a pretty place.

Monster-movie fans will certainly get their money’s worth in this one.

As with “Rivers and Tides,” Leaning into the Wind is a work of art in itself; beautifully and meditatively shot (by Riedelsheimer), accompanied by a faintly mysterious score that seems to be telling us secrets.

The blending of the realistic elements such as the planning and preparations for the raid with the more surreal aspects of the picture feels forced and awkward. In real life, the raid was an astonishing success, but the movie is ultimately a failure.

Vikander doesn’t have much to play, script-wise, but she makes a tough, appealing action star.

Gringo has no spark, no fizz. Its scenes sag like overstretched taffy. Flavorless taffy.

Thoroughbreds often feels like a very, very expensive B-movie, but it’s all reasonably watchable, thanks to the elegant cinematography and Cooke’s amusing way of playing teenage amorality.

Its message is of a young woman’s empowerment, and of how love can save a family — and if the special effects sometimes overwhelm that message (such as a glorious field of flowers that takes flight in a colorful frenzy), it rings through loud and clear by the end.

Much as I’d like to love a movie that encompasses ballet, spectacular hotel rooms, a Mary-Louise Parker drunk scene, and Rampling standing grimly in the snow like an unbreakable icicle, the movie’s focus on sexual violence against Lawrence’s character ultimately feels repellent.

Filmmaker Ivan Sen is a quadruple threat as writer, director, composer and cinematographer of this wily Australian thriller.

The Lodgers is never particularly scary, or even logical, but it’s always gorgeous to look at; you can see where it’s going, but you might not mind watching it go there.

The visuals are gorgeous. The mood is unsettling from start to finish. Annihilation is a strong sophomore effort from a very talented filmmaker.

The movie relies rather too heavily on McAdams’ charm, sort of like a limp cheeseburger that’s saved by some really good bacon. But hey, sometimes a fast-food cheeseburger satisfies, more or less.

Most of the movies from the British stop-motion wizards at Aardman Animations are pure delight, full of endlessly replayable moments and the kind of enchanting silliness that seems to transport you, however briefly, to a better world. Early Man, their latest effort, is merely good, which is to say that it’s well-crafted and enjoyable.

The film, directed by Paul McGuigan, is basically a weepie, and it doesn’t do quite enough to show contemporary audiences why Grahame was special. But its performances make it a pleasure to watch.

Coogler is a young filmmaker — this is just his third feature, following “Fruitvale Station” and “Creed” (two fine and very different films) — but he marshals this world with confidence and flair. The action sequences are insanely fun.

The script isn’t great, but the plot turns and visuals can be striking, and Jess Weixler has fun as the bad-girl sister Ben finds.

Filmed with great respect and palpable love for its subject, Big Sonia is one of those documentaries that seems to bring its own light — just like the woman at its center.

Johnson and Dornan’s performances are wooden and their chemistry nonexistent (particularly in the movie’s more-of-the-same sex scenes), but think of it all as ultra-deadpan entertainment and it kind of works.

Cooke presents a case that the war on drugs in America is not only a no-win scenario, it is no longer (if it ever was) designed to be won as much as fulfill disturbing, narrow agendas in the public and private sectors.

Filmed in harsh grays and cruel light, interspersed with warm home movies of the family in a happier time, it’s a terribly sad and often mesmerizing story.

The film has a certain charm, and fans of folk music should be more than happy.

As long as the third and, one hopes, final installment is, it feels even longer. There’s more of it, much more, yet paradoxically, much less.

Its evocation of a specific place, California’s Coachella Valley, is indelible.

It’s a remarkable true tale of great heroism. It’s also an account of a clash of cultures.

Mary and the Witch’s Flower isn’t quite a masterpiece.... But it’s a joy to look at: a visual adventure, and a continuation of a remarkable legacy

In the end, The Final Year can offer only the perspective of time and history as a consolation.

Forever My Girl doesn’t stray from the formula or do anything revolutionary. But for an audience seeking fluffy, escapist, country music-tinged romance, it’ll hit a sweet spot.

The film is both a gripping and timely celebration of the free press, and, in the remarkable hands of Streep, an exploration of what it meant then (and, perhaps, now) to be a woman thrust into power in an all-male world.

Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread casts a remarkable spell; it wraps around you, like a delicately scented cashmere shawl woven from music and color and astonishing faces.

[Neeson's] impressive physicality, (a tower among men), his rumbly basso-profundo voice and his impressive demeanor give him a natural gravity that allows him to rise above the most absurd material. And he does exactly that in The Commuter.

n the hands of director Adam Robitel, The Last Key hits all the haunted house markers. Lights flicker, flashlights die at inopportune moments, floors creak, and shadowy figures scuttle across the background. But mood is all the film has going for it.

Helms and Wilson are sometimes a stretch as brothers, especially in the more emotional scenes. But Close is majestic as the mother, a supporting role that feels bigger than it is.

Molly’s Game could have been a terrific movie if Sorkin could have edited out 20-30 minutes; as it is, it’s a good movie overstuffed.

It’s just the same movie over and over, until the end of time and everybody dies, in which case “Pitch Perfect 45: A-Ca-Wait-Are-We-Dead?” might be a thing.

If it occasionally feels a little too cinematic, with a few too many obstacles thrown in the way of Gail and her son, so be it. The film’s an impressive accomplishment, on several levels.

Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle is reasonably clever and reasonably diverting.

Guadagnino has explored this territory before...and he’s a master at finding electricity in a glance, beauty in a beam of sunlight, an entire story in the whisper of one name.

The Greatest Showman isn’t interested in tiny stories or character or nuance; it’s about being the biggest. In doing so, it becomes strangely small; like a magician’s rabbit, it quickly disappears.

Darkest Hour is a handsome, old-fashioned film, filled with stirring music, dusty light and thoughtful performances — with one whopper of a star turn at its core.

Perhaps Downsizing needed to be downsized a bit; as it is, it’s an intriguing concept that slips away.

Suggesting a matchup between Archie Bunker and Gracie Allen, Ethel & Ernest is a sweet British memoir/cartoon about an ordinary couple who survive the Blitz along with their growing son.

In other hands, this story could have been lurid and silly. Here, told through Hawkins’ ever-dancing eyes, it’s poetry; some performances don’t need words.

The humor is broad and obvious (yes, Ferdinand winds up in a china shop, with predictable results), but there are a number of scenes that hit the mark.

Last Jedi is deep. It’s also rollicking. It’s right up there with the very first “Star Wars” in terms of its enjoyability factor. It’s a triumph.

It’s just a bad movie; a flat melodrama in which some lovely camerawork and a ferocious central performance from Winslet can’t conceal the rote tiredness of it all.

It’s chilly in Oslo, and in this movie; the better to sneak up on you quietly, like an unexpected shiver.

It’s most evocative as a memorable portrait of a woman, both in youth and late life, who always knew what she wanted — and who, in doing so, helped make the world a better place.

It’s a pleasant Christmas-season offering; both mild (read: family-friendly) and sweet.

Roman J. Israel, Esq., isn’t as good as the performance at its center, but perhaps that’s inevitable.

It’s heart that’s overflowing with love, poignancy, humor, color and music.

McDormand, carrying the movie on blue-denimed shoulders, is a wonder. Every now and then, she lets us see the tiniest crack in Mildred’s anger, through which something flickering shines through.

With its well-drawn characters (a Linklater trademark) and mood of quiet restraint, Last Flag Flying touches the heart at a deep level.