While not without its missteps, and certainly not going to satisfy the masses, for those knowing what it is they are about to see The Green Inferno is about as terrifying an experience as any that can be imagined. I’m not positive I liked it, but that doesn’t make me any less glad I took the time to give the horror effort a look, Roth’s directorial return a startlingly, efficiently brutal reminder of just how strong a genre impresario he can be when he’s of a mind to be one.

There’s just no reason to care, nothing that matters, and when that’s added to the unforgivable disservice done to the newest character, Dennis, the overall effect isn’t just disappointing, it’s downright horrifying.

The Intern (2015) has great potential, De Niro and Hathaway making a terrific team deserving of a better script. But Meyers lets them all down, and that includes herself, unleashing a cavalcade of old ideas so prehistoric they went out of date around the same time women won the right to vote, making the film a bad candidate unworthy of a permanent position.

Sicario lives up to its title, this Mexican slang for a hitman aiming its gunsights at the viewer, leaving those of us who watch broken and battered into a reinforced shell of regret and understanding we might not be able to emerge from anytime soon.

As an attempt to move into more personal territory, as a vehicle for him to stretch, to leave the spectacle behind, I give him props. But as a movie worth watching? As a story I want people to see? Stonewall is a disaster, start to finish, and the only riots that should be associated with it are those of angry ticketholders who wasted good, hard-earned money to view it.

Wildlike is the kind of simple, delicate, nondescript little independent film that sneaks up out of nowhere and melodiously breaks your heart clean in two. It’s a flower of a film growing to unimaginable heights in the cruelest of conditions, never wearing its emotions out in the open yet showcasing them just enough so they have a searing power that earn their tears with subtle, barely perceptible precision.

As procedurals go, Black Mass is no Zodiac or All the President’s Men, failing to find the emotional decrepitude lingering at the heart of the tale. As depictions of organized crime, as a saga of one man’s ascent to becoming a ferocious mob boss, once again the movie is no The Godfather, no A Most Violent Year, the scope too condensed, too rushed, to ever resonate as deeply and as passionately as necessary for the story to have any sort of meaning.

considering the subject matter, it’s almost impossible not to walk out of Everest (2015) without being moderately impressed. Director Baltasar Kormákur (2 Guns, 101 Reykjavík) stages the majority of the key climbing sequences with dazzling eloquence, things achieving a devastatingly haunting quality at times that’s notable. But without a core connection to the characters involved in the chaos and heartbreak I find it difficult to embrace the film as fully as I’d honestly like to, and while the spectacle is impressive the dramatics at the heart of it all are sadly anything but.

The anchor is Tomlin. Delivering a performance that by all rights should garner an Academy Award nomination, the veteran actress encapsulates an entire career, maybe even an entire life, lived under the public microscope brilliantly. There are layers to Elle that are revealed bit-by-bit, Tomlin refusing to overplay her hand even when her character revels in her outspoken, larger-than-life personality.