NEW THIS WEEK (10/24) IN THEATERS, VOD AND/OR ON HOME VIDEO
BLUE MOON--Director Richard ("Boyhood," "Dazed and Confused") Linklater's latest is a quietly devastating portrait of artistry, aging and the cost of leaving one’s creative prime behind. Anchored by a stunningly accomplished performance from Ethan Hawke as Lorenz Hart, the film mostly takes place during one night in 1943 at Sardi's premiere party for "Oklahoma!" The setting, constrained but richly atmospheric, becomes a crucible in which Hart confronts his legacy, regrets and a mounting sense that the world has begun to move on without him. Playing Elizabeth Weiland, a young Yale art student and protégée who becomes Hart’s emotional lodestar, Margaret Qualley brings a luminous, tender quality to their scenes together, balancing innocence and wide-eyed yearning in a character whose hopes mirror and contrast Hart’s own diminishing faith in the future. Their scenes provide much of the emotional grounding; one senses that Elizabeth is both the promise Hart once embodied and a reminder of what he can no longer claim. Andrew ("All of Us Strangers") Scott delivers a nuanced turn as Richard Rodgers, Hart’s long-time collaborator, portraying the love, obligation and sorrow that comes from being tied to someone whose star is fading. Playing a Sardi's bartender and Hart confidant, Bobby Cannavale adds warmth and dark humor, keeping Hart company and occasionally functioning as his moral compass. Linklater allows the night to peel away layer by layer: the dialogue feels lived-in and the silences feel earned. While it may seem claustrophobic at times, it’s precisely that intimacy which makes the themes (loss, longing, irrelevance) cut so deeply. "Blue Moon" is less about the grand arcs of fame and more about the private ones--the moments of hope that flicker after success has passed; the ache of love unspoken or unrequited; and what it means to try to stay relevant after the applause fades. It ranks among Linklater’s most tender, unforgiving works. (A.) https://youtu.be/qo7gRHip0lI?si=w0KHbK5Be3zkd3XX
CHAINSAW MAN THE MOVIE: REZE ARC--Despite the feverish anticipation surrounding this long-awaited cinematic continuation of MAPPA’s hit anime adaptation, the results are disappointingly hollow. Expanding the “Bomb Girl” storyline from Tatsuki Fujimoto’s manga, it reprises Denji and his devil-hunting shenanigans while introducing the mysterious Reze, a café worker with hidden motives. What should have been a tense, tragic love story instead plays like an overextended episode padded with uneven pacing and numbing spectacle. Denji’s internal conflict and Reze’s melancholy edge, so vividly realized on the page, are diluted by clumsy tonal shifts and rushed character beats. The attempt to balance intimacy with carnage also falters; the quieter moments feel perfunctory, and the climactic battles lack the raw immediacy that made the series stand out. While hardcore fans will likely appreciate its faithfulness to the source material, "Reze Arc" doesn’t justify its cinematic canvas. The emotional payoff is thin and the narrative momentum stalls under its own weight. What should have been a devastating, character-driven tragedy becomes a strangely lifeless spectacle, proof that not every arc needs a movie treatment. (C MINUS.) https://youtu.be/tAzAhDNdehs?si=b5mszKgEwcZyvIuR
COYOTES--A wickedly funny horror-comedy blending marital tension and midnight madness in the Hollywood Hills, director/co-writer Colin Minahan's creature-feature stars Justin Long and Kate Bosworth as a couple whose seemingly perfect marriage unravels during the course of one very strange night. When a pack of wild coyotes begins prowling their gated community, the couple’s arguments over career vs. family take on a bloodier, darker tone. Minihan uses the home-invasion setup as a platform for satire, skewering the self-absorbed L.A. lifestyle. The tone juggles between absurdist humor and genuine terror, with the coyotes serving both as literal predators and metaphors for lurking resentments. Slick modern interiors contrasted with primal nighttime chaos add an extra layer of irony, and Minihan stages the scares with tight, nervy precision, relying less on gore than on the primal unease of watching civilization peel away. Balancing scares and laughs without undercutting either, it's a lean, stylish genre film that practically howls with menace and wit. (B.) AVAILABLE TO RENT ON MOST STREAMING PLATFORMS https://youtu.be/mJ26vDXApsc?si=J4e-CzAbXdcEwT1U
FREE TIME--A refreshingly offbeat, empathetic slice of New York indie filmmaking about creative paralysis, friendship and the strange dignity of trying to do nothing in a city that demands constant motion. Drew (Colin Burgess), a thirtysomething office worker who abruptly quits his data-processing job, discovers that unstructured freedom can be as daunting as the daily grind he’s fled. What begins as a familiar premise--a burnout’s search for meaning--unfolds into something looser and more insightful. Drew drifts through a series of gently absurd encounters with friends, ex-colleagues and fellow dreamers, each scene adding texture to his aimless days. Burgess, a longtime collaborator of writer/director Ryan Martin Brown, gives a wonderfully understated performance embodying a man whose existential crisis is both comic and recognizably human. Shot on location
in Brooklyn with natural lighting and unfussy compositions, it has the intimacy and immediacy of lived-in experience. Yet beneath the casual rhythms lies a precise sense of timing and a sharp awareness of how modern anxiety disguises itself as freedom. The dialogue feels improvised but never indulgent, and the unhurried yet purposeful pacing mirrors its protagonist’s tentative steps toward self-acceptance. Brown's screenplay finds humor in inertia and tenderness in failure, balancing irony with genuine compassion. "Free Time" doesn’t offer catharsis as much as it does clarity: the realization that growing up, even belatedly, can mean learning to be okay with uncertainty. It’s a funny, wistful, sharply observed and quietly profound work that announces Brown as a filmmaker attuned to the poetry of indecision and the beauty of simply taking a breath. The Cartilage Films/Kino Lorber DVD includes an audio commentary, bloopers, deleted scenes and behind the scenes footage. (B PLUS.)
