The best online movies to watch this weekend

(Image credit: (White Bird in a Blizzard/Facebook.com))

By Matt Cohen

last updated 8 January 2015

1. The Babadook (Directed by Jennifer Kent. Starring Essie Davis)

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The best horror movies tend to engage with the real-life terrors of their era. Horror and sci-films of the 1950s are metaphors for post-war anxiety; the masked killer in John Carpenter's Halloween, lacking an identity and a motive, is the personification of the late-70s milieu. Unfortunately, most recent horror movies have been too preoccupied with fetishizing gore and producing cheap scares to channel any broader concerns. But Australian writer/director Jennifer Kent's stellar debut film The Babadook isn't just an old-school chiller in style. Its entire premise is a rich metaphor exploring one of the most traumatizing human emotions: grief.

Amelia (Essie Davis) is a single mother struggling to keep it all together. Her husband died in a car accident on his way to the hospital while she was giving birth to their son, and she's never quite gotten over it. Fast-forward six years: Samuel, her son, has grown into something of a problem child, convincing his peers that monsters are real and injuring them with his homemade weapons. After Samuel is expelled, he singlehandedly alienates his mother from the few friends she has left and nearly costs Amelia her job.

Gregg Araki, a pioneer in the New Queer Cinema movement, is known for subversive, controversial films — such as The Doom Generation, Mysterious Skin, and Kaboom — that explore teenage ennui in discomforting and sexually explicit ways. In his latest film, the delicate, beguiling White Bird in a Blizzard, that approach is still readily apparent. But this is Araki is at his most restrained, focusing on atmosphere and subtle character development while the narrative's central mystery unfolds. The result is something like an extended Law & Order episode crossed with an 80s coming-of-age drama.

Araki frames the film's narrative through flashbacks as Kat tells her therapist the story of her mother disappearing and how it "made her feel." One day, Kat comes home to her father vacantly staring into space, wondering if she has seen her mother. Kat insists she'll come back eventually. But she never does. Two years pass, and Kat never once mourns for her mother, instead using sex with her stoner boyfriend Phil (Shiloh Fernandez) and a sleazy detective to avoid her true feelings.

Writer/director Alex Ross Perry's Listen Up Philip has a number of clear influences, but the most prominent is author Philip Roth. At least, the imagined Roth, and the arrogant, pseudo-intellectual Brooklyn lifestyle that Philip (Jason Schwartzman) believes Roth embodies. Though Listen Up Philip contains plenty of Woody Allen-esque intellectualism, Perry's film isn't just a high-minded comedy for a literary audience. Look below the surface, and you'll find a ruthless takedown of a man so absorbed by his ego that he drives away everyone close to him.

After some success with his first novel, Philip has grown restless and bored as he works on his eagerly anticipated follow-up. At some point during his rise to semi-notoriety in the literary world, his self-absorption reaches a peak, with significant impact on his photographer girlfriend, Ashley (Elisabeth Moss). When Philip's hero, novelist Ike Zimmerman (Jonathan Pryce), invites him for an extended stay at his summer home in upstate New York, he jumps at the chance to leave his regular life behind. "I hope this will be good for us," says Philip to Ashley, "but especially for me."

This seems like a setup for a classic "narcissist learns the error of his ways" scenario, but Listen Up Philip isn't that predictable. As Philip and Ike's friendship grows, Philip's ego inflates even more. An attempt to emulate his idol? Perhaps — but the process turns him into a bitter acolyte, even more detached from reality. There is no grand redemption for Philip, but that's the point of Perry's film: when you're that far gone, it's not all that easy to crawl back.

"I've seen, like, 1,000 zombie movies and I've never seen anything like this. You've invented a new genre, man," say Daniel (Martin Starr) to Martin (Vegar Hoel) towards the climax of Dead Snow 2: Red vs. Dead. This ridiculously fun sequel to Tommy Wirkola's Dead Snow takes the well-trod genre into new territory, but it also stands on the shoulders of every previous zombie movie to get there. The result is like a zombie Scream, riffing on genre conventions to offer a rare treat for horror fans who think they've seen at all.

Picking off right where the first Dead Snow left off, Martin — armless after a zombie bite — is desperately evading his undead pursuers. He reaches a vehicle, only to have the Nazi zombie leader, Herzog, attack. He gets away, with Herzog's severed arm in the back of the vehicle, and promptly crashes into a snow bank. When he awakens in a hospital bed some time later, Martin discovers that the doctors have sewn Herzog's zombie arm onto his body, granting him zombie strength and the power to turn corpses into the undead.

Kristen Stewart stars as the circumspect PFC Amy Cole, assigned as a guard in the Camp Delta sector of Guantanamo Bay. Her mission sounds simple: make sure the detainees are alive, orderly, well fed, and taken care of. But the reality isn't quit so easy: she paces the block every two minutes for suicide watch, delivers books, and deals with reckless detainees like Ali (Peyman Moaadi), who is prone to incessant conversation, screaming fits, and throwing feces on guards.

Radcliffe plays Ig, a young man whose life is shattered when his girlfriend's mutilated body is recovered by the police. Everyone assumes he killed her, and police are gathering evidence to build a case against him as he descends into self-destructive hopelessness. After a night of drinking, Ig wakes up to the horrific discovery that he has sprouted demon horns on his head — not the best look for a suspected murderer.

The key to a truly terrifying horror film is simplicity. You don't need tons of special effects; just a firm understanding of the simple, effective devices that tap into the terrors of our subconscious. In her stellar debut feature Honeymoon, writer/director Leigh Janiak demonstrates an impressive knack for terror. Honeymoon patiently builds a sense of mystery and dread as the film crescendos to a tense third act. It's a slow-burner, but the payoff doesn't disappoint.

