When Xavier Dolan's tremendous empathy for the abandoned, medicated, and economically stressed is given full visual flight, it's easy to get lost in the rush.
Peter Strickland charges full-tilt into the objectifying whims of his fantasies in order to somehow reach the other end of perception.
Rob Cohen's The Boy Next Door flips the gender switch on Fatal Attraction and calls it a day.
Daniel Barnz's film is a study of grief that drowns in a cold bath of grim self-pity.
Philip Roth's original ending is cranked up to 11, flattening the more interesting contours of Al Pacino's performance into a martyr's desperate plea for an audience's love.
As juvenile and frivolous a wish-fulfillment fantasy as one might expect from the visionary behind the lightsaber and Princess Leia hogtied to Jabba the Hut.
It's a quiet thud of a film, which embraces, with grace and precision, the nastiness of growing up with desire stuck in one's throat like a muffled scream.
As much as the film is primarily a genre workout for director Kevin Macdonald, the script makes room for a tough-minded, psychologically corrosive depiction of vengeance.
The film has the requisite iconography of a crime thriller, but no investment in any of it.
The set pieces follow their own insane, unstoppable logic, with each new twist yielding its own outré surprises.
This snapshot of catharsis follows a familiar trajectory, but Kate Barker-Froyland refreshingly resists elevating her characters' relationship to the level of grandiose.
Gabe Polsky's quiet yet welcome achievement is to allow us to see the individual amid the politics, clearly and sympathetically.
An informative, if largely deferent, biographical documentary that tritely explains the ascendancy of Filipino boxer Manny Pacquiao.
Michael Mann's camera elegantly collapses the spaces between bodies and objects without sacrificing spatial coherence.
This big, brash, occasionally clever, but mostly dumb comedy is so gallingly derivative that watching it feels like playing a game of basic-cable bingo.
This insane masterpiece shows the self-destructive properties of myth making and how they overlap with the downfall of a community damned from the beginning of time.
The film is surprising for the way it finds a near-ideal balance between its childlike playfulness and displays of mature wisdom.
Moore and Stewart's artful consideration of familial friction acerbated by disease, and vice versa, nearly saves Still Alice from the banality of its Lifetime-movie execution.
A chronicle the act of labor as both a universal function of life and a spectacle in itself.
Adam Rifkin's documentary convincingly portrays the sense of community fostered by Giuseppe Andrews's crazed passion.
Desiree Akhavan's tale of queer post-breakup funk shows more nuance, and racial dimension, than its cinematic cousins.
Vice takes the basic premise from 1973's Westworld and morphs it into an incoherent slog.
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