KING AND COUNTRY--A work of extraordinary moral clarity and visual precision, Joseph ("The Go-Between," "The Servant") Losey’s 1964 masterpiece remains one of the most searing and compassionate antiwar movies ever made. Set during World War I, it distills the cruelty and futility of institutional authority into an intimate, haunting chamber piece. In the mud and claustrophobic trenches of Flanders, British soldier Private Arthur Hamp (Tom Courtenay) faces court-martial for desertion after walking away from the front lines. Appointed to defend him is Captain Hargreaves (Dirk Bogarde), a disciplined officer whose sense of duty is gradually eroded as he confronts the absurdity of the proceedings. What begins as a perfunctory legal assignment becomes for Hargreaves a devastating reckoning with his own complicity in a system that sacrifices humanity for the machinery of war. Losey directs with remarkable restraint, crafting a film both theatrical and piercingly real. Working with cinematographer Denys Coop, he transforms the cramped dugouts and flickering candlelights into a visual metaphor for moral darkness. The camera’s slow, deliberate movements emphasize physical, psychological and ethical confinement. Courtenay’s Hamp is a figure of heartbreaking simplicity, an ordinary man destroyed by forces beyond his comprehension. Bogarde delivers one of his finest performances, capturing Hargreaves’s painful evolution from officer to witness, from participant to silent dissenter. Their scenes together--tense, tender and quietly tragic--form the emotional fabric of the movie. Losey exposes the inhumanity of bureaucratic systems that disguise vengeance as justice and courage as obedience. Every word and gesture carries the weight of a moral indictment. The austere pace and stripped-down production design heighten the emotional impact; there are no battle scenes, only the spiritual wreckage left behind. 51 years later, "King and Country" endures as a profoundly moving elegy for the forgotten soldier. Lucid, unflinching and deeply humane, it's cinema as conscience. Losey’s achievement lies not in sentiment but in truth, and that truth continues to echo long after the final, chilling fade to black. The KL Studio Classics' Blu-Ray includes an audio commentary by critic/author Simon Abrams; standalone interviews with Courtenay and Bogarde; and the original theatrical trailer. (A.) https://youtu.be/vUTePFlsmnM?si=cciH1BxMr9rJ_P8W
THE MASTERMIND--This departure from director Kelly ("Poor Cow," "Wendy and Lucy") Reichardt's usual minimalist dramas ventures into the heist genre with her signature introspective style. Set in 1970 Massachusetts, it follows James Blaine Mooney (Josh O'Connor), a disillusioned carpenter who orchestrates the theft of four Arthur Dove paintings from a local museum. What begins as a seemingly straightforward burglary quickly unravels, leading to unforeseen complications and a profound existential crisis. O'Connor delivers a compelling performance, capturing Mooney's blend of charm, arrogance and vulnerability. His portrayal adds depth to a man whose misguided ambitions and lack of foresight propel him into an inexorable downward spiral. Alana ("Licorice Pizza") Haim plays Mooney's wife whose growing concern and eventual disillusionment with her husband's actions add a touching dimension to the narrative. The supporting cast, including Hope Davis, Bill Camp, Gaby Hoffman and John Magaro, deliver nuanced turns that enrich the exploration of personal and family dynamics. Reichardt eschews the typical thrills associated with crime movies, focusing instead on the mundane aftermath and psychological unraveling of its protagonist. The understated tone and lack of sensationalism allow us to engage with the characters' internal struggles rather than any external conflicts. "The Mastermind" is a contemplative exploration of ambition, failure and the human propensity to overestimate one's abilities. Reichardt's subversion of genre expectations results in a film that's both intellectually engaging and emotionally resonant, reaffirming her status as a master of character-driven storytelling. (A.)
RAMPAGE--William Friedkin’s film exists in two markedly different forms: a brooding, morally conflicted, long-shelved 1987 director’s cut and the leaner, more conventional version released by Miramax in 1992. Viewed together, they form a fascinating dialectic between artistic conviction and commercial pragmatism, two versions of the same film wrestling with justice, insanity and the uneasy responsibilities of a society that punishes its monsters. Loosely based on a real California murder case, it follows Charles Reece (Alex McArthur), a young man who commits a series of horrific murders. His crimes bring him into the orbit of prosecutor Anthony Fraser (Michael Biehn), a principled man shaken by the brutality of the crimes. When Reece’s defense hinges on an insanity plea, Fraser faces a moral crisis. Is this man evil or ill, and does justice demand retribution or compassion? The 1987 director’s cut is Friedkin at his most introspective. Shot in cold, clinical tones it plays less as a thriller and more as a study of moral erosion. Its ending, bleak and unresolved, underscores Friedkin’s skepticism toward the death penalty and his fascination with the fragility of rational order. The 1992 Miramax cut trims philosophical detours, quickens the pacing and replaces the downbeat conclusion with something tidier. These changes make the movie more accessible and arguably more suspenseful. Biehn’s performance benefits from the tightened structure; his anguish becomes more focused and the courtroom sequences carry sharper dramatic weight. Yet something essential is lost: the sense of a director openly grappling with moral paradox. Still, both versions share Friedkin’s muscular craftsmanship and refusal to sensationalize violence. The murders are depicted with restraint, more horrifying for what’s implied than shown. Ennio Morricone’s haunting score (restored in full for the director’s cut) casts an icy, tragic spell, elevating what might have been pulp into moral inquiry. Taken together, "Rampage" is a study in compromise and conviction, a rare opportunity to see how a master filmmaker’s intentions can be reshaped by commercial pressures without entirely erasing its power. The 1992 release may deliver the story with greater clarity, but it’s the 1987 cut that carries its troubled soul. They remain underrated entries in Friedkin’s oeuvre and provide evidence of an artist unafraid to confront the darkest corners of conscience. The KL Studio Classics' new Blu-Ray includes both cuts as well as two audio commentary tracks (with historians Nathaniel Thompson and Howard S. Berger respectively); standalone interviews with McArthur and true crime writer Harold Schechter; and the original theatrical trailer. (A.)