Honeymoon's story is as simple as they come: newlyweds Bea (Rose Leslie) and Paul (Harry Treadaway) take a honeymoon at Bea's family's semi-remote cottage in the woods. The film begins in a state of newlywed bliss, as the couple embraces the solitude to celebrate their union. But then strange things begin to happen. One evening, Paul's alarm goes off early and he steps out of the house for minute. When he returns, Bea is gone. He eventually finds her nude and delirious in the woods, unaware of how she got there.

Nas' explosive 1994 debut album Illmatic is a landmark in hip-hop history. The album beautifully and aggressively captured the essence of life in the streets in New York City in the 90s; neighborhoods ravaged by crack, gang rivalries, and crushing poverty. Director One9's thorough, heartfelt documentary, Nas: Time is Illmatic, is more than just a behind-the-scenes look at the album; it's a thoughtful, authentic appraisal of Nas' career.

"I'm bringing you through hell and back. Here it is," says Nas, describing his thought process when he made Illmatic. Before the album blew up, he was just trying to make it out of the streets alive. Through in-depth interviews with Nas and his crew, One9 leads viewers on a guided tour of the projects and streets of the Queensbridge Houses in Queens, where Nas and his friends grew up. Nas walks viewers through the places that shaped his worldview, highlighting places where significant events shaped him as a teen — including the tragic shooting death of his childhood friend Ill Will.

God Help The Girl opens with Eve (Emily Browning) stuck in a hospital being treated for anorexia and a host of anxiety issues. When she escapes from the hospital and makes her way into town, she stumbles into an indie-rock concert. She quickly meets James (Olly Alexander), whose band promptly breaks up when he gets into a slap fight with his drummer. (This scene, like the rest of the film, is exceptionally British.)

If this all sounds familiar, that's because it is. Narratively, God Help The Girl is as generic as most romantic dramas — but the musical element moves the film from generic into charming. Browning, Alexander, and Murray are all exceedingly likable, and the deliberately twee look — with set designs and costumes that scream '60s England and indie rock — does wonders for the film's mise-en-scène. It's all held together by one of the best soundtracks of the year, which is more than enough to make God Help the Girl stand out on the crowded video-on-demand market.

The film opens with a brief but sobering peak at the horrors of war as Maggie, a medic, acts swiftly and bravely to tend to a dying man with a piece of shrapnel stuck in him. A few weeks later, Maggie is eagerly arriving home for the first time in over a year. But the homecoming isn't a joyous occasion; the only person who greets Maggie is her ex-husband Richard (Ron Livingston), who informs her that their 5-year-old son Paul didn't want to see her.

With Maggie absent for much of his life, Paul has taken on Richard's new fiancee, Alma (Emmanuelle Chriqui), as a mother figure. Maggie takes Paul into her custody kicking and screaming, as she tries to assimilate back into civilian life. She strikes up a casual relationship with a local car mechanic — but she's still haunted by her experiences from her tour of duty, which makes it difficult to maintain a relationship.

Fort Bliss avoids the kind of emotionally manipulative moments that can derail similar, lesser movies; instead, Myers focuses on keeping things as grounded and hyper-realistic as possible. But that doesn't mean this isn't a heart-wrenching drama. At its core, this is a story about a mother trying to reconnect with her young son — and when that relationship is threatened, Myers doesn't fall short on delivering an emotionally satisfying payoff.

After some wandering, Borgman lands at the front door of an unsuspecting wealthy Dutch family. He knocks on their door asking for a bath and food, but it doesn't take long for the family's patriarch, Richard (Jeroen Perceval), to lose his cool and beat Borgman to a pulp. Feeling sorry for the vagrant, Richard's wife, Marina (Hadewych Minis), secretly harbors Borgman in a guest house, nursing him back to health. But it's all part of Borgman's twisted plan. Eventually, he casts some sort of spell over Marina, cleans himself up, and gets himself hired as the family's official gardener — bringing his group of twisted friends into the fold.

Starred Up begins as Eric Love (Jack O'Connell) arrives in prison. But Eric is no stranger to life behind bars; having been "starred up" — transferred from a juvenile facility into an adult one — he knows exactly how the system works, and the first thing he does is create a shiv out of a toothbrush and a razor blade. David Mackenzie's brilliant and visceral new drama follows Eric as he navigates prison politics in his new home. With breathtaking performances and an intense style, Starred Up is a bleak revelation of a film.

Eric quickly ends up under the influence of two older men: Oliver (Rupert Friend), a counselor who wants Eric to attend regular sessions in a last-ditch attempt at rehabilitation, and Neville (Ben Mendelsohn), one of the prison's most feared inmates, who also happens to be Eric's father. The prison administration doesn't believe that Eric can better himself and change his path, but through Oliver's patience, Eric reluctantly agrees to attend group therapy. Slowly, Eric begins to open up, but the genuine camaraderie that develops among the group rubs Neville the wrong way.

The relationship between music and mental illness has a long (and sometimes tragic) history. Plenty of musical geniuses have coped with inner anguish through lyrics and music, and — in the best of times — converted their pain into a kind of creative fuel. Lenny Abrahamson's oddball comedy-drama Frank explores the relationship between mental illness and music through the story of a struggling songwriter who joins an enigmatic indie rock band fronted by the peculiar, charismatic Frank.

