
The Cut movie review: head not in the game
A real aspect of boxing — dangerously fast weight loss — sports films have ignored becomes body horror we have not seen before. The genre’s motivational clichés get twisted, nastily and poignantly.

A real aspect of boxing — dangerously fast weight loss — sports films have ignored becomes body horror we have not seen before. The genre’s motivational clichés get twisted, nastily and poignantly.

Smart, sophisticated spy-versus-spy nonsense makes for a perfect little cinematic contraption. Tense and tricksy, but much more deliciously, these are espionage mind games with a sexy screwball vibe.

Wildly primal, big and bold, fueled by pain and rage, by community and family, throbbing with love and sex and joy, infused with magic. A sumptuously textured, unmissable howl of a passion project.

Pretty young people are sad about the end of everything, but there’s no urgency and little emotional authenticity to any of it. We’ve seen this before, pulled off with far more affecting feeling.

A portrait of a weak man, humorless and friendless, desperate to be liked, desperate to be seen as someone who matters. Sebastian Stan’s brilliantly disgusting Trump is horrifically riveting.

Stark and unsentimental, as stubborn and as challenging as its protagonist, and as monumental as his works. Adrien Brody’s performance is extraordinary, full of flinty anger and palpable melancholy.

Picaresque childhood misadventures sketch vibrant WWII London. A movie of brutal randomness, feral intensity, and ferocious intimacy. Wildly human, artistically masterful, and completely magnificent.

It barely scratches the surface of the enormous audacity of WWII photographer Lee Miller, but still this is an important movie. It’s also joyous filmmaking, with terrific performances all around.

Hooray for Glen Powell’s star rising, but this absurdly coy movie — is it a sequel? a remake? — is a cowardly, reckless missed opportunity: it’s deeply baffling that it omits any hint of global warming.

Marisa Abela is very good as Amy Winehouse, the one saving grace of this cowardly biopic of the wild and wise musician, which hangs its subject out to dry just as the people closest to her did, too.