Killers of the Flower Moon—I idolize Scorcese, but someone needs to tell him he needs an editor–as with his previous snorer, The Irishman, this potentially very interesting film bogs down in endless reaction shots and static dialogue. DeNiro is predictably fine as the villain, but much-overhyped Lily Gladstone is reserved to the point of comatose. Really grim throughout—it wouldn’t have hurt him to lighten the mood a bit.

The Holdovers—Another overlong disappointment from a director I usually like (“Sideways” is a classic), this one comes off as a something a retread of “Cider House Rules” and a schmaltzy Christmas movie. Paul Giamatti is a fine actor, but I don’t necessarily want to look at him for three hours and I was never sure if this was supposed to be comedy or melodrama.

Napoleon—some cool (and supposedly historically accurate) battle scenes but the generally excellent Joaquim Phoenix seems too whiny/neurotic to play an emperor, and his Josephine lacks any sort of schwing. Plus the film, for some reason, was shot with sepia filters, looks really dark and claustrophobic and could have easily stood to lose about 45 minutes (sensing a theme here?).

Zone of Interest—I initially thought this film was overly stylized, and it moves at a lugubrious pace, but it’s genuinely unsettling and visually brilliant.  The scene where Hoss tells his young son about increasing the “yield” of the death camps he supervises gave me nightmares, as did the screams emanating from outside the walls of his villa. Sandra Huller as Mrs. Hoss should have gotten the Oscar.

Anyone But You—please don’t judge me, but I enjoy the occasional brain-dead rom-com. This one, unfortunately, lacks both the rom and the com and the plot, even by the standards of the genre, is sub-moronic. Busty young Sydney Sweeney isn’t a bad actress (she was very good in “Reality”), but she has zero chemistry with her semi-naked co-lead and she just ain’t funny. Two hours of my life I wish I had back.

Poor Things—a really imaginative feminist take on Frankenstein, this movie has the quality lacking in almost all the other Oscar nominees—it’s entertaining, as opposed to merely cinematic. Emma Stone is great, but Mark Ruffalo steals the show as the rakish cad.

American Fiction—another one I wanted to enjoy more than I actually did. Jeffrey Wright does pretty well with what he’s given, but the ghetto novelist theme is less edgy than intended and the whole dissipated middle-aged college professor milieu feels tired.

Road House II—the very idea of remaking the classic original is sacrilegious. This version has lots of big explosions, some amusing scenes with Conor McGregor and an absurdly jacked Dalton, but wholly lacks the sheer, joyful idiocy of its predecessor. Pain don’t hurt?

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1917—sort of a big-budget version of “Blair Witch Project”—a single uninterrupted shot of the young Brit soldier skulking through hell. Visually very impressive, but like the similarly-overrated Dunkirk it’s kinda myopic and simplistic—there’s no side-plots, character development or comic relief.  No friggin’ way they’d ever get me out of those trenches.

The Irishman—I tried four times to get through the whole film but fell asleep on each occasion.  Al Pacino plays the exact same role in every film, with only minor variations in his hairstyle. Someone should tell Scorcese not to use so many slow pans and reaction shots. 

Once Upon A Time in Hollywood—Inglorious Basterds and Django Unchained are among my best-ever, but this was a huge letdown—virtually nothing happens until the flamethrower-enhanced final ten minutes. Brad Pitt does do the laconic cool guy better than anyone, however.

Hustlers—no moral judgments, but strip clubs always depress me, and nothing about these thoroughly reprehensible girls holds my interest, prurient or otherwise.

The Joker—like its forefather, The King of Comedy, this is extremely uncomfortable viewing, and a hideously emaciated Joaquim Phoenix is painful to behold. I ended up walking out two-thirds of the way through.

Richard Jewell—Eastwood’s films tend to meander, but he keeps things moving briskly here, with tight plotting and enough black humor to keep the mood from getting too ponderous. Jon Hamm and Kathy Bates phone it in here, but the guy in the titular role is a force of nature and Olivia Wilde looks scorching in that short skirt.

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