REGRETTING YOU--Josh ("The Fault in Our Stars") Boone’s adaptation of Collen Hoover's best-selling 2019 novel opens with a car accident that claims the lives of Chris (Scott Eastwood) and Jenny (Willa Fitzgerald) which forces Chris' widow Morgan (Allison Williams) and daughter Clara (McKenna Grace) to reconfigure the pieces of their fractured lives. From that rupture, the film charts shifting loyalties, hidden truths and attempts at reconciliation. Along the way, Clara’s burgeoning romance with classmate Miller (Mason Thames) and Morgan’s unexpected bond with Chris' best friend Jonah (Dave Franco) complicate the narrative. Boone is unafraid to tilt into melodrama, and many scenes carry genuine pathos. Williams handles Morgan’s guilt and anguish with a steady hand while Grace effortlessly captures Clara’s restlessness and ambivalence. The chemistry between Grace and Thames positively crackles, giving their arc real emotional weight. In flashbacks, Eastwood and Fitzgerald add texture to the story's layered past. Unfortunately, some plot turns feel overly schematic as conflicts arrive and resolve with minimal friction. There are stretches, particularly in the second half, where the pacing lags and multiple threads compete without providing a satisfying conclusion. The ending, while emotionally gratifying, wraps up tensions faster than they emerged. Yet Boone still manages to deliver moments of real poignancy, especially in the scenes where mother and daughter confront their deepest, darkest fears. (B MINUS.)
SHARI AND LAMB CHOP--A warm, affectionate tribute to the life and legacy of Shari Lewis, the groundbreaking puppeteer, children’s television icon and voice behind the irrepressible Lamb Chop. Directed by Lisa ("Love, Gilda") D’Apolito, the film traces Lewis's evolution from a precocious Bronx-born performer to a beloved fixture of Baby Boomer childhoods, offering an intimate portrait of her artistry and determination. Blending archival footage with new interviews from family, collaborators and celebrity admirers, the documentary paints Lewis as more than a ventriloquist: she was a dynamic performer, writer and trailblazer in a misogynistic industry that frequently underestimated her talents. Particularly moving are behind-the-scenes glimpses into Lewis' creative process and her fiercely devoted bond with daughter Mallory who carried on Lamb Chop’s legacy. D'Apolito skillfully contextualizes her career in the shifting tides of media, from early educational television to the later cable era, highlighting how Lewis never lost sight of the values she instilled through humor and heart. The story of Shari and her felt companion is not just nostalgic, it’s a reminder of the power of imagination and the enduring impact of a sincere connection between performers and their audience. Whether, like me, you grew up watching Lewis or are discovering her for the first time, this deeply felt celebration of a woman whose legacy continues to resonate is a joyful homage to a timeless figure in the annals of children’s entertainment. (B PLUS.)
SHELBY OAKS--An impressively crafted horror flick that transcends its haunted-house setup to explore guilt, trauma and the corrosive nature of obsession. One of 2025's most atmospheric genre films, it's a slow-burning descent into psychological dread that casts a haunting spell. The story centers on Mia (Camille Sullivan), a woman searching for her missing sister, Riley, who was a member of a ghost-hunting brigade known as the Paranormal Paranoids that vanished years earlier. When eerie video footage surfaces suggesting Riley may still be alive, Mia’s investigation draws her into a nightmarish spiral of conspiracy, supernatural clues and inchoate grief. Chris Stuckmann’s direction balances found-footage elements with traditional narrative filmmaking which gives it immediacy and an emotional undercurrent. Sullivan’s performance helps balance the horror elements, portraying Mia’s emotional unraveling with conviction and nuance. The scares emerge naturally from the characters’ desperation rather than cheap jump scares. A movie about loss disguised as a ghost story, it's a haunting, intelligent debut that marks Stuckmann as a confident new voice within the Cinefantastique universe. (B.) https://youtu.be/fZM-URrBZJE?si=NaZlR2tQXuYtIG7Z
SPRINGSTEEN: DELIVER ME FROM NOWHERE--Based on Warren Zanes' 2023 book, Scott ("Hostiles," Crazy Heart") Cooper’s movie is a soulful, stripped-down chronicle of Bruce Springsteen’s creative reckoning during the making of his seminal 1982 album, "Nebraska." Eschewing the usual biopic flash, Cooper hones in on a few transformative months in 1981 and '82 when Springsteen, fresh from the success of "The River," turned inward to record what sounded like a ghostly dispatch from America’s heartland. "The Bear" Emmy winner Jeremy Allen White inhabits Springsteen with remarkable focus, avoiding impersonation in favor of a quiet, lived-in intensity. His performance conveys both the swagger and self-doubt of an artist reckoning with his fame and his past. Jeremy Strong, as Springsteen's manager and producer Jon Landau, provides an intellectual counterweight--pragmatic but deeply empathetic--while Stephen Graham and Gabby Hoffmann, playing Springsteen's parents, bring gravity and emotional ballast to their roles. Cooper, a director long attuned to masculine melancholy and landscapes that mirror inner turmoil, finds the proper tone here: muted, wintry and reflective. The cinematography captures the chill of small-town New Jersey and the analog intimacy of Springsteen’s home recordings where hiss and silence become as expressive as the music itself. The best scenes unfold in near darkness with the singer hunched over his tape deck exorcising stories of lost souls and backroad drifters that would define the album. Less a traditional rock biography than a study in creative isolation, it's a film about a man who has everything and chooses to strip it all away. With its subdued pacing and emotional candor, it stands as Cooper’s most focused work in years and a moving tribute to Springsteen’s belief that salvation, if it comes at all, must come from within. (A MINUS.)
