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Being a Dungeons & Dragons neophyte, I have no doubt a lot of things went clean over my head. But that doesn't stop this being far and away the most accessible adaptation we were probably going to get.

The whole cast, particularly Chris Pine and Regé-Jean Page, is on point, knowing exactly what kind of movie they're in and finding the right semi-serious notes to play. Cinematography is fantastic, particularly an early chase scene that nearly convinces you it was done in a single take. Action scenes are constructed well enough that the CGI enhances rather than overwhelms, as it should. The plot nails the tone of a actual campaign you might come up with, narratively simple while bringing a decent level of depth and heart to every character, and there are just enough meta references to wink at without becoming self-satisfied nor alienating casual viewers.

The humor is broad to the point of being childish at times, and I was feeling the two-hours-and-change by the third act, but this is still a winner by most standards, unlikely to set off a franchise but sure to find a comfortable niche and devoted audience.

The Coen brothers' take on classic noir retrains their droll sensibilities while also being one of the most emotionally nuanced things they've ever done. Sure, there are still touches of their absurdist humor now and again (one pivotal scene feels like it was directed by David Lynch), but otherwise the tragedy of the man who would have been just fine being the barber is wonderfully understated, buoyed by an excellent cast and characteristically brilliant cinematography by Roger Deakins. Every genre trope you could conceive of seems to make an appearance, but filtered through their unique vision it somehow feels a little fresh again.

Perhaps one of the most underrated of the duo's diverse canon.

I can see how Atticus Finch goosestepping and heiling might have been off-putting to contemporary audiences. But while Gregory Peck can't exactly be called an actor with range, he does make one hell of an impression as the fanatical Josef Mengele.

Or maybe he's just enjoying the opportunity to let loose. Everyone else seems to be.

Mengele's plan to birth clones of Hitler is a beyond loopy premise, but director Franklin Schaffner - several years removed from the similarly heightened worlds of Planet of the Apes and Patton - plays it with as straight a face as he can muster, at least until the next utterly mad thing happens. He's aided immeasurably by Jerry Goldsmith's bombastic score, which has all the pomp and absurdity to lift this into the realm of near-satire.

It also helps that there's an excellent cast in on the joke. Damn near every scene features at least one "it" actor from classic British cinema (there's Tim Burton's Alfred! There's Marcus Brody!) who sell the material with everything they have. The biggest draw is, of course, Sir Laurence Olivier as a wry, aging Nazi hunter determined to see Mengele stopped (the polar opposite of his previous role in Marathon Man). The film's worst misstep, albeit out of necessity, is to have its two stars meet only once and, while Peck comes out swinging with his ham bone, Olivier is rendered nearly silent.

Okay, I jest. In truth, however, it becomes clear after a while that the cast and crew's commitment isn't enough to do justice to the plot. There are too many moving parts, too many (underdeveloped) characters, and in its struggle to fit all this in two hours the film occasionally loses some of its mad energy and becomes merely functional. James Mason suffers the most in this regard; his role is practically an extended cameo and all he really does is tell Peck off for being reckless again and again. The third act in particular feels truncated, as if a lot of story material had to be handwaved away just to keep things coherent. It's not that the film could have used more time to tell its story, it's that it probably should have had a little less story to tell.

Still, overstuffed is hardly a sin worth condemning a film for, particularly one as agreeably off-kilter as this. It's the kind of prestige picture that doesn't often get made anymore, and for that alone it carves out a specific little niche in film history.

If His Girl Friday is the quintessential screwball satire of the media, one that gives you permission to laugh with as much as at it, Ace in the Hole couldn't be more its polar opposite, a fierce, borderline hateful parable that rubs your face in its lurid sensationalism and dares you to be amused.

Chuck Tatum's quest for the fame he's long deserved plays right into Kirk Douglas's wheelhouse of compelling jerks (not unlike son Michael, really), his magnetic charisma driving the film almost single-handedly even as he abruptly slaps a woman to make her cry because tears suit his manufactured narrative, or browbeats a contractor into taking longer to save a man trapped in a mine, every extra day ensuring another front page headline.

He's a Trump figure with something like genuine cunning, and worst of all his audience is just as gullible, just as willing to eat up his lies so long as they're allowed a spot on the train to glory. Story matters little when spectacle looms so large, and Tatum lives for the spectacle of so-called "human interest."

The toxic power of the written word has rarely been as potent as when wielded by Billy Wilder, who cuts right to the bone and would take the whole limb if he could. His work is legendary because he fearlessly dove into any genre, took whatever material he was given and calibrated it for maximum punch, striking the funny bone just as often as the heart. Unjustly dismissed when it was first released, this has undergone a much deserved reevaluation in the years since and, perhaps most distressing, has turned out to be not only prescient but continually relevant.

As long as the Chuck Tatums of the world exist, so too will the seemingly fluid and even abstract nature of the truth, and all the ways it can be bent - or broken.

For some reason I'm experiencing a resurgence in my love for Stephen King, having dedicated most of my late teens and twenties to his books before falling off for several years. Not that there's ever a bad time to get (back) into King, but it feels just a bit random. Then again, so is life, which is probably how we got the most normal film David Cronenberg ever made until he went more or less mainstream with A History of Violence. While there's very little of his penchant for body horror here, it maintains that distinctly Cronenbergian chill of otherworldliness.

