Working from a fusty script by writing duo Damian Shannon and Mark Swift, who wrote a previous installment of the Friday the 13th series, Raimi goes deep in his bag of tricks  —  comic fish-eye perspectives; extreme close-ups; POV cameras hurtling through jungle terrain; extreme and ludicrous gore  —  to keep things going, but the indecisive screenplay simply won’t allow for the full Raimi experience. 

A similar scheme is hatched in Paul Feig’s film, although I have to be extremely vague about the details so as not to ruin the carefully plotted set-up. Suffice it to say, there’s a good chance you will utterly loathe the film as I did for almost the entire first two acts before the reward comes your way. 

There are a great number of mysteries in Rian Johnson’s third leg of his Knives Out trilogy, many of which answered save one — at least expressly: Why does the lighting change so dramatically in many of the film’s most directly parochial scenes?

For this film, a loose adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s novel Vineland, the shots vary between languid and almost thunderously violent, from the lilting trills in Jonny Greenwood’s soundtrack, to abrasively coarse auditory punch-outs. At times, it’s like the effect of flipping through random channels on your TV, the sudden change of tone and timbre shocking you with their contrast.  

With few exceptions, the previous M:I films, all of which arguably compromise the best and most consistent full-throttle action series in Hollywood history, were such a joy, in part, because of the way they nimbly set up their massive heist set-pieces, upping the stakes with each turn. There are few things more deeply satisfying to watch than a tight, well-executed plan bucking against insurmountable odds, especially when the plan, even if far-fetched, feels reasonably logical. 

Ryan Coogler’s horror/comedy/musical/race drama treatise presents more ideas to chew on in its 137 minute run time than some entire summers worth of Hollywood ‘tentpoles.’ 

The dialogue is witty, snitty, and sharp—the kind of thing Soderbergh can craft in his sleep.

Last Breath’s confining tendrils creep into nearly every scene, pulling you deeper into its suffocating grip.

Conclave is a brilliant example of slow-burn, understated storytelling that works.

Twisters is a bigger mess than the towns it depicts after a direct hit.

This installment delivers more chuckles than all six past films combined.

M3GAN escalates into sentient robot girl gone wild.