THE SUMMER BOOK--A delicate, sun-dappled meditation on grief, aging and the small rituals that bind generations, director Charlie ("The One I Love") McDowell's adaptation of Tove Jansson's 1972 novel stars Glenn Close as a quietly formidable woman spending the summer with her six-year-old granddaughter Sophia (newcomer Eliza Pryor) on a secluded island off the coast of Finland. The story unfolds with minimal plot: a series of tender and prickly exchanges between the two as they explore the landscape, mourn the loss of Sophia’s mother and navigate the mysteries of nature and mortality. McDowell favors atmosphere over momentum; the film often feels more like a diary of moods than a conventional narrative. Close delivers a performance of remarkable restraint, capturing both the grandmother’s fierce independence and quiet sorrow. Łukasz Żal's cinematography evokes the serenity and melancholy of the Nordic setting--all glistening waters, pale light and windblown grass. Like a fleeting Scandinavian summer, it’s brief, luminous and tinged with sadness, an elegy for time itself anchored by Close’s wise, weathered presence. (B.) AVAILABLE TO RENT ON MOST STREAMING PLATFORMS. https://youtu.be/8Kwm7x5ainM?si=UZZWUAPZH9QHP3S_
NOW AVAILABLE IN THEATERS, ON HOME VIDEO AND/OR STREAMING CHANNELS:
AFTER THE HUNT--Even though it doesn’t quite stick the landing, Luca ("Challengers," "Call Me by Your Name") Gudagnino's laudably ambitious new film provides Julia Roberts with her most layered screen role in years As Yale philosophy professor Alma Imhoff who finds herself caught between professional expectations, moral quandaries and the burden of past secrets, Roberts carries much of the emotional weight playing a character who's at once intellectually formidable, socially polished and increasingly vulnerable as events rapidly spiral out of control. Accusations against Alma's friend and colleague (Andrew Garfield) by her ambitious, sharp-witted protege ("The Bear" Emmy winner Ayo Edebiri) force her to confront loyalties and a complicity she may not fully understand. Garfield does some of his strongest work here: he's charming, flawed, exasperating and excruciatingly human. Visually and atmospherically, this is very much a Guadagnino joint with sumptuous interiors, lingering close-ups, rich lighting and a Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross score that neatly heightens the tension. Pacing and narrative cohesion prove to be the movie's Achilles Heel, though. Scenes linger long past their expiration date, and certain motivations--particularly Alma’s past and exactly what she knew (or should have known)--feel needlessly murky. The movie raises important questions about power, gender, generational conflict and academic prestige, but does so in a way that sometimes dilutes their impact rather than sharpening them. (B.)
BLACK PHONE 2--Returning to the eerie world he created in his 2021 sleeper, director Scott ("Doctor Strange") Derrickson's follow-up deepens the mythology of the Grabber with greater emotional stakes and a more expansive sense of the supernatural. Rather than merely recycle the original's abduction narrative, this unexpectedly thoughtful sequel examines the lingering effects of trauma and the spectral echoes that refuse to fade. Set four years later, the story finds (Mason Thames) still struggling to move on. His younger sister Gwen (Madeleine McGraw), now entering adolescence, begins to experience vivid dreams and new psychic abilities connected to a series of disappearances at a remote Colorado camp. When the siblings uncover evidence that The Grabber’s malevolent spirit has returned, their search leads them into a wintry nightmare where past and present collide and the black phone once again becomes a conduit between worlds. Working with cinematographer Pär M. Ekberg, Derrickson drapes the film in cold light and shadow and uses the snowbound setting to evoke isolation and unease. The pacing is deliberate, building dread through atmosphere rather than cheesy jump scares. "Black Phone 2" stands as an impressive, often chilling continuation that respects its origins while daring to explore the ghosts left behind. (B.)
THE BURMESE HARP--One of the most luminous achievements in postwar Japanese cinema, Ken Ichikawa's 1956 masterwork is a work of such grace, moral clarity and emotional resonance that it transcends the confines of its wartime setting. Adapted from Michio Takeyama’s novel, the film unfolds in the waning days of World War II as a Japanese unit in Burma, led by the gentle Captain Inouye (Rentarō Mikuni), faces imminent surrender. Among the soldiers is Private Mizushima (Shoji Yasui), a skilled harp player whose delicate melodies serve as a balm for his weary comrades and a bridge between cultures, even in the midst of war’s devastation. After the official surrender, Mizushima is sent to persuade a group of holdout soldiers to lay down their arms. The mission fails, ending in bloodshed and Mizushima—presumed dead—undergoes a profound transformation. Rescued and nursed back to health by Burmese monks, he dons their saffron robes and embarks on a solitary pilgrimage, dedicating himself to burying the countless unclaimed dead strewn across the battle-scarred countryside. His decision creates a haunting absence for Inouye and the others who long to reunite with their friend before returning to Japan. Ichikawa’s direction is quietly impactful, blending the spare lyricism of Kenji Mizoguchi with the humanist tenderness of Yasujiro Ozu. Minoru Yokoyama’s cinematography captures both the lush, rain-soaked beauty of Burma and the spectral stillness of war’s aftermath while Akira Ifukube’s score--interwoven with the recurring folk song “Home! Sweet Home!”--becomes an aching refrain for a homeland lost and perhaps forever changed.What elevates the movie to the realm of the sublime is its refusal to sensationalize conflict. Instead it dwells on compassion, moral duty and the possibility of reconciliation: both with others and within oneself. Mizushima’s journey from soldier to monk is not framed as an escape from responsibility, but as a deepened embrace of it, his devotion to the war dead a quiet act of resistance against the erasure of human lives. By its final, devastating scene when the departing soldiers glimpse Mizushima in his monk’s robes separated by a river they cannot cross, Ichikawa delivers a meditation on loss, memory and spiritual awakening that lingers like a half-remembered prayer. Nearly seven decades later, "The Burmese Harp" still sings, its notes clear and timeless, offering not just a requiem for the dead, but a prayer for the living.The Criterion Collection's 4K digitally restored Blu-Ray includes archival interviews with Ichikawa and Mikuni and an essay by critic/Asian cinema specialist Tony Rayns. (A.)