Domhnall Gleeson stars as Jon, a spry, naive musician still living with his parents in a bleak English suburb. Jon has aspirations of becoming a famous songwriter, but he struggles to find inspiration to write something meaningful. His world is transformed when he happens upon a quirky indie band, called Soronprfbs, playing in his town. After their keyboard player goes mad, they invite him to fill in for their gig that night and, a few days later, invite him to join the band to record a new album.

The band is fronted by Frank (Michael Fassbender) who wears a giant papier-mâché head that he never takes off. The band — which includes a seething French-speaking couple, the grim, unfriendly Clara (Maggie Gyllenhaal), and manager Don (Scoot McNairy) — collectively abscond to a cabin in the Irish countryside to write and record. Plagued by each member's collective madness and myriad mental issues, the record takes more than a year (and all of Jon's inheritance) to make. All the while, Jon is secretly filming the process and uploading the videos to YouTube, turning Frank and the rest of the band into viral stars. The band is subsequently invited to play SXSW, where the hype for the enigmatic group causes everyone to spiral toward a full mental breakdown.

Making any movie on a tight budget is tough — but when it comes to horror, low funds can be a secret weapon. Rather than blow all the budget on slick special effects and grotesque makeup, low-budget horror directors are forced to focus on creating a sense of dread and unease through atmosphere. Writer/director Nicholas McCarthy is a master of this, and his latest feature — the unbearably creepy At The Devil's Door further demonstrates his mastery at creating a haunting movie through pacing and tone.

At the Devil's Door opens as a girl makes out with a boy she just met. She tells him she loves him, and he tells her she can make $500 simply by playing a game. He takes her to a trailer in the middle of the desert, where an old man asks her to simply play a shell game for the money. After correctly guessing all three times, he tells her she's been chosen and says she needs to go down to the road and say her name, "so he knows her name when he calls for her." The evening does not end well.

From there, the film jumps ahead nearly 20 years, as real estate agent Leigh (Catalina Sandino Moreno) tries to sell the ill-fated house where the film began. Unfortunately, time has not dulled the effects of the past, and the supernatural occurrences follow Leigh as she stays in the house while she preps it to go back on the market. Plagued by visions of the girl from the prologue, Leigh attempts to unravel the insidious mystery of what happened.

Like some of the best indie horror flicks of the past decade, At The Devil's Door succeeds on suspense, leaving audiences in a state of constant anxiety as they wait for the next big scare to hit. If only McCarthy's script was as focused; once the third act hits, it feels as though he's grasping at straws to wrap things up. Still, At The Devil's Door is one of the stronger indie horrors to come out this year, and well worth checking out.

Fans of Brazil will quickly see stylistic and narrative connections to the 1985 classic. Christoph Waltz stars as Qohen Leth, a neurotic programmer who works for a conglomerate called Mancom. The exact nature of Mancom is murky, but Qohen is one of dozens of programmers who "crunches entities" into the company's super computer. Qohen isn't a happy man — he's plagued by an existential crisis, believing that he accidentally hung up on a mysterious phone call years ago by a person who said he was going to tell him what his purpose in life is. Qohen now spends every free minute sitting by his phone at home, waiting for that person to call back.

At a party, Qohen meets the mysterious boss of Mancom — known only as "management" (Matt Damon) — who eventually agrees to let Qohen work from home on a special project trying to crack the "Zero Theorem," a purportedly unsolvable mathematical equation. As he's leaving the party, Qohen has a chance encounter with the beautiful Bainsley (Mélanie Thierry), who aggressively comes on to him despite his neurotic, unusual demeanor.

In 1990, a group of amateur paleontologists, led by Pete and Neal Larson, set out to dig for dinosaur fossils in the badlands of South Dakota. It was an area that they'd frequented often, with modest success. But on one fateful day they made the discovery of a lifetime: the skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus Rex that turned out to be the largest and most complete T. Rex skeleton ever unearthed. Todd Douglas Miller's thrilling, journalistic, and occasionally tragic Dinosaur 13 is an in-depth look into the Larson's historic discovery, which led to a legal battle with the FBI, the National Park Service, the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and the owner of the land over the T. Rex's ownership

Miller's film opens with archival footage and the Larsons digging in the South Dakota badlands. They're digging on the land of Maurice Williams — whom they paid only a couple thousand dollars — with the contingency that whatever they dig up is theirs to keep. The T. Rex they eventually find — nicknamed "Sue," after paleontologist Susan Hendrickson — turns out to be nearly 80 percent complete. No other T. Rex skeleton is more than 40 percent.

After about two years of quietly working on the skeleton, the Black Hills Institute is suddenly swarmed by hundreds of FBI agents and the National Guard, who claim that Sue was stolen from private federal property, and spend several days seizing her. Things get messier when it turns out that the exact location Sue was unearthed was so close to the border of Native American land, federal land, and Maurice Williams' property that no one can be positive about who she truly belongs to.

Now considered one of the best crime-drama films ever made, Sydney Lumet's Dog Day Afternoon stars Al Pacino in one of his most iconic roles: Sonny Wortzik, a lively bank robber who ends up in a tense hostage situation when his plans go awry. It's an undisputed classic — but what's less well-known is the film's real-life origins: the life of Brooklyn native John Wojtowicz, who tried to rob a Brooklyn bank in 1972 to pay for his lover's sex change operation.

Wojtowicz is as lively and charismatic as Pacino's portrayal indicated. He walks us through the early years of his life, growing up in the '60s and taking pride in his perverse and unyielding sexual libido. He talks about taking tons of lovers — both men and women — before finally settling down and marrying a woman in his early twenties. Of course, the marriage didn't last and Wojtowicz's increasing sexual appetite for men led him to cheat on his wife before separating from her and becoming increasingly involved in the LGBT movement in New York in the late 1960s and early 1970s.

