
Lost in Paris (Paris pieds nus) movie review: French kicks
An exquisite miniature puzzle-box pop-up-book of a movie. All is color and light and exhilaration here, a fantastical lark that is sheer mischievous joy.

An exquisite miniature puzzle-box pop-up-book of a movie. All is color and light and exhilaration here, a fantastical lark that is sheer mischievous joy.

Lesbian and not-quite-sure-if-she’s-a-lesbian have a weekend fling. Sometimes unintentionally hilarious, this is little more than soft-core porn.

An astonishing tale of privilege and power: stark, searing, and brutal, almost a Victorian companion to Get Out. Florence Pugh is a force of nature.

This may be Werner Herzog’s most conventional film, but its mostly untold true story knows what it means for a woman to choose a life of adventure and intellect.

The intrigue, shifting alliances, and twisted revenge? Delicious, pulpy fun. The male-gazey soft-core porn that undermines the female protagonists? Not so much.

A fairly familiar romantic dramedy distinguishes itself because its awkward, immature nerd is a young woman, poignantly portrayed by the wonderful Bel Powley.

A pretty blur of an apocalypse happens to pretty, blurry people in this dull SF drama. This end of the world brought to you by the Reykjavik Tourist Board.

Tepid teen romance turned implausible thriller is just about saved by a powerful, and unusually disturbing, performance from Bill Paxton (one of his last).

Like a theme-park mounting of the 1991 cartoon, or the blandified pop version of an enchanting signature character tune. A watered-down pastiche of itself.

Odious propagandistic attempt to enshrine Turkish denial of the Armenian genocide of World War I into cinematic history via a tepid and unconvincing romance.