Time

Digger, the eighth feature film from Alejandro G. Iñárritu, is pure, empty-headed trickery, a drab-looking gewgaw with a million moving parts and nothing to say, even if it desperately claws at profundity every minute.

The movie is pleasing, if slight, though Kikuchi’s performance is nuanced enough to keep you watching, and to keep you rooting for her.

The action sequences are sharp and swift. In his quest for milk, his tiny daughter strapped snugly to his chest, Ali’s Latif is a new kind of action hero.

Wilson is an affable armchair tour guide into offline worlds you’d never have thought to explore, and the movie has a casual, ambling charm. This is killing time in movie form—though it also flirts with the possibility that killing time and spending it may amount to the same thing.

Resident Evil is largely a one-man show, and Abrams carries it deftly.

If you feel dirty watching it, that’s by design—and if you enjoy feeling dirty, that’s your choice.

It shows us a world where people feel lost after losing their livelihood, where individuals strive to connect with others despite differences of class and temperament, where tenderness ultimately has more power than arrogance. It’s a movie with a gentle, generous spirit.

There’s a metaphorical idea shimmering beneath the surface of Bucking Fastard: it’s as if, through this strange and somewhat simple story, Herzog were trying to explore the things women want but don’t dare demand.

If the writing sometimes comes off as winking and belabored, the acting is not.

Ink works as both a fictionalized snapshot of a lost world and a forensic exploration of what happens when you give the people what they want, instead of what they don’t know they want. It’s a movie about the beginning of an end, brought about by enterprising men who just wanted to sell papers. So thrilled by the lede they were writing, they gave zero forethought to the kicker.