More than that, though, I just got a kick out of the gruesomely playful tone Shyamalan establishes, things playing like a whimsically knowing twist on the adventures of Hansel and Gretel only with a modern day surveillance age digital bent.

Kerb and Holderman’s screenplay rarely digs all that deep, maintaining an air of erudite profundity that’s more for show than it is anything else. While Bryson and Katz do evolve, while lessons are learned, I can’t say their changes are surprising. More, they’re not passionately presented, their emotional revelations more ho-hum and insignificant than they are anything else.

Acclaimed indie director Alex Ross Perry’s (Listen Up Philip, The Color Wheel) latest Queen of Earth is the idiosyncratic auteur’s best film yet. It’s also one of the better motion pictures I’ve had the good fortune to see so far this year.

For Apple junkies, this is likely to come across as a hit piece. Gibney chooses to take off the rose-colored glasses, show the flaws and the brilliance, attempting to find the wizard behind the curtain, giving a broader insight into a human being so many have tended to look at in awe and with reverence but seldom with understanding.

It’s as if they all collectively shared a bottle of sleeping pills before each scene began filming, the narcoleptic atmosphere so omnipresent I’m a little surprised I didn’t take a nap myself at some point during the proceedings. No, The Transporter Refueled is nothing other than a bad movie, that’s it, and to say anything more is simply a waste of time.

There’s not a lot to director Max Joseph’s We Are Your Friends. Working from a story by Richard Silverman, co-writing the script with Meaghan Oppenheimer, the man behind MTV’s “Catfish: The TV Show” hasn’t exactly come up with a coming-of-age looking-to-find-stardom scenario anyone, anywhere likely hasn’t seen before. It’s A Star is Born for the Under the Electric Sky generation, a hallucinogenic sojourn into electronic dance music craziness given a Millennial twist if only in somewhat patronizing fashion.

What follows is ferociously visceral, and not for a single second do either Dowdle coddle the audience into believing anything warm or fuzzy is going to take place. This is a meat grinder movie, a motion picture that wraps itself inside the blood and viscera of its central characters asking the audience to sweat, cry and bleed right alongside of them.

Not that I’m dismissing Mistress America. As much as the stagy pitter-patter of the dialogue didn’t sit as well with me as I’d have liked, that doesn’t make the structural, character-driven cohesion of the plot Baumbach and Gerwig have constructed any less attention grabbing.

Sinister II is a horror sequel with real potential. It has a central conceit that’s inherently intriguing, building on the disturbing premise of its predecessor with real ingenuity. Yet in the end it’s nowhere near as satisfying as it might have been, and while glimmers of chilling astonishment can be found it just isn’t enough to make Bughuul’s return anything memorable.