Eventually, Wojtowicz met and fell in love with Ernest Aron, and quickly married her in a public ceremony in 1971. Aron (who was born male, but identified as female) didn't have the money to pay for a sex change operation. In August of 1972, Wojtowicz, along with his friends Salvatore Naturale and Robert Westenberg, attempted to rob a Chase Manhattan bank in Brooklyn to pay for Aron's operation. What was supposed to be a quick in-and-out job turned into a 14-hour hostage situation, which turned into a national ordeal when the TV news media picked it up. Wojtowicz was arrested and sentenced to 20 years in prison. (He eventually served six.)

While The Dog offers a lively profile of Wojtowicz, it doubles as a fascinating snapshot of the LGBT movement of the 1970s. Through Wojtowicz, we get a snapshot of the struggles that many gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transsexual people faced in a time where tolerance wasn't high for minorities. Wojtowicz, in particular, was a prominent LGBT activist who led many demonstrations and organized awareness events. While Dog Day Afternoon provides the hook, it's the overall story that really makes The Dog worth watching.

It takes a brave filmmaker to put an entire movie on the shoulders of two actors. Fortunately, Charlie McDowell found the perfect pair to carry off his quirky two-hander: mumblecore staple Mark Duplass and Mad Men's Elisabeth Moss, who spring the film's head-scratching premise off the page and onto the screen. Offering a cross between the metaphysical mindscapes of Charlie Kaufman and the terse, rhythmic theatrical style of Neil LaBute, The One I Love is a bizarre and sometimes bitingly funny comedy-drama with sci-fi sensibilities.

Ethan (Duplass) and Sophie's (Moss) marriage is on the rocks, and at the behest of their therapist (Ted Danson) they agree to a romantic weekend at a secluded vacation house in Northern California. At first, things are going really well — the time alone is bringing them together and reminding them of why they fell in love in the first place. But things take a turn for the weird when they both begin referencing things that happened just hours earlier — and neither has any idea what the other is talking about. As they try to discover what's really happening, it turns out that the quiet retreat in the secluded countryside isn't just an opportunity to face their problems — it's a chance to face themselves.

The One I Love offers a darkly comic reckoning of a relationship on the rocks that draws from both The Twilight Zone and Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Unfortunately, the script loses steam in the third act, which unnecessarily attempts to resolve many of the film's most intriguing ambiguities — but despite that step backwards, this is one of the most original and intriguing rom-coms released in 2014.

Rich Hill follows three boys in their early teens. Their personalities couldn't be more different, but they're all poor and they're all stuck in the same small town. There's the spry, bright, and motivated 13-year-old Andrew, who doesn't let his family's extreme poverty get in the way of his dreams. His parents are constantly on the move so his dad can outrun debt collectors, and his mom is a shut-in — but he doesn't let that bring him down.

Finally, there's 15-year-old Harley, who lives with his grandma and a house full of relatives because his mom is in prison. He's deeply emotional and misses his mother dearly, constantly on the phone with her or writing her letters. While he has his outlets to deal with the pain — generally cigarettes and music — he never lets his family see it, and constantly strives to be the one to light up the room.

Stop me if you've heard this one before: An aging, alcoholic cop in a small, isolated town attempts to solve a series of bizarre, gruesome murders. That's the basic premise of Jason Stone's feature film debut The Calling. But while the familiar premise doesn't win it any originality points, Stone's restrained, careful direction gives it a fascinating edge and wholly creepy tone. It occasionally falls victim to serial killer film cliches, but at its best, The Calling gives us a snapshot of what a more coherent, female-led season of True Detective could look like.

Earlier this summer, Susan Sarandon starred along Melissa McCarthy in the road trip comedy Tammy, giving her an opportunity to flex her underutilized comedic muscles. In The Calling, Sarandon once again proves her versatility and range as Hazel, an alcoholic, over-the-hill detective in a sleepy Canadian town. The town is scarred when Hazel pays a visit to one of the community's elderly women and finds that she's been brutally and meticulously murdered — the town's first homicide in four years. Pretty soon, more bodies begin popping up and Hazel starts to suspect it's the work of a serial killer.

Following in the footsteps of classic serial killer thrillers like Seven, The Silence of the Lambs, and Insomnia, The Calling often feels like it's a beat-by-beat retelling of a well-trafficked formula. But thanks to a performance by Sarandon, and a supporting cast that includes Topher Grace, Donald Sutherland, Ellen Burstyn, and Christopher Heyerdahl, The Calling is a movie fans of the genre will enjoy — even if it should have pushed it a little further.

If there were an Academy Award for "Trippiest Film," you'd be hard-pressed to find something more deserving in 2014 than Ari Folman's The Congress. The part-live-action/part-animated dystopian sci-fi flick blends a heady premise with some spectacularly psychedelic animation to create one of the most unique films released in ages. Think Naked Lunch meets Being John Malkovich by way of Heavy Metal, and you'll be in the right ballpark.

The Congress stars Robin Wright as a fictionalized version of herself. In this universe, after her breakthrough roles in The Princess Bride and Forrest Gump, her career tanked as she developed a reputation for being particularly fickle and hard to work with. Nearing 45, she can't seem land any roles — and to make matters worse, her son is suffering from a rare illness that will eventually take away his sight and hearing.

