Matt Donato

The Furious dares any other actioner this year to be as battered, berserk, and certifiably badass.

It’s a sweet, savory blend of oddball mythology and deadpan humor that’s easy to adore, worth many a healing smile.

It's a melting pot of experiences from comical to romantic to thrilling to richly ruminative. Everything flows together gracefully in step through a delicate and beautiful dance that speaks to the ever-changing beast that is New York City.

Some films thrive on twists, while others compel based on meaty performances. Volpe’s picture is squarely the latter: an introspective analysis of the human condition.

It’s an unexpected commentary on filmmaking that layers metatextual zingers into its unbelievable rom-com intentions, somehow delivering what the title promises and more. In terms of mainstream comedies, we’re not in Kansas anymore—and that’s a win for Wain’s collective.

Ultimately, The Gallerist gets by on its zippy pacing, committed performances, and a tinge of meanness that holds enough suspense.

Anaconda is a disappointing follow-up for Gormican, who cannot crack the code on Sony's bewildering aquatic not-really-horror reboot. A cast of proven funny people are lost in a thick brush of hacky bits and ineffective storytelling, unable to machete their way through to a redeeming climax. There are brief bursts of creature-feature excitement and belly-tickling humor, but way more stretches of bafflingly unclear ambitions that feel like they're struggling to keep the "movie within a movie" gimmick afloat. It's Anaconda without the aqua-horror chills, throwback practical effects, and midnight-movie entertainment—what an odd choice.

Five Nights at Freddy's 2 gives sequels, video game adaptations, and gateway horror movies a bad name.

The film’s themes may be fundamental in their commentaries on parental gender disparity or qualities about motherhood so many refuse to publicly acknowledge, but they still land like a haymaker. You’ve gotta hand it to Ramsay; she’s a fearless visionary when rocking on all cylinders—which, frustratingly, Die My Love only dishes out in smaller servings.

When people complain about the death of mainstream comedies, it’s bottomfeeding films like Playdate that are the genre’s executioner. No energy, no wit, just a tasteless and tacky sequence of events that barely manages to clear the bar for what’s still considered a movie.