CARNAL KNOWLEDGE--Mike Nichols' searing, stylish and unflinching examination of masculinity, sexual politics and emotional alienation is crafted with razor-sharp precision and anchored by bravura performances. Written by legendary Village Voice cartoonist Jules Feiffer, this wildly provocative 1971 masterwork strips the romantic veneer from sex and relationships, laying bare the toxic entanglements
and emotional paralysis that often lie beneath. Unfolding over two decades, it traces the lives of two college roommates—Jonathan (Jack Nicholson) and Sandy (Art Garfunkel)—as they navigate their romantic and sexual entanglements from youth into middle age. Jonathan, all smirking bravado and cynical detachment, emerges as the movie's bruised and brutal heart. Nicholson is electrifying, charting Jonathan’s arc from glib womanizer to emotionally hollow predator with chilling nuance. Garfunkel plays Sandy as a more passive and idealistic counterpart, one who cloaks his desires in sensitivity but ultimately proves just as self-serving and deluded. Candice Bergen is stunning in an early role as the woman both men pursue in college. Bergen's Susan hints at the emotional dislocation experienced by women who find themselves trapped in male fantasies and contradictions. Yet it’s Ann-Margret who delivers the most devastating turn as Bobbie, Jonathan’s later lover and live-in girlfriend. She infuses the role with a potent mix of vulnerability and volatility, capturing the deep emotional toll of being tethered to a man incapable of genuine intimacy. Her scenes with Nicholson simmer with tension and heartbreak, and her unraveling gives the film its most wrenching moments. Nichols’ direction is spare but incisive with long takes, tight framing and stark compositions heightening the emotional claustrophobia. Every shot feels purposeful, emphasizing both the erotic charge and the emptiness that define the characters’ relationships. The temporal jumps are handled with remarkable fluidity, conveying how little these men truly change even as the world around them evolves. Visual motifs (mirrors, empty beds, dim apartments) recur throughout, reinforcing the theme of loneliness and spiritual isolation. Unlike traditional romantic dramas of the era (its antithesis, "Love Story," opened a mere six months earlier), "Carnal Knowledge" refuses sentimentality or redemption. Its brilliance lies in its honesty: harsh, at times bitter, but never less than riveting. Nichols and Feiffer dissect male insecurity and entitlement with unflinching clarity, and its commentary on how men use sex as a weapon or shield remains startlingly relevant, retaining its power both as a fearless character study and cultural artifact of shifting gender dynamics. Through its unrelenting gaze and unforgettable performances, it continues to provoke, disturb and resonate. This is one of Nichols’ boldest, most enduring works. The Criterion Collection Blu-Ray includes an audio commentary with director Neil ("In the Company of Men," "Your Friends and Neighbors") LaBute; a conversation between Nichols biographer Mark Harris and critic Dana Stevens; an interview with film-editing historian Bobbie O'Steen (daughter of frequent Nichols editor Sam O'Steen); a 2011 chat between Nichols and director Jason ("Up in the Air," "Juno") Reitman; a Q&A with screenwriter Jules Feiffer; an essay by Harvard literature professor Moira Weigel; and a 1971 "American Cinematographer" article about the look of the film.
(A PLUS.)
THE CONJURING: LAST RITES--In what's purportedly the final chapter of the horror series launched in 2013, retired paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren (Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga reprising their signature roles) are pulled back into the fray to investigate the haunting of Pennsylvania's Smurl family.
Director Michael ("The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It," "The Nun 2") Chaves attempts a more grounded approach this time, but fails to elevate the material beyond mere window-dressing for gore. A committee-written screenplay meanders for 135 interminable minutes offering predictability instead of depth or surprises.
Deprived of any meaningful character arcs, Farmiga and Wilson are merely deployed as haunted house tropes minus any true emotional stakes. The tech credits are polished, but slick visuals and jump scares are unable to compensate for a hollow narrative. While it may satisfy fans craving superficial shocks and/or franchise closure, this underwhelming farewell to the Warrens ultimately rings hollow and fails to live up to its legacy. (C MINUS.)
GOOD FORTUNE--"Master of None" auteur Aziz Ansari plays Azir, a beleaguered social worker whose endless string of bad luck--missed buses, broken appliances, failed romances--has left him chronically disillusioned. One night he meets Gabriel (Keanu Reeves), a celestial emissary in sleek business attire who offers him the chance to switch places with Jeff (Seth Rogen), a cocky, filthy rich tech guy who seems to have it all. When Azir wakes up in Jeff’s body, the fantasy of luxury and power quickly gives way to a moral hangover. Success, it turns out, comes with its own spiritual cost. Aziz ultimately learns that life’s richest rewards aren’t measured in status or possessions, but in perspective. Reeves’s unflappable serenity as the angel provides the movie with an ethereal calm while Rogen milks plenty of laughs from Jeff’s narcissistic bewilderment. Ansari, as both star and writer/director, keeps the story light on its feet, delivering a refreshingly optimistic story about fate, gratitude and what it really means to live a "fortunate" life. (B.)