As with most feature-length King adaptations it's forced to greatly streamline the plot and characters, which results in a lot of scenes feeling rushed and dialogue that's clearly doing the work. But what Cronenberg, of all people, really captures is the pervasive sadness and tragedy of Johnny Smith's life. It's there each time Christopher Walken monologues about how his so-called "gift" has cost him any chance at happiness - even in hammier moments, one of Walken's best, most restrained performances. It's in every note of Michael Kamen's haunting score, infusing the snowy landscapes with looming dread. It's there in the episodic nature of the plot, one bad turn after another until Johnny's inevitable meeting with a fate even he can't accurately predict.

While dated in some ways (others, sadly, rather prescient), this continues to stand as one of the best big-screen adaptations of King not made by Frank Darabont or Rob Reiner. You'd think with so many stories to adapt, and so many talents trying their hand at it, the batting average would be a lot higher. But I guess the secret to finding that sweet spot is somewhere in...well, you know where.

Is it possible to be nostalgic for a film you hadn't actually seen? When I was in fourth grade my best friend at the time and I loved role-playing as Ethan Hunt and one of his sidekicks (whose name we couldn't remember). Of particular interest was who would fly the helicopter and who got to sit in the back with Nyah.

Turns out that was more memorable than the actual film.

After the biggest (arguably only) success of his Hollywood foray in Face/Off, it made sense to hook John Woo's operatic mayhem up with the only Hollywood actor crazy enough to not only equal but exceed it. Tom Cruise, who stops at nothing for the sake of entertainment (even reality), had a decent idea in crafting M:I as an anthology series, each film having a different director and tone. Unfortunately, it became clear that Woo wasn't suited to the challenge, and a host of other issues turned this into an interminable slog of an ego trip. The series would course-correct in time; Woo's American career did not.

Having the writer of Chinatown should bring with it certain standards, until you realize this was the point where Robert Towne settled into a groove of writing Cruise films. As such the plot's flimsy, cobbled-together nature is practically on-brand, but still inexcusable for a film running over 2 hours. Of course, much of that is the fault of Woo, who has nearly half the film run in slow-motion. It's trying hard for operatic drama but the foundation just isn't there, making it look more overblown than usual.

Cruise, who has made Hunt his signature character (two films 35 years apart does not a Maverick make), plays him as a smug force of will, always in control of the situation even when he obviously isn't. Coming between his incredible turn in Magnolia and a hot streak starting with Vanilla Sky, it's surprising how little emotion Cruise musters here, even when you acknowledge the tripe they had him say - his mullet might be the most expressive thing about him. Thandiwe Newton is similarly afflicted by the script, having the added disadvantage of being little more than the love interest. Dougray Scott was forced to give up Wolverine for this and Ving Rhames' presence is wasted on cheesy one-liners. In fact the only person who looks like they're having fun is Anthony Hopkins, blessed with minimal screentime and all the quotable lines.

But we go to Woo films for the action, and it must be said that Cruise at least comes alive in these scenes. However, with the exception of the climactic motorcycle chase what's here is surprisingly tame. Sure, there are crazy stunts and plenty of gunplay, but little of the wild unpredictability Woo brings to his best work (not to mention the gunshots sound terribly wimpy). It feels like it's constantly trying to escalate but takes too long figuring out how, instead settling for boilerplate noise most of of the time. Particularly annoying is how Cruise - the movie's star, I know - is relentlessly flattered by the shot choice and editing to everyone else's expense, particularly in the beach fight and all those absurd flying kicks. Woo may have been wrong for the material, but he was perhaps too right for Cruise.

M:I II marks the beginning of the end for Woo in Hollywood, and it's difficult to see that as a bad thing. Even his best work there couldn't reach the giddy heights of his Hong Kong days, which he has since struggled to recapture. Perhaps the upcoming remake of The Killer will be a return to form, but I remain cautious in my optimism.

Who would have thought Kenneth Branagh had this much sentimentality in him?

A semi-autobiographical tale of growing up with chaos just around the corner, Belfast is certainly the most personal thing he has ever done, and that ring of authenticity pulses underneath every moment of its surprisingly fleet running time. But then it goes and reminds you it's a Kenneth Branagh film, and for as much as he tries to rein in his tendencies, he can't help but be himself.

I'm honestly unsure how to critique this, because it's such a confused and even contradictory thing. Does depicting the era through the eyes of a child who can't grasp just how momentous the things happening around him are excuse how superficially the heavier themes are tackled, if at all? Does the warmth and naturalism of the performances (Ciarán Hinds in particular) paper over how little we ultimately come to know some of the main characters? Does the fickleness of a child's memory explain why the plot flows so erratically, with so many musical montages that seem to lead nowhere? I don't know the answer to any of these. I do know that Branagh's penchant for long takes and artful cinematography means he can't get out of his own way at times, but that's a given this far into his career. It feels like Ireland's version of To Kill a Mockingbird, but with little understanding of why that is among the definitive statements of its point in history. And yet there's that authenticity, always lurking.

Well, if Branagh the showman can't quite meet Branagh the sentimentalist halfway, I suppose that's the best we can ask for.

In my review of Dunkirk, I praised Christopher Nolan's commitment to getting original ideas on movie screens. I probably should also have mentioned his commitment to keeping movie theaters open, because if there's one movie that should be seen in engulf-o-vision, it's definitely Tenet. Not just because it's a defining example of Nolan's idiosyncratic crafting of visuals and sound to create an awe-inspiring spectacle, but you can't pause or turn on subtitles - and thus have no time to stop and actually wonder what the hell it is you're watching.