Robin's agent sets up a meeting with Miramount Studio, which offers her a unique opportunity: if she signs a contract, they'll digitally scan her entire body, personality, and emotions into a system that will computer-generate her likeness for future roles. The one stipulation is that she can never act again. Robin reluctantly agrees — but as she gradually realizes how much control of her own life she has suddenly given away, she realizes how much she has truly lost.

The revolution of cult fandom is neither new nor undocumented. Roger Nygard's 1997 documentary Trekkies, which explored the devoted fandom of Star Trek, is the Citizen Kane of fanboy documentaries, but there have been plenty since, from The People vs. George Lucas to Best Worst Movie. The genre might be well-trafficked, but A Brony Tale — Brent Hodge's exploration of the cult phenomenon of adult men obsessed with My Little Pony — is another.

A large group of mostly adult males obsessed with a TV show made for little girls justifiably sets off a few red flags, but A Brony Tale aims to set the record straight. As the film takes great pains to show, Bronies aren't creepy perverts or misguided man-children; they're normal adult men who just happen to love My Little Pony. Hodge frames his film through the recollections of voice actress Ashleigh Ball, who voices several characters in the modern iteration of the show, Friendship is Magic. Ball's story is intercut with interviews of self-proclaimed Bronies — the collective term for bros who like My Little Pony — as they explain what it is about the show that attracts them so much.

Hodge deserves credit for assembling a fascinatingly diverse group of men: the world's "manliest" Brony, members of a college Brony "fraternity," and even military Bronies, who get characters from the show engraved on their weapons. A Brony Tale isn't exactly a groundbreaking documentary, but its open-minded exploration into what it means to be a modern man makes it a compelling case study of a particular cult fandom.

David Lynch's 1984 adaptation of Frank Herbert's classic sci-fi novel Dune was both a box-office failure and a critical bomb: Roger Ebert's initial review called it "an incomprehensible, ugly, unstructured, pointless excursion into the murkier realms of one of the most confusing screenplays of all time." But a decade before Lynch butchered the novel, cult filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky began a long and ultimately fruitless quest to adapt Dune. With names like Mick Jagger, Orson Welles, and Salvador Dali in the cast, Pink Floyd writing the score, and H.R. Giger heading up set and character design, Jodorowsky's Dune might have been the greatest sci-fi epic the world had ever seen — if it had actually been made.

Pavich uses several long interviews with Jodorowsky to guide the film's narrative. With Jodorowsky as our guide, Pavich takes us back in time to explore how the film took shape. Using loads of archival material — mostly collected in an encyclopedia-sized book Jodorowsky owns — Pavich paints a picture of a young Jodorowsky, fresh of the success of his trippy art-house films and eager to tackle a big project. Two years after film producer Arthur P. Jacobs bought the rights to Dune, he died, and Jodorowsky acquired them. With Frank Herbert's blessing, an eager Jodorowsky began piecing together his dream team to make the movie a reality. But after several years and $2 million dollars spent on pre-production — and a script that would have required a 14-hour film — the film eventually lost funding, as no studio could afford to pay what Jodorowsky felt he needed to make his masterpiece.

The story is entertaining, but the real hook comes in learning the cultural impact of a film that was never even made. Parts of Jodorowsky's script, alongside its concept art, went on to inspire films like Star Wars and Alien. Jodorowsky's Dune might have been another huge failure like Lynch's, or it may have been the greatest sci-fi film ever made. We'll never know— but, thanks to Pavich's terrific documentary, the complete record of one of cinema's greatest what-if stories won't be lost forever.

What does it say about the state of cinema in 2014 when the summer's best blockbuster was initially released on just eight screens, followed by a VOD rollout only a couple of weeks later? It says a lot, but in the particular case of Snowpiercer — the English-language debut of South Korean writer-director Bong Joon-ho — the odd rollout has to do with a dispute between Bong and the film's distributor, The Weinstein Company. Originally, The Weinstein Company's head honcho Harvey Weinstein wanted Bong to cut down 25 minutes of the film for its North American release (the film had a different international distributor), but Bong refused. Eventually, Weinstein conceded and the full cut was released, but not without repercussions — hence the limited release and VOD rollout. Still, that says something significant about the state of cinema in 2014, as Snowpiercer is, thus far, the best sci-fi/action film released during the peak season for those kinds of films.

Based of the French graphic novel Le Transperceneige by Jacques Lob, Benjamin Legrand, and Jean-Marc Rochette, Snowpiercer takes place in a post-apocalyptic future, wherein an experiment to help prevent global warming backfired, causing Earth to enter into another ice age. The remaining population lives within a massive, trans-global train powered by an eternal, perpetual-motion engine. It's not such a bad deal if you're one of the elite few who snagged a spot in the ritzy front end of the train. But for the rest of the population crammed in horrid, filthy conditions in the rear, it's hell.

Class order is kept under control by the dictatorial Minister Mason (Tilda Swinton), who ensures the tail end knows their place and won't try to revolt — often through violent tactics. However, a revolution is brewing. Led by the charismatic everyman Curtis (Chris Evans), who, along with Edgar (Jamie Bell), the elder Gilliam (John Hurt), and the rest of his tail end comrades, organizes and executes a swift revolt. Their goal is to reach the engine room, controlled by the mysterious, deity-like architect of the train, Wilford (Ed Harris). Take control of the engine, they believe, and they'll take control of the train.

On the surface, Snowpiercer is a cleverly simple film: a group of oppressed people slowly fight their way to freedom, one train car at a time. But the film is much more than that; it's a sly political commentary and philosophical treatise on the nature of humanity and class order. Bong does a superb job directing; seamlessly blending intense, wonderfully choreographed action sequences with a complex, twisty narrative. Evans, already a proven leading man, heads up a stellar ensemble cast that gives the gritty film a robust backbone.

