Michael Roffman

Alone is exactly what it sells — a taut, hot-wired survival thriller. With its gaunt storytelling, meaty characters, and high-stakes action, the film delivers on all fronts.

As expected, the real flexes come from the four principal stars. Winter seamlessly slides back into his flannel as Bill, wisely dialing things down to address the years. However, Reeves dials it down too much, coming off as nearly geriatric as he shuffles around as his buddy Ted.

Spree works better as a performance piece for Keery, who never eases up on the pedal. He’s legitimately haunting as Kurt, and like the best sociopaths in film, there’s a subtle guilt that comes from wanting to see what he’ll do next. Oddly enough, that feeling speaks louder than anything actually said in the film.

Black Water: Abyss is a low-stakes rollercoaster arriving at a time when we’re being barred from theme parks. If you’re looking for some thrills — and maybe even a little adventure — it’ll do the trick. The drama is exhausting, but the situational horror offers a nice distraction, even if we’re admittedly tired of watching people make stupid decisions.

An American Pickle is cute — nothing more, nothing less. It’s not laugh-out-loud funny; it’s folksy funny. This is chicken soup for the soul, arriving at a time when Americans could use a balmy parable on family and tradition.

Host is so clever, so creepy, and so effective. At 56 minutes, this is a lean and mean slice of horror, a fitting opening salvo for the spooky season ahead.

Franco exercises so much restraint, especially during the frenetic final act, that you’re always left on edge. There’s hardly a single gratuitous shot to the entire film.

The Beach House won’t be for everyone. Those coming in expecting a doozy of infections and balls-to-the-wall, gross-out horror will likely leave nursing a sunburn. But if you can appreciate those moments within what’s essentially a pandemic survival story, then you’ll walk away with a nice tan.

The film is a friendly, warm, and inviting documentary that dances and shouts without ever shaking its body down to the ground. There aren’t any revelations, there aren’t any demons, and there’s zero drama. It’s simply another rolodex of talking heads — including David Byrne, speak of the devil — that want to talk about Michael Jackson.

At 90 minutes, Becky should be a taut, hair-raising thriller, one that keeps you at the edge of your seat. It doesn’t. Instead, the thing ebbs and flows, peaking when you expect it to, and sinking when your heart’s just beginning to race.

The Lovebirds is exactly what you want right now in quarantine. It’s a city-scrolling adventure with two catchy leads and romance to boot. It’s the perfect date movie.

Scoff, roll your eyes, and shrug all you want, but the hyperbolic nature of The Hunt is all part of the fun, and whether you take this literally, or metaphorically, rhetorically, spiritually, whatever, it all boils down to a big ol’ sensationalized portrait of a very heated country.

While the cabin seemingly offers a rural respite, the endless snow and the situational horror of it all adds agoraphobic washes to any space. Couple that with captivating uses of grey and silver — seriously, the gradient factor in those two colors here is awe-inspiring by itself — and the dread becomes suffocating.

It’s a breakneck conclusion to what’s been a breakneck restart.

This is sharp blockbuster filmmaking, coming at a time when IP is seemingly the only thing that gets any door open in Hollywood these days. Rather than churn out something cynical or pandering, though, Flanagan has instead taken that IP and instilled it with heart. Not just the chummy heart he’s hallmarked in past efforts, but the kind that comes from a creator who’s offered a chance to truly honor his influences and run with them.

Considering he’s spent nine whole seasons within his quirky New Mexico universe, there was never any doubt that Gilligan loves his characters, but goddamn does El Camino bring that idea home.

It: Chapter Two doubles down on the exhausting jump scares and CGI that plagued the 2017 original. Yet for all its faults—and there are many—it’s still an enthralling and emotionally affecting piece of blockbuster filmmaking.

While some viewers may get enough of a nostalgia kick out of Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark, the film doesn’t feel entirely fleshed out. There are elements that make for creepy experiences, keeping the viewer on the edge of their seat, but they often serve as short bundles of anxiety in a serviceable story.

There isn’t much to love, there isn’t much to hate, there’s mostly just indifference.

It’s a paint-by-numbers would-be blockbuster entirely built around the delusional notion that general audiences can’t be scared by anything more thoughtful than recycled jump shocks and derivative monsters.

Simply put, Elle Fanning is Teen Spirit. This is a performance piece, nothing more and nothing less, and those invested in seeing Fanning soar in her career have every reason to watch.

Patient, meditative, and sanguine, Adopt a Highway is a rugged slice of Americana.

Little Monsters oozes with heart and soul, making for an ultra likable, last-minute addition to a genre that should be buried 12-feet under in the near future.

Long Shot is a major win for Levine, Rogen, and Theron, who defied the odds to deliver an instantly re-watchable hit. It’s sexy, it’s funny, it’s smart, it’s topical, and, above all, it’s exactly what some people need right now.

Disappointing and confounding, Velvet Buzzsaw can ultimately be filed under What Could Have Been given the kind of talent involved.

Shyamalan comes off so smug by the end of this movie that it’s insufferable — and also kind of jarring. It’s as if he’s learned nothing from his past and still believes he’s pulling a quick one on his audience.

The problem is that, unlike The Big Short, he can’t seem to wrestle with the drama, and when Vice takes a more dramatic turn towards its manic third act, McKay’s preaching winds up feeling like Oliver Stone, Jr. All of those meta, tongue-in-cheek quirks start becoming self righteous and smug when they used to be clever and decisive. It’s a damn shame

Vox Lux wants to be everything and winds up being nothing. By the end, when the whole thing devolves into a dubious concert film, and we’re watching fake fans go crazy over fake songs, there’s this uncanny valley of universal bliss that’s just achingly hollow.