I could argue, like many have, that this is Nolan's take on a Bond film, but he's so determined to complicate it with heady concepts and off-kilter action scenes - trying to turn substance into spectacle - that any logical throughlines are quickly obliterated. The plot ultimately does make sense on its own terms, but the telling of it never engaged me the way his best films have while also feeling like puzzles to be solved. It's more exciting than Dunkirk, but somehow even more impersonal, because this time Nolan can't hand wave away his weaknesses with characterization. Not giving John David Washington's protagonist a name seems like an in-joke until you understand it's indicative of how little anyone was interested in him as a human.

Once again the actors are the ones bringing these archetypes to life, yet Nolan continually undercuts them with mountains of exposition needed to make sense of anything, to the point that few if any impressions are made. Elizabeth Debicki gives her rather thankless role everything she has, but the clear MVP is Robert Pattinson, infusing his sidekick with a dash of wry humor the film desperately needed to offset its crash-course intellectualism.

To be clear: there are few directors working today with the level of inventiveness and sheer craftsmanship that Nolan has, which can never not be a good thing. But it has come at an increasing cost of anything recognizably human, and when I said that was a compromise I'd accept up to a point, I hadn't yet realized Tenet comes dangerously close to going past that.

Perhaps the best possible combination of Christopher Nolan's maximalist sensibilities and minimalist roots, Dunkirk is a triumph of aura and spectacle, keeping his flaws as a screenwriter in check by making characterization nearly irrelevant in the greater context of history.

If we care about these characters at all it's because of the actors, not anything they actually do or say. I couldn't name a single character apart from Tom Hardy's pilot or Barry Keoghan's sailor boy, but they did more with their voices (literally in Hardy's case) and faces than Nolan's functional dialogue could ever muster. On some level this is a necessary evil; telling the events of one day from three perspectives, combined with his characteristic non-linear approach, leaves very little time for arcs or development, and so the primary focus is the scale.

And as everyone knows, Nolan has become a consummate craftsman of scale. The cinematography, the sound design, the editing - all are impeccable, effortlessly conveying the chaos and terror of war without succumbing to sentimentality or corny theatrics. Some shots, like the Spitfire finally landing on the beach, are simply breathtaking.

I don't think Nolan will ever make a film that replaces "Memento" as my favorite. But this is almost certainly the best of his original big-budget works, making what it excels at shine brightly and turning what it doesn't into solid support rather than an obvious deficiency. For a director who remains committed to new ideas, that's a compromise I can live with (up to a point).

I bought this in a Criterion flash sale because I'd heard comparisons to "Vanishing Point," which is one of my father's favorite road movies. They couldn't be less alike if they tried.

Okay, maybe that's not entirely accurate. Both are 70s cross-country metaphors for the existential crises the nation was mired in, with characters more archetypical than flesh and blood and no shortage of sweeping landscapes. But where "Vanishing Point" expresses itself through relentless momentum and hints of the supernatural, "Two-Lane Blacktop" is pared back to the most basic of basics. Aimlessness is practically the entire plot, with racing scenes that feel like an afterthought; it was never really about who wins or loses. The dialogue sounds unnatural because the characters (all unnamed) aren't really saying anything, which suits the stiff, almost mumbling performances (with the obvious exception of a gregariously insecure Warren Oates). The film literally stutters to a stop and combusts at the end, as if banishing itself back to whatever limbo from which it emerged.

A fascinating, detached glimpse into an era of uncertainty. You may not know where you're going, but to stop is to surrender to that overwhelming air of malaise, and that just isn't possible.

"The Train" is really two films spot-welded together to form a great shambling hybrid.

One is a rumination on the value of art and the power it holds over man, to the point they would sacrifice everything and everyone for it. This is the film Arthur Penn envisioned when he signed on, with the titular train not even leaving the station until 90 minutes in. So of course he got fired after a few days.

The other, the one John Frankenheimer railroaded into theaters for the price of final cut and a Ferrari, is a slam-bang action machine that turns the art into a near MacGuffin. To be fair, the philosophical aspects still play a major part, particularly in a brilliant final scene. But what people wanted to see - and Burt Lancaster wanted to give them - was a taste of chaos as his French resistance fighter messes with Paul Scofield's Nazi and his stolen art fetish. And Frankenheimer more than stepped up.

CGI might be the cheaper and safer way to do special effects, but nothing can ever match the awe, the legitimacy of things done live. Everything that gets bombed to pieces in glorious wide-angle black-and-white is real. Every train crash, some in frightening proximity to the camera, is real. Lancaster looks exhausted because he damn well is exhausted after log-rolling down that hill, and Scofield looks grotesque when his sweat-drenched face contorts in pure Aryan rage as he heedlessly pays the price of his obsessions. More than anything, The Train has a tangible feel of danger, of exertion, of scale. Wars aren't won in grand charges and passionate rallying cries; they're won through force of will and sweat and blood, maybe even tears as machines literal and allegorical run right over everything in their way. And they're never without appalling cost. Who cares about the art compared to the lives thrown away in its service?

If the film sacrifices some emotional complexity for two hours and change of relentless spectacle (and is almost certainly not how the real events occurred), that spectacle embodies its own brand of emotion. It's exhilarating cinema, the sheer muchness of it all up there on the screen. This is the kind of film that will almost certainly never be made again - we've largely forgotten how with all the shortcuts and alternatives and drive toward safe profits. And cinema is the poorer for it.

A superbly-acted adaptation of Sarah Waters' novel, hobbled somewhat by the tacky mid-2000s BBC aesthetic (the editing is almost spastic at times) and the sense that 3 hours was somehow both too much and not enough time to tell this tale. Then again, "The Handmaiden" - which I've yet to see - is nearly as long. Maybe it finds the right balance.

