As Moby Dick stories go, Melville’s book still stands head and shoulders above all the rest, John Huston’s 1956 adaptation with Gregory Peck a fine version of the story as well. In attempting to ground things in historical fidelity, Howard’s In the Heart of the Sea loses the human intimacy that makes this epic what it is, the resulting movie nothing more than an empty voyage to nowhere that sinks far more often than it swims.

Macbeth (2015) casts a mighty spell. It screws the viewer’s courage to the sticking-place, forcing them to look into corners of themselves they would rather not peer, and much like the innocent flower there’s a serpent hiding here, one whose venom is a glorious cinematic elixir worth being poisoned by.

Ultimately, Carl(a) wins me over for refusing to completely become a fairy tale, yet at the same time offering its main character some semblance of hope for future happiness. While the mechanics of this are a little schmaltzy, what Hershko and DeFreece do with them are anything but.

Sorrentino’s musing are tiredly obvious throughout, and as pretty as the images he composes might be the fact the emotional content simmered right around zero made caring about anything going on impossible. In the end Youth (2015) has nothing new to say, its Italian thematic esthetic nothing more than a mask for an emotional schadenfreude impossible to take pleasure in.

[Legend (2015)] an oddly routine and rote crime opus that haphazardly follows a standard, Scorsese-esque template without seemingly a desire to do anything innovative with it. The movie is strangely forgettable, and even with someone as talented as Hardy giving all he’s got in a dual role there’s frustratingly little to get excited about.

“I love this movie. I love it so much. I like the father-daughter story because it is representative to what so much of our relationship was like. I love how they’ve depicted Trumbo. I love Bryan’s performance. There is nothing about this movie that I can think of that I don’t like.”
– Niki Trumbo

Dementia is a B-grade psychological thriller, but it often aspires to be much more, and as good as the performances are and as tight as the script might be Testin in arguably the chief reason for that. This is a fine little debut, one I hope interested audiences take the time to search out and discover soon as they can.

Krampus is a naughty little movie, and I mean that in a good way, and once again Dougherty proves himself to be crafty genre-bending filmmaker willing to make old school high-concept thrillers the likes of which studios are now reticent to put into production. As Christmas miracles for horror fans go, this is one stocking stuffer certain to be enjoyed for many years to come.

[Asthma] is a ponderous, emotionally indulgent addiction melodrama that wanders around aimlessly, desperately trying to find a reason to matter. It uses quirk and whimsy to mask just how one-dimensional and unappealing the main character is, never following through on any of its bigger ideas.