ISLE OF DOGS--Both a culmination and playful reinvention within his singular body of work, Wes Anderson's stop-motion animated marvel takes the auteur’s long-standing fascination with meticulous design, ensemble storytelling and bittersweet humor into new cultural and narrative terrain. What emerges is a movie that feels quintessentially Anderson yet freshly expansive, a fable with political bite wrapped
in a tender tale of survival. The film is set in a near-future Japan where an outbreak of canine flu prompts the authoritarian Mayor Kobayashi (voiced by Kunichi Nomura) to banish all dogs to Trash Island. At the heart of the tale is Atari (Koyu Rankin), a boy determined to rescue his beloved guard dog Spots (Liev Schreiber). On the island, Atari is aided by a ragged band of exiled pups: Rex (Edward Norton), King (Bob Balaban), Boss (Bill Murray), Duke (Jeff Goldblum) and cynical stray Chief (Bryan Cranston). Their odyssey across mountains of garbage and decaying industry provides the adventure framework where Anderson gently explores the theme of the deep bond between humans and animals. Visually, this is one of Anderson’s most extraordinary achievements. The animation allows him to exert his trademark precision and every tuft of fur, speck of dust and even symmetrical frame bursts with detail. Yet there’s also a tactile grit absent from the gleaming dollhouses of 'The Grand Budapest Hotel" or The Fantastic Mr. Fox." Trash Island is a place of ruin and the textures underscore both the bleakness of exile and the resilience of companionship. Anderson’s oeuvre often circles around outsiders yearning for belonging (the precocious children of "Moonrise Kingdom;" Max Fischer in "Rushmore;" the eccentric family of "The Royal Tenenbaums"). Here that theme is literalized: dogs cast out of society form their own fragile community, their survival tied to trust and cooperation. The movie is also among his most overtly political works raising topical questions about scapegoating, propaganda and the ease with which fear can be weaponized. (Sound familiar?) Yet for all of its darker shadings, it still manages to retain Anderson’s warmth. The voice cast delivers a perfect balance of wit and melancholy with Cranston’s Chief providing the emotional ballast as a creature who has never known devotion until Atari’s quiet persistence breaks through his defenses. The final act, in which friendship and courage triumph over corruption, feels both satisfyingly Andersonian and unexpectedly moving. "Isle of Dogs" affirms Anderson as a director who can evolve while remaining true to his sensibility, melding deadpan humor, heartbreak and visual invention into a masterpiece that's both personal and universal. It may be the Anderson film that most fully marries form and feeling, crafting an ode to loyalty and love from the scraps of exile. The Criterion Collection release includes both 4K UHD and Blu-Ray copies with numerous bonus features. Among them are an audio commentary with Anderson and Goldblum; storyboard animatic; a making-of featurette with animators, puppet makers, modelers, sculptors, set dressers, illustrators and production designers; "Jupiter in the Studio" featuring costar F. Murray Abraham touring the magical set; a video essay by Tony Zhou and Taylor Ramos; animation tests, visual-effects breakdowns and behind-the-scenes and time-lapse footage; an essay by critic Moeko Fujii; and a framable poster by cover artist Katsuhiro Otomo. (A PLUS.)
MISERICORDIA--Set in the sun-dappled countryside of southern France, this unsettling, oddly tender examination of guilt and the uneasy bonds within small communities unfolds with cult director Alain ("Stranger by the Lake") Guiraudie’s signature blend of mystery, dark comedy and sensual unease. The story follows Jérémie (Félix Kysyl), a young man who returns to his hometown for the funeral of his former employer. Planning only a brief stay, Jérémie impulsively accepts the hospitality of the widow Martine (Catherine Frot) whose quiet warmth both comforts and unsettles him. Her son Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand), bristling with suspicion, resents Jérémie’s presence. Their fraught dynamic escalates to a shocking confrontation in the woods where Vincent is killed. In the aftermath, Jérémie finds an unlikely protector in Father Pierre (Jacques Develay), the parish priest, who offers him an alibi in exchange for sexual favors. This morally ambiguous bargain entangles Jérémie further in the town’s web of secrets where desire and suspicion uneasily coexist. The performances help ground the strangeness in emotional truth. Kysyl brings a restless, opaque quality to Jérémie; Frot conveys Martine’s grief and resilience with understated power; Durand makes Vincent’s jealousy both pitiable and threatening; and Develay invests the priest wit anh unsettling gentleness. Cinematographer Claire Mathon frames the village and its surrounding woods with a lyrical menace, turning the pastoral into something charged with hidden danger. Guiraudie uses silence, sudden bursts of violence and sly humor to keep viewers off balance. A richly atmospheric, thought-provoking film, it thrives on ambiguity, asking what mercy means in a world where love, violence and survival are inextricably bound. The Criterion Premieres Blu-Ray features an interview with Guiraudie, the theatrical trailer and notes by critic Imogen Sara Smith. (A.)
ONE BATTLE AFTER ANOTHER--A ferocious, sprawling, profoundly moving epic that blends political satire, action spectacle and emotional intimacy into one of the most audacious films of director Paul Thomas Anderson's brilliant ("There Will Be Blood," "Boogie Nights," "Phantom Thread," et al) career. Ex-radical revolutionary Bob Ferguson (Leonardo DiCaprio) now lives off the grid with his teenage daughter, Willa (Chase Infiniti). Their placid existence shatters when Bob’s past finally catches up with him. Colonel Steven J. Lockjaw (Sean Penn), a former white supremacist cult leader turned militia commander, resurfaces with a vendetta that places Willa in grave danger. To protect his daughter, Bob is forced to reconnect with the remnants of his old activist circle including Willa’s mother Perfidia, (Teyana Taylor), and Deandra (Regina Hall), a former comrade who's become a moral anchor in the fractured movement. Adding to the mix is Benicio del Toro’s Sensei Sergio, a shadowy operator with ambiguous loyalties who helps guide Bob and Willa through perilous underground channels. Anderson orchestrates the (Robert) Altman-esque narrative canvas as a series of escalating chases and confrontations, but the movie never loses sight of its humanity. The action is visceral--car chases and explosive skirmishes are staged with breathtaking precision--yet it's the quieter exchanges between father and daughter that elevate the story. Willa’s growing awareness of her parents’ past misdeeds and sacrifices gives the film its aching heart. Anderson explores how ideals curdle into paranoia, how the weight of youthful conviction lingers into middle age and how love, whether romantic, political or familial, endures despite betrayal and violence. With its stunningly assured melding of spectacle, soul-piercing drama and impeccable performances, Anderson's masterpiece ranks among the decade's premier cinematic achievements. (A PLUS.)