The incredible chemistry between Sally Hawkins and Elaine Cassidy carries the first episode, so of course the second can only suffer in comparison, but what I really wanted was time for scenes to breathe and unfold. There's so much plot to cover that the pace becomes frantic, with increasingly loopy twist upon twist, when all I care about is seeing these two find each other (again). Every furtive glance, every time they dare to even try being honest with their words, is more riveting than who is conning who at any given moment.

Back when I reviewed "Portrait of a Lady on Fire," I suggested that no film in the English language could ever evoke the feel of love and passion the way the French do. (Get outta here with your BS, "Ammonite.") This is not the exception to that rule, but damn if it doesn't come close.

I seem to have a knack for stumbling upon obscure little movies, which is how I ended up watching this entry in the Canon of Dacascos. Some endorsement, I know, but this surprised me for a low-budget actioner in a decade rampant with them.

The plot, with its blatant chess metaphors and convoluted twists, is a lot of nonsense, as is par for the course. However, now and again the script shows flashes of genuine intelligence and attention to detail that offset the boilerplate dialogue. Even at just under 100 minutes it drags a few times - a couple of action scenes back-to-back followed by stretches of exposition - but never becomes outright boring. Those action scenes are fairly routine affairs, with a bit too liberal use of John Woo level slow-mo. However, there are a couple good uses of pre-Matrix bullet cam, even if the effects haven't dated very well.

Mark Dacascos has always had an interesting screen presence without being much of an actual actor. Fortunately, the movie recognizes this and surrounds him with a strong supporting cast, including a delightfully hammy Tony Todd and vets Graham Greene and the late John Neville. Unfortunately, it also doesn't play to his strengths - there are only a couple of fight scenes, which are not only painfully brief and sloppily edited, there's a sense they aren't even necessary. The role doesn't embarrass Dacascos in any way, but it's not particularly suited to him either. A pre-Matrix Carrie-Anne Moss does decent work as a co-lead, even if the script isn't particularly interested in her as a character either. Todd gives the best performance in a walk, by virtue of not caring how far over the top he's going or how often his exaggerated accent just kinda wanders off.

This is an efficient enough time-waster that functions best as a stepping stone for its two leads to bigger and better things. It's kind of the same for viewers: there are definitely better and worse action films out there, and this does a decent job bridging the gap.

Nothing and no one in this demented attempt at neo-noir makes enough sense to be worth caring about, but that doesn't mean it's entirely devoid of pleasures. Let me list a few:

1) Lena Olin laughing maniacally while garroting Gary Oldman.

2) Lena Olin laughing maniacally while choking Gary Oldman with her legs as he's driving.

3) Lena Olin kicking a high heel over her shoulder with exquisite precision. *chef's kiss*

4) 90% of Lena Olin's outfits basically ending at her waist.

5) Gary Oldman screaming in terror at the sight of Lena Olin.

Anyone impressed by Richard Gere's turn as an amoral lawyer in "Chicago" clearly didn't see him play a suave, sociopathic beat cop getting down and very dirty with the hot-tempered Andy Garcia. He's so good at making this vile charmer come to life it's kind of terrifying.

A brutal procedural that is both deeply weird and really sketchy with its seuxal politics, yet somehow fascinating in its approach. Every cop aside from Laurie Metcalf is a mentally-unbalanced screw-up. The department attempting to police itself just reveals how insular and self-righteous it is. In the end it's less about truth and justice so much as bruised male egos kicking each other. Worth seeing for how good Gere is at being bad, if nothing else.

No one, I suspect, will ever better, or even equal, the French at conveying passion through the language of film. There is more of it in a single look between the two leads of this than a hundred love scenes, or a thousand witty declarations. This reminds us just how alive art can be.

The late Rutger Hauer taught me that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Who'd have thought, an educational hitman movie. Thank you, Mr. Hauer. Thank you for everything.

Oh, and Ethan Hawke, even high out of his mind on coke and self-loathing, gives this Z-Grade "John Wick" such soul. Congrats, sir. Now you owe me another "Before" movie.

I don't consider myself an Earper, but the fact that I follow this show at all is a step up from my usual apathy.

Look, objectively Wynonna Earp is not a particularly great show. The dialogue is deeply cheesy and often terrible. The special effects are atrocious. And season four has developed the unfortunate habit of winking to its fans a little too often.

And yet, the whole thing has such effusive love both in front of and behind the camera that I can't help but be caught up by it. The actors are clearly having the time of their lives with goofy material, and that enthusiasm is infectious. WayHaught is one of the best ships in recent memory not just because it's fairly well-written, but because Dominique Provost-Chalkley and Katherine Barrell are clearly invested in their characters and doing right by them. And no matter how corny or ridiculous Wynonna's antics become, Melanie Scrofano anchors the show with her fearless performance.

In short, the definition of guilty pleasure TV. Give it at least the first five episodes to hit its stride and don't take it too seriously - it certainly doesn't - by then you won't even think about looking back.

"Assassins" occupies a strange and strangely brief period in Sylvester Stallone's career. In the midst of the over-the-top antics of "Demolition Man" and the...over-the-top antics of "Judge Dredd," he made two films about Brooding Men of Action lured into One Last Job where they happen to Fall In Love and wonder What It's All For. Sure, Ray Quick likes to blow things up real good while Robert Rath just has a silenced .22, but now we're splitting hairs. The major difference is that while "The Specialist" soon turned into the ridiculous actioner most of Stallone's output embodies, "Assassins" tries to be a quieter (literally), more grounded thriller. Sadly, that does not make it a better, or even good, film.

