Owen Kline’s feature-length directorial debut resoundingly commits to soulfulness.
It never hurts to let this academy feel as though they’re just liberal enough.
Larry Fessenden diagnoses the rot of our era through the shifting personalities and power dynamics of solipsistic men.
If Piercing is mildly disappointing, it’s because it doesn’t go far enough.
Natalie Portman plays the older Celeste like a car revving in first gear, deafeningly loud but scarcely moving.
Humor Me writer-director Sam Hoffman isn’t willing to disrupt his familiar and tightly structured plot.
The main character is too often pushed to the sidelines so that the filmmakers can indulge tired family-drama tropes.
The film largely fails to animate Christine Chubbuck’s inner turmoil, focusing instead on broad, blunt externalities.
There’s a fundamental lack of dramatic exigency in writer-director Puk Grasten’s storytelling.
If its copycat visual artistry illuminates nothing, at least its script is sincerely devoted to probing Finkel and Longo’s odd partnership.
Baumbach lobs jokes a Sturgesian velocity, but much of this cross-generational comedy is frantic and wearisomely superficial.
Ken Urban, adapting his own play, fumbles at injections of urban, and decidedly not urbane, levity, in addition to telegraphing entire subplots.
The best Off Broadway productions so far this year would probably make lousy movies.
The film suggests what might happen if TBS and Bruce Springsteen were to collaborate on a sitcom set in hell.
The film is a throbbing tale of lust and love, an aching chronicle of a relationship’s fall, a heartbreaking account of addiction.
Amy Herzog’s Belleville is most provocatively a conversation of objects.
Tragically, nothing in the film redeems the emptiness of Sean Durkin’s dueling-narrative gimmick.
Nothing could have prepared me for Rapp’s chilling, unrelentingly committed glimpse into dystopia with Nursing.