Part of what makes prolific indie filmmaker Joe Swanberg such a distinct auteur is his ability to coax such naturalistic performances from his actors. So much so that his films feel less like a cinematic story and more like dramatic retellings of actual experiences. There's no catastrophic plot twists nor grandiose revelations from his characters; instead, his characters only hint that they've grown in some way by the end of the film. Working with his biggest budget and highest profile cast since last summer's Drinking Buddies, Happy Christmas is another slight character-driven drama that finds its characters stuck in various crossroads in their lives.

The film opens as young married couple Jeff (Swanberg) and his novelist wife Kelly (Melanie Lynskey) await the arrival of his 20-something younger sister Jenny (Anna Kendrick), who is moving back to Chicago to live with them. As Jeff's work like picks up and Kelly is eager to write her second novel, they want someone to be around to help take care of their 2 year old. What better solution than to let Jenny live in their basement and help out, right? A lot, as it turns out.

Jenny spends the first night in her new residence out partying so hard that Jeff gets a middle-of-the-night wake-up call to come pick up a passed out Jenny from a stranger's party. She "doesn't normally do that kind of thing," Jenny swears, but Kelly still doesn't trust her to babysit her kid. Eventually, however, the two begin to hang out more and develop a strong bond. Jenny helps Kelly loosen up and inspires her to get back into writing, while Kelly encourages Jenny to clean up her act a little and be more responsible.

Those seeking a salacious character drama in Happy Christmas will probably leave bored and yawning. At his best, Swanberg channels the great French New Wave auteur Eric Rohmer, wherein his characters have ambitious, emotive goals, but often fail themselves and the others around them. Swanberg's craft is to create complex character portraits that only reveal itself one scene at a time, and he's a master at it. Swanberg is subtle cinema at its subtlest.

You can't talk about the history of cinema without talking about Roger Ebert. The longtime Chicago Sun-Times film critic was probably the most famous American film critic of all time, thanks in part to his long-running review show with co-host Gene Siskel, At The Movies With Siskel & Ebert. The latest documentary from Steve James (Hoop Dreams, The Interrupters), Life Itself, is the life story of Ebert—how he got into film criticism, his rise to fame in the medium, how he met and fell in love, and the devastating illness that took away his ability to speak and, ultimately, his life. Ebert is a beloved figure and it'd be hard to turn any film about him into a dull experience, but what makes Life Itself unique is how James films Ebert in the last days of his life. Ebert died in the middle of filming and Life Itself chronicles his last few days as he reflects on life, love, and, of course, the movies.

Loosely following the structure of Ebert's memoir of the same name, Life Itself opens as Ebert is entering the hospital for the umpteenth time: He's suffered a fracture in his hip that is going to take some time to heal. Juxtaposing home videos and vintage pictures with Ebert's narration from the hospital, James paints a portrait of his early life: an avid newspaperman from his schoolboy years, to his college days, where he was the fierce editor-in-chief for his school's paper, The Daily Illini.

The film examines the milestones in his life — becoming the film critic at the Sun-Times, winning a Pulitzer Prize, getting his own show with Gene Siskel — along with the dark times he had, like his battle with alcoholism that eventually led him to sobriety in 1979. But at the heart of Life Itself is his marriage to Chaz at age 50. Through Ebert's narration and the footage James captured before the end of his life, it's clear that the romance between Roger and Chaz is on par with the greatest love stories.

It's nearly an impossible task to objectively rate and review a documentary about Roger Ebert's life because, really, it's like reviewing part of the history of cinema. To quote The Onion, in their brief but pitch-perfect obituary of Ebert, Life Itself is like his life, "at times brutally sad, yet surprisingly funny, and always completely honest," if "a little on the long side." But, since I do have to rate it, it obviously gets two thumbs up.

Michael Tully's Ping Pong Summer offers a familiar-sounding story about an awkward teenage boy who discovers friendship, love, and "himself" by playing ping pong during his family's summer vacation in a beach town. It might sound derivative, but Ping Pong Summer stand out because of Tully's clear nostalgia for a very specific time and place: Ocean City, Maryland in the 1980s. The story sometimes falls flat, and the acting (from a largely unknown cast) isn't always strong. But there's a sincerity to Ping Pong Summer that makes it a light charmer for anyone who's in the market for a coming-of-age film.

Ping Pong Summer follows the painfully awkward Radley (Marcello Conte) — a loner who spends his days alone in his parents' garage, happily listening to hip hop, working on his dance moves, and hitting a ping pong ball against a wall. His routine is interrupted when his parents decide they'll all spend their summer in the crummy beach town of Ocean City. Radley soon befriends Teddy (Myles Massey), another loner, and they decide to spend their time (and all their money) at the local arcade. Soon enough, Radley falls for the local teen beauty (Emmi Shockley), and resolves to win her heart by beating some local bullies in a ping pong match.

Ping Pong Summer is boilerplate coming-of-age fodder; at times, you begin to wonder if Tully cobbled the screenplay together using some sort of indie teen dramedy Mad Libs. But there's enough fun in the premise and a few forgotten retro cultural markers — from fashion to dance moves — that dish up some great gags. Like the '80s, there's a lot of fun to be had in Ping Pong Summer — even if it spends a little too much time retreading the past.