It does make an interesting first impression, though. The opening scene is striking, a black-and-white montage that feels abstract in its construction - a lot of emphasis on ticking clocks and cloudy skies. It's almost totally disconnected from the movie we end up getting, which only makes it more memorable. Perhaps if things had continued in that vein, it might have been onto something. But then it remembers it's a Stallone film.

"Assassins" is somehow both incredibly simple and far too convoluted for its own good, but the basic premise is a cat-and-mouse game between Stallone's weary veteran Robert Rath and crazy young upstart Miguel Bain for the presumably venerated position of #1 killer in the...country? World? Other stuff happens, like a MacGuffin courtesy of hacker gal Elektra, but whatever. At 132 minutes, the film is far too long for the amount of plot it actually contains, with at least two scenes that achieve absolutely nothing beyond padding. Richard Donner, shepherd of the "Lethal Weapon" franchise, is out of his depth here - his action scenes alternate between silly and unremarkable, and his usual flourishes - blurry slow-mo, highly-destructive car chases - feel out of place. He's very much a more-is-more director, which is the wrong approach for this material, and it shows.

Of course, it all comes back to the script. Reportedly, the original draft by the Wachowski siblings was thrown out and completely rewritten by "L.A. Confidential" and "Conspiracy Theory" scribe Brian Helgeland, at Donner's behest. If so, Helgeland delivered something that neither plays to Donner's strengths nor contains any of the siblings' quirky flair. For example, in the original draft (which you can find a link to on Wikipedia) there is a chess metaphor that recurs throughout, symbolizing Rath's relationship with his mentor, Nikolai. Helgeland gives this a perfunctory mention - in the middle of a car chase, no less - and it amounts to nothing in the end. A major twist would have been more effective if it made more sense, or wasn't dismissed almost immediately. Half-formed story beats are probably the least of its problems, anyway.

Acting-wise, it has even more parallels with "The Specialist." Stallone, trying his hand once again at a more dour, repressed version of his usual persona, has the brooding look down, but falters badly when trying to inject a (terrible) one-liner. It's a vague glimpse of his superb work in "Cop Land," but stunted by his attempts to also be the action star. Moore, whose career would soon take off with "The Lost World" and "Boogie Nights," is similarly hamstrung by the material she's given. There's none of the depth of emotion she brings to her best roles, but then, Elektra has none of the depth of character that Moore's usual roles do. Hey, you gotta pay the bills somehow.

No, as with James Woods in "The Specialist," it's the bad guy who wins out. Miguel Bain, like everyone else, is barely a character, but Antonio Banderas infuses him with such manic, live-wire energy that he overcomes the trite dialogue and wobbly tone to be the best thing about the film. To its credit, Banderas is given free reign to go way out to lunch, and while he can't possibly save it, he definitely carries it.

"Assassins" is best considered an oddity in the careers of just about everyone involved. It's not what you'd expect from Stallone, Donner or Moore, and it might be worth seeing as an attempt for each to stretch themselves - though all would have better success with later work. As for Banderas, it's definitely one of his most entertaining turns, though not enough to raise this above a last-resort recommendation. If you're a film enthusiast, compare the Wachowskis' and Helgeland's drafts on Wikipedia, and try to envision the film this might have been. It can't have been any more confused about itself.

There's a term in film studies, the "auteur theory." It's to film directors what a modus operandi is to criminals: a distinct way of doing things that readily identifies a work as theirs. One of the best modern examples is Guillermo del Toro. Even in commercial fare like the "Hellboy" series and "Pacific Rim," there's a giddiness and fascination with the bizarre and grotesque you won't find from any other director. The only one who comes close is probably David Cronenberg, yet where he is more of a cold observer, del Toro is clearly having the time of his life. Which is why "Crimson Peak," a film I saw for the first time last night, was a bit of a disappointment.

To be fair, this is not a horror film. Del Toro considers it a gothic romance, and despite his usual trademarks - insect imagery, unique creatures, religious symbolism - there's very little to actually fear in "Crimson Peak." And that's fine - del Toro is so skilled a director it's exciting to see him branch out as he did with "Hellboy" and "Pacific Rim." However, he holds onto his most cherished genre just enough that I couldn't help but feel something was missing.

It is not the visuals - Dan Laustsen, filling in for regular del Toro cinematographer Guillermo Navarro, is just as consummate a stylist, and the house is arguably the most eerily beautiful set of all his creations. I do wish, though, that the editing had been a little less choppy - it threw off the pacing of several scenes and made the film, even at two hours, feel rushed at times. Not the acting, either - while Tom Hiddleston and Charlie Hunnam were a bit stiffer than I expected, Mia Wasikowska is compelling, while Jessica Chastain outshines everyone. It has all the ingredients required for a good creepy romp. So what, then?

Perhaps this - one of the greatest strengths of any given del Toro film is not just the visuals but the inventiveness. Unless you're totally in tune with his sensibilities, you can't possibly predict what insane thing will happen next. There's not much of that here. Except for one late twist, the story is surprisingly simple, and at one point I felt as if I were waiting for the characters to catch up. Again, this being a homage to a bygone era of filmmaking, it's understandable, but in terms of plot and tone I surprised myself by thinking this was del Toro going through the motions. The ghost story itself is strangely rote, the human drama melodramatic but ultimately unremarkable. Perhaps the most egregious moment was a sex scene between two relatively normal adults. I mean, come on! What is healthy, conventional sex doing in a Guillermo del Toro movie? Where are the fish men and their hidden appendages?