ROOFMAN--Based on the true-life story of former Army Reserve officer Jeffrey Manchester who evaded capture after pulling a string of robberies by living in a Toys "R" Us store, director Derek Cianfrance expertly blends elements of crime, romance and dark comedy. In a departure from his typically somber previous films like "Blue Valentine" and "The Place Beyond the Pines," Cianfrance embraces a lighter, more whimsical tone while still retaining his signature emotional depth. As Manchester, a wildly charismatic Channing Tatum infuses his role with a roguish mix of charm and vulnerability, effortlessly capturing the complexities of a man seeking redemption while grappling with the consequences of his past actions. Kirsten Dunst beautifully complements Tatum as Leigh Wainscott, a single mother and store employee who becomes involved with the titular "roofman," Their off-the-charts screen chemistry helps intensify Cianfrance's exploration of love and trust in the most unconventional of circumstances. By melding "Raising Arizona"-era Coen Brothers' comic absurdism with the blue-collar humanism of early Jonathan Demme ("Citizen's Band," "Melvin and Howard"), it's both rambunctiously entertaining and achingly poignant. (A MINUS.)
SHOESHINE--One of the earliest and most luminous achievements of Italian neorealism, Vittorio De Sica's classic radiates compassion while never flinching from the stark realities of postwar life. Shot in the rubble-strewn streets and cramped interiors of Rome, it tells the story of two inseparable boys--Giuseppe (Rinaldo Smordoni) and Pasquale (Franco Interlenghi)--whose modest dream of buying a horse is derailed by a chain of petty crimes, bad luck and the grinding machinery of institutional neglect. From its opening moments, "Shoeshine" pulses with an almost documentary immediacy. De Sica’s camera finds poetry in the smallest gestures: the boys’ exuberant rides on their horse, the glint of sun on cobblestones, the fragile laughter that survives amid ignominy. Yet this warmth is always in tension with the encroaching coldness of a society more interested in punishment than compassion. When Giuseppe and Pasquale are sent to a juvenile detention center, the movie shifts into a heartbreaking study of friendship under siege: how mistrust, manipulation and desperation can corrode even the strongest bond.The performances drawn from nonprofessional actors are nothing short of miraculous. Smordoni’s mischievous energy and Interlenghi’s quiet dignity create a dynamic so authentic it feels lived rather than acted. De Sica and screenwriter Cesare Zavattini infuse the narrative with a profound humanism. There are no villains here, only people caught in the grip of poverty, bureaucracy and moral compromise. Technically the film is remarkable for its understated beauty. Anchored by Anchise Brizzi’s fluid cinematography, the visuals balance gritty realism with moments of lyrical grace. De Sica avoids sentimentality, allowing the tragedy to emerge organically from circumstance rather than contrivance. Even the smallest supporting roles feel vivid, their individuality painstakingly etched. When "Shoeshine" premiered, it resonated far beyond Italy, earning a special Academy Award for its “high spiritual quality” and helped introduce neorealism to the world. Nearly eight decades later, its emotional power remains undiminished. The final scenes, devastating in their simplicity, remind us that the cost of injustice is not measured only in lost lives, but in broken trust, squandered youth and dreams that dissolve into dust. Tender,unblinking and unforgettable, this is cinema as moral witness, a timeless work of empathy that speaks as urgently today as it did in the ashes of postwar 1946. Extras on the Criterion Collection's digitally restored 4K Blu-Ray include "Sciuscia," Mimmo Verdesca's 2016 documentary celebrating the film's 70th anniversary; a featurette on "Shoeshine" and Italian neorealism with scholars Catherine O'Rawe and Paola Bonifazio; a 1946 radio broadcast with De Sica; an essay by N.Y.U. Contemporary Italian Studies professor David Forgacs; and De Sica's 1945 photo-documentary, "Shoeshine, Joe?" (A PLUS.)
TRON: ARES--Fifteen years after "Tron: Legacy," director Joachim ("Maleficent, Mistress of Evil," "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales") Ronning attempts to reboot the Grid for a new generation of fanboys with a bold collision between the digital and physical worlds. But despite its gleaming surface and grand ambitions, it winds up feeling more like an empty system upgrade than a true evolution. Ares (Oscar-winner Jared Leto), a next-generation Program, is sent into the real world as part of an experimental bridge between artificial and human intelligence. His mission is to test whether digital life can coexist with humanity, a goal quickly complicated by human fear and corporate greed. Greta ("Past Lives") Lee plays Dr. Eve Kim, the scientist overseeing the experiment who begins to question her own ethics as Ares becomes increasingly self-aware. Ryan Murphy stablemate Evan Peters essays Julian Dillinger, a powerful executive intent on exploiting Ares for profit, and Gillian Anderson lends her "X-Files" bonafides as Julian’s calculating mother and ENCOM's matriarch. Visually, it's every bit as sleek as expected; neon circuitry, stylized combat and immersive digital landscapes return in full force. Yet beneath that glittery surface, "Ares" falters. The story’s emotional core never really connects, and the pacing oscillates between bursts of noisy spectacle and long stretches of long-winded philosophical exposition. Leto’s performance feels distant, and the human characters lack depth or truly meaningful arcs. Technically polished but curiously lifeless, it looks extraordinary but feels inert. A dazzling construct that never finds the human spark within its circuitry, this long-awaited sequel crashes short of transcendence. (C.)
