Variety

Even at its most formally playful, the film is marked by an earnestness of tone that makes it feel like work, especially given a two-hour-plus runtime that exposes the repetitiveness of its rhetoric and the sparseness of its drama.

For all its otherwise precision-engineered sweetness, “Voicemails for Isabelle” doesn’t find its way there. Which is a shame, because Zoey Deutch and Nick Robinson — two reliably likable actors, alike in age, genre credentials and button-cuteness — do everything in their power to make you believe.

Alive to both the soul connection and the bodily itch of these intimate, unwieldy, personally uncharted feelings, Kiyoko’s uncommonly lovely teen movie matches the dizzy, obsessive ecstasy of the song that inspired it.

Even at its most formally playful, the film is marked by an earnestness of tone that makes it feel like work, especially given a two-hour-plus runtime that exposes the repetitiveness of its rhetoric and the sparseness of its drama.

It’s a sublime summing up, a movie that reflects the whole series in its magic mirror, and (just maybe) a perfect ending.

Mexico’s answer to “The Nightmare Before Christmas,” the Ambriz brothers’ beautifully idiosyncratic I Am Frankelda was obviously influenced by Del Toro’s darkly whimsical oeuvre; thus, it makes sense that the director of “Frankenstein” has been a supporter and mentor to these younger compatriots in their pursuit of stop-motion greatness. They are well on their way.

An astonishing bloodbath of brute hand-to-hand combat, highly resourceful weaponry and gnarly bodily contortions, “The Furious” is such a feat of mass physical coordination that such niceties as character and narrative can afford to be an afterthought. Here’s a film where you come for the fighting and stay for the fighting, and are unlikely to feel shortchanged.

Adam Carter Rehmeier‘s thriller, like many a good B-movie, adds up to more than the sum of its parts, with star power and star chemistry its major elevating, unquantifiable factors.

More than their civilian counterparts, viewers familiar with “Drag Race,” its superstars and its lore will likely get much out of watching the cast trade on or tweak the personae for which they’re known on stage. But notwithstanding its queer-friendly lexicon (much of which has infiltrated social media anyway), Shankman’s film is an easily accessible, unexpectedly ingratiating experience.

The gauziness of the thesis here is matched by the generality of the characters and their lives.