Okay, I kid. I don't believe it's possible for del Toro to make a truly bad film, or at least one not worth watching. He's a visual genius, and his basic concepts are almost always refreshingly original, even when riffing on old genre tropes. Here, though, seems to be an instance when his eccentricities aren't equaled by the plot they are in service of. Still, even conventional del Toro shows more ingenuity and genuine enthusiasm than the vast majority of Hollywood, and for this reason Crimson Peak is still well worth seeing. Just don't expect to be in as much awe as you're used to.

I rewrote my initial review so often that imdb stopped accepting the edits. But I never felt I adequately expressed my thoughts on "Submission." So:

Meet Ted Swenson (Stanley Tucci), who saw himself as a writer and proved it with his bestselling (semi-autobiographical) debut. The next never came, so he's settled for Creative Writing tenure at some prestigious New England college. Witness his misery: a class of shallow hipsters who write about screwing dead animals and trash each other endlessly; a faculty of stuffy pseudo-intellectuals; a daughter he can't understand. Oh, his wife Sherrie (Kyra Sedgwick), the school nurse, loves him for who he is. But she just doesn't get his plight.

Enter Angela Argo (Addison Timlin), the punkish student who never shows her work and hardly talks. One day she approaches Ted - whose book, you know, Saved Her Life - and asks for his opinion on her novel in progress. And what a novel, Ted thinks. Here is someone with true talent, something new to say. None of that screwing dead animals bullshit; here's the story of a young woman fantasizing about her science teacher - and acting on it! My God! Genius! Ted must nurture this work for Angela's sake, and before long, he must nurture the troubled Angela as well. Or so he thinks.

If you can't guess where this leads, you're the right audience for "Submission," a drama about a tricky teacher-student relationship, and maybe a satire - like the source novel, Francine Prose's "Blue Angel" - on the perils of sexual harassment on college campuses. That might have been funny back in 2000, when the novel debuted. But right now we're in the middle of a thing where it's no laughing matter.

That isn't the film's fault. It was filmed in 2015-16 and made the festival rounds early last year before finally getting a small release this March, arriving in a landscape no one, certainly not writer-director Richard Levine, could have anticipated. What does this timeliness do for "Submission"? Very little, really. Much as it wants to start a conversation on harassment, it's also aiming for "Disclosure" and any given student-teacher drama. Guess which works best?

Satire as a genre thrives on broad strokes, and "Submission" obliges (perhaps the book too, I can't say). Angela's novel is titled "Eggs," with obvious connotations, so eggs feature in several scenes. A faculty dinner becomes a discussion of how kids these days are snowflakes who won't hesitate to cry rape; cue a haughty rant by Ted. "Blue Angel" was based on a 1930 German film of the same name, so Ted watches it for the parallels with his own dilemma. Chekov's Tooth - you'll like that one. However, Levine also wants his serious, mature drama, and nearly everything else about the film - direction, cinematography, music - is quiet and restrained, causing a dissonance in which the attempts at irony falter. The plot is also rote; there may still be some fresh way to tell this story, but Levine doesn't find it, nor anything notable to say about sexual harassment.

If "Submission" has one definite virtue, it's the lead performances. Even as the film can't decide what it wants to be they anchor it, lending weight and complexity where it otherwise wouldn't exist. In fact, I'd go so far as to say they're the only reason to watch this.

Ever since his breakout role on "Miami Vice" thirty years ago, Stanley Tucci has been a strong, reliable actor in a broad range of work. His Ted, with a toupee that calls to mind Stephen Colbert and garish scarves, is a guy who can't stand how his life turned out (learned through sporadic, superfluous voiceover Tucci delivers with perfect disdain). An old-school rebel, he's desperate to see himself as above the establishment that long since assimilated him, filling his language with caustic sarcasm and perfunctory laughter that fool no one. Maybe it's not surprising to see him awed by Angela and her Eggs. He's hard to actually like - that cynicism is expressed as smug disdain for his peers and barely-checked contempt for his students, and poor decisions seem to become him. But Tucci shows us there's still some decency in this naive, aimless man.

Kyra Sedgwick has little to do besides play off Tucci, but in her one big scene - a fiery excoriation of Ted after he admits his sins in rather childish fashion - she's superb. Sherrie has tried to understand and support her husband's fickle nature only to have that thrown in her face, and she'll be damned if she doesn't air her grievances. If that's the best the film can give Sedgwick, she more than makes the most of it.

Before my thesis about the third lead I want to mention the supporting cast. Recognizable faces, like Janeane Garofalo as a fellow teacher and Peter Gallagher as Ted's crass agent, do well with small parts. Everyone else is fine, with one unfortunate exception: Jessica Hecht as the faculty's outspoken feminist with an axe to grind for Ted. It's a one-note, hectoring character, and I can't see what the point was.

Now, Angela.

I'd heard of but never seen Addison Timlin before this. Most of her projects had minimal releases, or sat on a shelf for years, but I wasn't exactly looking for someone who made no impression on me. Now I know better. I've since tried to watch more of her work, and she strikes me as a talented, fearless and dedicated actress who continually amazes with each project. However, said projects tend to vary widely in quality from low-key great, to divisive, to mediocre. (You probably know where "Submission" falls.) I've yet to see something that equals her skill. But she is never less than convincing in any role.

So who is Angela, anyway? When introduced she's insecure, putting down her work and almost begging Ted to read it - though from the moment she says "this isn't class," it's clear there's more going on. In the gaudy lighting of her smutty lit, she's the pure, vulnerable object of temptation. As Ted asks for more pages her timidity fades, bit by bit, remaining just innocent enough that Ted doesn't - or won't - realize what he's getting into. Yet in the end she remains enigmatic, enough things contradicted or left unsaid that I felt I hardly knew her.