TRUTH & TREASON--Set during World War II, the latest Angel Studio release tells the true story of German teenager Helmuth Hubener's moral and spiritual awakening after his Jewish friend is taken away by the Nazis. Helmuth (Ewan Horrocks)
begins his rebellion by clandestinely listening to banned radio broadcasts, ultimately assembling a small resistance group. Though the subject matter carries inherent dramatic weight, director Matt Whitaker's movie falters in execution. Moral urgency overshadows narrative subtlety, leaving little room for ambiguity or reflection. The narrative often feels formulaic, and Helmuth's journey from innocence to resistance is laid out much too transparently, depriving the story of dramatic tension or surprise. Characters appear more as symbols than fully realized individuals, and key relationships--such as those between Helmuth and his peers--lack depth. The pacing is uneven with long stretches devoted to exposition rather than letting conflict unfold organically. While offering a noble message about courage and conviction, the prosaic filmmaking never rises above earnest sermonizing to become truly compelling. (C MINUS.)
TWIN PEAKS: FIRE WALK WITH ME--When "Fire Walk With Me" hit theaters in 1992, audiences expecting a return to the quirky rhythms of the cult television series were instead met with a descent into anguish and darkness. David Lynch’s prequel to the short-lived ABC show defied all conventional expectations of narrative closure or nostalgia. More than three decades later, it stands as one of Lynch’s most audacious and emotionally harrowing achievements. A cryptic prologue follows FBI agents investigating the death of Teresa Banks in the small town of Deer Meadow (a grim mirror image of Twin Peaks itself). These scenes, surreal and jagged, prepare us for the central narrative: the final seven days in the life of Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee), the homecoming queen whose death haunted the town that idolized her. Lynch strips away the folksy eccentricities that characterized the series, leaving only dread, sorrow and flickering hope. In Laura’s world, high school dances and cozy diners are overshadowed by demonic visitations and domestic horror. Sheryl Lee delivers an extraordinary performance, one that feels both raw and transcendent. Her portrayal of Laura as victim, survivor and self-destructive martyr remains one of the greatest thesping turns in Lynch’s canon. Ray Wise, as Laura's father, matches her with a performance of unbearable tension, shifting between manic affection and terrifying violence. Cinematographer Ron Garcia bathes the movie in saturated reds and bruised shadows while Angelo Badalamenti’s score alternates between dreamy jazz and dirge-like lamentations. Together they summon an atmosphere that feels simultaneously supernatural and achingly human. Every frame seems alive with unease: the flicker of a ceiling fan, the hum of electricity, the whisper of wind in the trees. Lynch’s fascination with the boundary between dream and nightmare has rarely felt so intimate or devastating. What distinguishes the film from other horror-inflected dramas is its empathy. Beneath the shrieking surrealism lies a profound compassion for Laura, a recognition of her suffering, her isolation and her desperate attempts to reclaim control of her body and soul. The final moments, widely misunderstood at the time of its release, now read as an act of transcendence, the transformation of tragedy into something luminous and deeply spiritual. Viewed today, it feels less like a franchise extension than a cinematic exorcism. It's Lynch’s most personal and painful work, a masterpiece of emotional exposure disguised as a genre flick. By bringing Laura Palmer to life in all her torment and resilience, Lynch restores dignity to a figure once defined by her death. The result is not merely a prequel, but a requiem: blazing, haunted and unforgettable. The Criterion Collection release includes both a 4K UHD disc as well as a Blu-Ray copy of the film. Extras include "The Missing Pieces," ninety minutes of deleted scenes and alternate takes personally supervised by Lynch; interviews with Lee and composer Angelo Badalamenti; Lynch interviewing Lee, Wise and Grace Zabriskie (Laura Palmer's excitable mom); and excerpts from "Lynch on Lynch," a 1997 book edited by filmmaker/writer Chris Rodley. (A PLUS.)
YOU CAN COUNT ON ME--A masterclass in character-driven storytelling, playwright Kenneth Lonergan's 2000 filmmaking debut is a quietly devastating, richly human portrait of familial bonds, emotional fragility and the complexities of adulthood that ranks among the most affecting American dramas of the early aughts. Anchored by two extraordinary performances from Laura Linney and Mark Ruffalo, it's a small film that continues to resonate with amazing emotional depth. Set in a sleepy Catskills town, the story revolves around Sammy Prescott (Linney), a single mother and bank employee trying to maintain stability for her young son Rudy (Rory Culkin). Sammy's controlled life is disrupted by the return of her estranged brother, Terry (Ruffalo), a drifter with a penchant for self-destruction and a heart that’s too gentle for this world. Their reunion sparks both tenderness and turmoil as they wrestle with shared childhood trauma, diverging life paths and the struggle to truly understand one another. What makes "You Can Count on Me" so remarkable is Lonergan’s refusal to indulge in melodrama. His screenplay is layered with nuance, humor and a deep sense of empathy. The dialogue feels unforced and the emotional beats land with a natural, uncontrived power. As a director, Lonergan favors simplicity, letting his actors’ expressions and silences speak volumes. Linney’s Oscar-nominated performance is revelatory, capturing Sammy’s strength and vulnerability with clarity and grace. Her portrayal of a woman trying to do the right thing—even when she’s unsure what that is—remains one of the finest of her career. In a breakout role, Ruffalo brings a wounded charisma to Terry, creating a character who is infuriating and lovable in equal measure. Their chemistry is undeniable, imbuing their sibling dynamic with history, affection and deep emotional conflict. The supporting cast brings additonalrichness without detracting from the core brother/sister relationship. Matthew Broderick is hilarious as Sammy’s neurotic boss and Culkin gives a tender, unaffected performance that deepens the emotional stakes. With wit, honesty and compassion, Lonergan captures the messiness of real life, how love coexists with frustration and how connection, albeit imperfect, remains a lifeline. It’s that rare drama that feels both specific and universal. Included on the Criterion Collection's Blu-Ray are Lonergan's audio commentary; new interviews with Lonergan, Linney, Ruffalo and Broderick; an essay by playwright Rebecca (Pulitzer finalist "The Glory of Living") Gilman; and the script of the original one-act play the film was based on. (A.)
---Milan Paurich