All Cheerleaders Die feels it should've been released 15 years ago, when risqué teen horror comedies were at their apex — and in a way, it was. In the new film, directors McKee and Sivertson are actually remaking their own 2001 low budget teen horror comedy, in which a group of cheerleaders are killed by their misogynistic jock counterparts and brought back to life through a Wiccan spell. The new All Cheerleaders Die features, most noticeably, a beefed-up budget, but the genre-busting intelligence has thankfully remained intact. A simple premise shouldn't feel so subversive, but All Cheerleaders Die manages to put a sly feminist twist on a tired genre.

It's not hard to tell where the plot of All Cheerleaders Die is going, but McKee and Sivertson's sly script positions the Maddy and her cheerleader friends as the unlikely protagonists of the film and — instead of the usual objectification — allows them to take revenge on the misogynists who wronged them. With shades of Bring It On, Buffy The Vampire Slayer, Jennifer's Body, and the '90s teen-witch classic The Craft, All Cheerleaders Die marks another enjoyable entry in the feminist horror canon.

Collette stars as Ellie Klug, a long-time music critic for a revered but struggling music magazine. It's the 10th anniversary of the sole record by the legendary singer-songwriter Matthew Smith, and Ellie's editor wants her to do a feature on it. Unfortunately, no one has seen or heard from Matthew in years, and he's long since been presumed dead. That last bit of info is especially painful to Ellie, as she was Smith's longtime girlfriend — but she begrudgingly accepts the assignment, and enlists the help of a peculiar ex-boyfriend (Thomas Haden Church).

Eventually, Ellie realizes that the search for Matthew Smith isn't really about him — it's about her, and getting over elements of her past that she's never really learned how to deal with. At times, Lucky Them's screenplay feels like a typical Hollywood rom-com instead of the smart indie dramedy it's trying to pass itself off as. Fortunately, Collette and Church are strong enough performers to nail the sweetly somber tone that elevates the material they're delivering.

Set in a rural Texas town in 1989, the film kicks off with a simple but powerful scene: Richard Dane (Michael C. Hall) and his wife (Vinessa Shaw) wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of an intruder in their house. Nervous and scared, Richard grabs a pistol hidden away in a shoebox to go investigate. There, he discovers a masked burglar, who he accidentally shoots and kills after getting spooked by his wife. When the police come, the killing is written off as self-defense. The sheriff explains that the burglar was a petty low-life whose only family is a father locked up in prison somewhere. Not long after the incident, the father, Ben (Sam Shepard), is released from prison and comes after Richard and his family, seeking revenge.

In the brutal opening scene of Zack Parker's Proxy, a young woman weeks away from going into labor is viciously assaulted in an alley on her way home from an OB/GYN appointment. She awakens in the hospital to discover that her assailant didn't take anything, but bashed her stomach in with a brick, killing her unborn child. It's a brutal opening sequence to stomach — but it's only the entry point to the twisted psychological ethos of Parker's film. Proxy is shocking and graphic at times, but it's the restrained, subtle reveal of its characters' psychological nature that makes it as impressive as it is disturbing.

When a social worker at the hospital asks the victim of the assault, Esther (Alexia Rasmussen), who she can call to help her recover, she says there's no one. We soon learn that Esther lives a fairly solitary life — she claims to have become pregnant through artificial insemination — but Parker slowly lifts her façade to reveal that she's far more psychologically tormented than we could ever imagine. After attending a support group meeting for people who have lost children, quiet, shy Esther befriends the cheery, talkative Melanie (Alexa Havins), who says she lost her husband and three-year-old son in a car accident. Esther becomes infatuated with Melanie — and when her phone calls aren't promptly returned, she begins to follow her.

Proxy's disturbing narrative slowly reveals itself through a series of semi-ludicrous developments, but Parker's classical filmmaking style never falters. His greatest asset is his ability to slowly build a gnawing sense of dread, while occasionally delivering jaw-dropping scenes of graphic violence that never come off as schlocky. Coupled with passable (if not uneven) performances by Rasmussen, Havins, Kristina Klebe, and omnipresent indie stalwart Joe Swanberg, Proxy is highly recommended viewing for those who can stomach it.

Writer/director Richard Ayoade's 2011 debut Submarine was a charmingly off-kilter, quirky coming-of-age film, but it suffered from its close resemblance to its obvious influences: Harold & Maude and the early work of Wes Anderson. In his new film The Double, Ayoade's quirky inventiveness is once again on display — but unfortunately, so are his influences. The Double feels like the offspring of Terry Gilliam and early Jean-Pierre Jeunet, combining absurdist surrealism with a distinctly industrial mise-en-scène.

Simon's life is thrown for a loop when his boss introduces a new hire, James Simon, who is exactly identical to Simon in every way (though strangely, no one seems to notice besides Simon and James). James may be Simon's double — but personality-wise, they are polar opposites. At first, they team up, working together to help Simon get closer to Hannah and James get acquainted to his new job. But Simon soon realizes that James' charismatic playboy double might have darker and more self-centered long-term goals.

When we meet Dwight, he's king derelict: scraggly-bearded, dirty, living out of a beat-up Pontiac near Rehoboth Beach, and sneaking in and out of unoccupied residences to clean himself up and find supplies. But his bohemian lifestyle is abruptly interrupted when a cop tracks him down to inform him that Will Cleland, the murderer of his parents, is about to be released. Fueled by rage and a primal sense of revenge, Dwight promptly takes to the road, quickly hunts down Will, and brutally murders him during his homecoming party while no one's around.

Blue Ruin's simplicity benefits enormously from the daring juxtaposition between a classic macho man narrative played and such an unexpected protagonist. Dwight is utterly ill-equipped to go on a bloody revenge-fueled rampage, but is so blinded by his determination, he's able to keep his wits about him, no matter how darkly silly his faults sometimes are. Much credit is owed to Blair, who plays the character with a determined, calculated earnestness.