That doesn't stop Timlin from making her alive. She plays early scenes with the right balance of earnestness, as Ted sees her, and something more suspect, as everyone else sees her. I distrusted Angela, but still wondered when she was saying what Ted wanted to hear and when she was being genuine. (Apparently the book is even more ambiguous in this regard.) When the temptress becomes real in a pivotal scene, Timlin sells it brilliantly. Even as Angela becomes demanding and more typically antagonistic, Timlin's conviction never wavers and she sells that too. Through her, I could almost understand this inscrutable, fiercely intelligent woman who knows what she wants and doesn't care how she gets it. It's a tremendous performance that, again, I wish enhanced rather than carried the film.

Ted and Angela's rapport forms the core of "Submission." What begins as a kinship between writers is paced and developed decently, despite some dangling plot points (like Ted claiming Angela's work as his own to placate his inquisitive colleagues). He eats up her flattery but also genuinely likes her work; crucially, his initial infatuation is intellectual rather than physical, and maybe hers is too. It's a subtle buildup that benefits the film greatly, until Angela loses patience - and the inevitable accusation comes.

The shift into a courtroom would be the climax of most dramas, a stage set for melodramatic reveals and stirring monologues. "Submission" is having none of that; in fact, Ted's downfall feels cursory rather than cathartic. (Now that I think on it, though, this may be the point.) Witness testimonies are a montage of talking heads, each lasting a second because the actual words don't matter. And though Ted admits his culpability - in the most arrogant way possible - Angela, with her well-played moment on the stand, is explicitly made the villain, triumphant and seemingly remorseless. I've read reviews claiming this insults #MeToo victims, or reinforces victimized men and predatory women stereotypes; I find these reactions extreme, but the film is muddled enough that I see where they're coming from.

And the ending! I won't spoil it, but Ted's story concludes in a place so absurdly tidy it could be read as bold or idiotic, depending on what you thought of the previous 100 minutes. I'd have called it the one unqualified success as a satire, if I knew that was the intention. And maybe that's my reaction to the film as a whole: it gets so tangled up in figuring itself out that I have no idea what to think.

So this is about as close as I'm going to get. "Submission" has weak bite as a satire and little of note to say on sexual harassment, but works as a drama because of the actors, especially Addison Timlin (whom I will try not to doubt again). There might be a truly provocative examination of that pertient topic here, or a darkly compelling character study; instead an awkward middle ground is what we got. My mild recommendation is for the cast; watch with that in mind and you might find it worthwhile.

After being thoroughly impressed by Addison Timlin in "Submission," I decided to find out what I'd missed after previously dismissing this talented actress as...well, just another actress. And since I completely rewrote my review for that film, I ought to do the same for "Little Sister."

The eponymous character, in both literal and clerical senses, is Colleen Lunsford (Timlin), a twenty-odd novitiate devoted to her NYC church. She finds fulfillment in doing God's work, yet her Mother Superior (Barbara Crampton) can tell something is holding her back. It's probably to do with her childhood home in Asheville, NC, and when a halting, exclamation-filed email from her mother Joani (Ally Sheedy) announces the return of her brother Jacob (Keith Poulson) after a life-changing experience in Iraq, Colleen can't help feeling compelled to return. If not for herself, then for Jacob, who in the height of the 2008 elections is being held up as a symbol of everything that's wrong with America, whether he wants to be or not. In reluctantly opening herself up to that world again, and her roots as a high-school Goth chick, Colleen has to wonder if she can't be both who she was then and who she intends to become. Weirdness ensues along the way. Such weirdness.

It's a good setup for an indie drama, and "Little Sister" is very indie, from its low-key vibe and naturalistic performances to its emphasis on character over plot. Aside from Colleen's arc there's little sense of forward momentum or a buildup toward something. But that's okay; writer-director Zach Clark is content to merely observe these people finding their way through life, much like Greta Gerwig did with "Lady Bird," and both films are all the better for it.

At the heart of "Little Sister" is Colleen's relationship with her deeply dysfunctional family and their halting attempts to connect. Jacob, horribly disfigured and almost angry with himself for not dying, has become an antisocial shut-in, pounding away on a drum set at random hours to keep his demons in check. His live-in fiancee, Trisha (Kristin Slaysman), remains devoted, but his aloofness is clearly wearing her down. Joani and Bill (Peter Hedges), lifelong stoners, simply take it in stride - although Joani, fighting her own insecurities with prescription meds and less conventional remedies, always seems one forced smile from a nervous breakdown. Only Colleen, who escaped the cloying passivity of this small town, has the patience and determination to keep trying. These relationships have an unforced, bittersweet tone to them; feelings of rediscovery and camaraderie, or antipathy, are authentic and rewarding, and watching them grow and change is an equal pleasure.

Much of this the film owes to Timlin, once again fantastic in a complex, layered role. In early scenes at the nunnery, Clark uses her petite stature and Natalie Portman-esque voice to great effect, showing us a young woman who doesn't exactly float through life but isn't taking charge either. She stumbles on her words, has difficulty giving the Reverend Mother a straight answer, and recoils from the overbearing attention of people who have "never seen a real nun before." The unease and indecision is written all over Timlin's face, even behind a pair of sunglasses, and you have to wonder how she survived her kooky family. But once Colleen decides to reach Jacob on her own terms, we get a totally unexpected scene - arguably the film's best - that's wonderfully out-there and yet grounded at the same time, a glimpse of who Colleen once was and might not have completely let go of. Timlin imbues her with such warmth and quiet strength you'd hardly believe this is the same actress who played a far more dubious person in "Submission." That's how good she is.

She's ably supported by Poulson, who projects weariness, self-loathing, and a slow return to feeling at ease with himself using little more than his voice. Crucially, he and Timlin have a solid rapport; I particularly liked the way the film contrasted their height difference without making it a thing. Most impressive, though, is that the considerable layers of makeup on his face are never the most interesting thing about him, even if it's what you immediately notice. He digs deep enough that by the end, it's practically irrelevant.

The rest of the cast, made up of relative unknowns and a few indie veterans, are largely fine without any real standouts. But I must make mention of Ally Sheedy. Other reviews likened it to watching Allison from "The Breakfast Club" all grown up and realizing she's probably turned into her parents (forget all that makeover crap), and it's an apt description. Flashbacks in the form of old home movies - a slightly contrived device, particularly the way adults are only seen from the waist down - show us a woman who wants the best for her children yet resents them, in a way, for the sacrifices they represent. Life has continually disappointed Joani, and while she makes every effort to cope, sometimes it's easier to tune out and let things run themselves into potential disaster. Sheedy captures this in smiles that look like grimaces of pain, an annoyed glare as Colleen prays before dinner, or the haphazard way she pours herself wine while adding liberal amounts - among other things - to her cooking. It flirts with being too broad early on, but finds balance at exactly the right time, during a quietly fraught talk in which mother and sister only just learn how to see eye to eye. In that moment, unburdening her soul to the one she desperately wants to feel close with, Sheedy is heartbreakingly authentic, and if she really has decided to retire from acting - except for a cameo in "X-Men Apocalypse," she has not appeared in anything since - this was a strong final role.

I hesitate to say there were things I didn't like about "Little Sister," and they're honestly more nitpicks than anything. Earlier I mentioned the relative lack of plot, and considering what the film wants to be, that's fine. However, there were one or two tangents I wish had been elaborated upon, and characters I would have liked to spend more time with. The film's flirtations with politics - making Jacob an Iraq vet during the 2008 election, an interpretive dance show that came off as very anti-Bush - seem to be pointed commentary, but ultimately do nothing except date the film. Again, nitpicking, but I felt like Clark wanted to tell me one thing, then lost interest and moved on. But hey, "Lady Bird" did the same, and I loved "Lady Bird." So maybe I'm just dumping on this film for not being "Lady Bird," which is of course unfair, so pay that no mind.

No, the one moment that truly bothered me came in the last ten minutes, during a sudden burst of what I guess you could call action after there's already been a dramatic climax. Upon reflection it's not wholly unexpected - at least two earlier scenes hint at it - and there's a morbidly goofy tone, but it feels like a weird detour, and afterward I had to wonder why it was there at all. But I might just not be reading it correctly. Who knows?

I mentioned in my review of "Submission" that, while I realized Addison Timlin is an amazing actress, I'd yet to see her in a film that equaled the level of passion and dedication she brings to each project. "Little Sister" is, in my limited experience, perhaps the closest she has come thus far, giving her a well-deserved leading role and surrounding her with a strong supporting cast. At heart, it's a slight, quirky character drama made with obvious love, a story of finding yourself while helping others do the same, and what it means to be a family. The impression it makes will be small, but hard to forget.

(I had the honor of serving as an extra on this film, but being the kind of guy who watches tons of movies and always finds something to complain about, I figure I'll offer some 'constructive criticism', as my pals Jason and Nick are looking for.) So we've got this short film that was made for $200 and was shot guerrilla-style, mostly in an abandoned building. If that's not a humble beginning I don't know what is. I'll go for a pro-con style review here.

Pros: You wouldn't believe how much of the film is made up of special effects - and even if you do you'd be astounded at how good the effects are. Every gunshot, every explosion, every ship - even some of the guys running around. All this from ONE guy who TAUGHT HIMSELF how to do it. I wanna see ILM pull that off. (I shouldn't say that since Nick's dad works for ILM.) Aided by the special effects, the film has a strong sense of atmosphere. The desolation, the sense of a world slowly choking on the war being waged across it, is highly palpable.

The battle scenes effectively create a sense of disorientation, confusion and chaos without letting them overwhelm the scene. Despite the frantic pace, we are still able to follow what's happening (points for good camera work and editing).

The acting is nothing spectacular, but a war movie - especially such a low-key one - isn't demanding that much from its actors except grim determination and a little anguish.

Con: When IGN reviews episodes of "The Office" they say "'A' Plot" when referring to the main plot of the episode and "'B' Plot" for the numerous subplots (because hey, there's a lot going on). I think that applies here. This film's 'A' plot - a soldier on a journey to save his captured brother - is solid, real "Saving Private Ryan." But then it's got these 'B' plots that just seem extraneous. The package thing is brought up and left hanging. The romance plot - the spontaneous kissing - was disturbing me to watch; out of nowhere, with no real buildup, and just as quickly ended.

This carries over to the dialogue. Much of the film is silent, but what talking there is feels somewhat forced and serves mainly to drive the plot. Again the romance subplot is a negative, not because of phony romantic dialogue (there is none, thankfully), but because it's a brief yet dramatic shift in the film's tone. Just before kissing, the protagonist stubbornly argues his brother is alive over the girl's objections; in the subsequent scene their roles have reversed - now he is in doubt and she is the voice of reassurance.

Ah well, whatever. I'm obviously expecting too much from a movie that did what it could with the resources it had. I'm still very proud of my involvement with it - although I'm hurt my death screams were dubbed...