There's a key scene in The Sacrament — House of The Devil director Ti West's latest exercise in slow-burn tension and terror — in which documentarian Sam (A.J. Bowen) is conducting a live interview with "Father," the enigmatic leader of a secluded commune. The interview starts fine, but ultimately deteriorates as Father accuses Sam of sensationalizing the interview for the documentary his crew is going to make. The scene is an apt and telling snapshot of what makes West such a master of his craft, and what separates his horror movies from the rest of the pack: his ability to slowly build a visceral sense of dread.

For The Sacrament, West employs the found-footage technique, telling the story of three multimedia journalists working for VICE who travel to an unknown country to visit a secluded utopian commune. Patrick (Kentucker Audley), a fashion photographer, hasn't heard from his troubled sister for a while until he receives an invitation to visit her at the commune. His VICE buddies, Sam and Jake (Joe Swanberg), are intrigued by the invitation and think it could make for a good piece, so they convince Patrick to let them tag along, cameras in tow.

Upon arriving at the commune, all is not what it seems: they're greeted by armed men shouting that it was only supposed to be Patrick visiting. Things are smoothed over and the trio is allowed in the commune, able to film whatever they like. Talking to residents, everyone seems happy, living harmoniously in the perfect utopia. But after Sam's interview, the facade of the commune slowly begins to decay, revealing the place for what it really is: a cult led by a maniacal leader who won't let anyone leave.

Unfortunately, the film falls victim to a number of cliches that makes the third act hit with a dull thud instead of a deafening crash. The Sacrament is based not so loosely on the Jonestown mass murder and suicide of 1978, and West fails to skirt the predictability The Sacrament's denouement. Still, there's no denying that West is one of the best directors in the horror genre today, and The Sacrament is necessary viewing for any fan of his work — even if it doesn't live up to his previous films.

There was a brief period in which it seemed like indie darling David Gordon Green — the man behind powerful film festival favorites George Washington and Snow Angels — had sold out for good, trading in lush cinematography and loaded imagery for fart jokes and one-liners in films like Pineapple Express and The Sitter. But last summer Green had a pseudo-return to form with the peculiar and thoughtful comedy-drama Prince Avalanche. That step in the right direction seems to have put him back on track; his latest, Joe, is a total return to form, exploring rural America and the dark side of human nature through a dreamy, stylistic narrative about an unlikely friendship between a troubled boy and an ex-con.

The titular Joe (played graciously and expertly by Nicolas Cage) is a grizzled ex-con who has spent years trying to put his troubled past behind him, and he's doing a pretty good job. He makes a living with his tree removal business, where he oversees a group of blue collar-types as they poison trees marked for removal. At night, he numbs the pain of his past through a steady diet of alcohol and prostitutes, all while trying to keep to himself and hold his enemies at bay.

Joe's life is shaken up when he meets Gary (Tye Sheridan), a spunky 15-year-old who's the product of an abusive alcoholic father and an indifferent mother. Gary hangs around until Joe gives him a job and the two quickly strike up an unusual but sincere friendship. But Joe's turbulent past catches up with him, and he finds himself slowly slipping back into old habits while developing a fondness for Gary, who quickly sees Joe as a father figure.

It's the rare film that begins with a health alert warning viewers of "flashing images and stroboscopic sequences" — but believe it or not, that's not the strangest thing about Ben Wheatley's surreal, visceral period piece A Field In England. In his short career, Wheatley has developed a knack for sly genre-bending films, which cleverly disguise themselves as one kind of film before suddenly revealing them to be something different entirely. Take, for instance, 2011's Kill List, which plays like a crime thriller with darkly comedic undertones before boldly morphing into supernatural horror film about a satanic cult.

These same devices are at play in A Field In England, in which Wheatley tackles the mid-17th century English Civil War. Everything from the gritty black-and-white cinematography to the nuanced costume designs screams "period piece." The film's plot centers on Whitehead (Reece Shearsmith), a cowardly alchemist's assistant on the run from a nasty military commander. Whitehead is quickly saved by Cutler (Ryan Pope) and the pair meet up with two other deserters, Jacob (Peter Ferdinando) and Friend (Richard Glover).

Though the script, written by Amy Jump, is plump with needless conversations and absurd back-and-forths between the group, the plot is pretty simple: They're just looking for an alehouse to unwind. But things get complicated when they come across O'Neill (Michael Smiley), an insidious alchemist who informs them of treasure buried nearby and forces them to search for it at musketpoint. It's at this point that A Field in England takes a turn for the surreal: the group accidentally feeds on some hallucinogenic mushrooms and the film, like its characters, slowly slips into a lucid state of nightmarish imagery.

There are several betrayals and some ever-escalating violence, but it's hard to tell what's actually happening and what's a hallucination. The film slips further and further into incomprehensibility as Wheatley employs rapid editing, flashing images, and other surreal imagery — and once again, we're left with a film that's totally different than how it began. There's much to admire in A Field In England, but it's mostly stylistic — a trippy visual journey into the visceral. Those looking for an authentic plot-driven period piece should steer clear, but those looking for a unique experience shouldn't hesitate.

When it comes to horror-musicals, it's hard to top The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Nearly 40 years after its release, you can still assume that every single weekend, there's at least one theater somewhere in the country packed full of Rocky Horror diehards dressed as their favorite characters and belting out their favorite tunes. You'd think that the success Rocky Horror has seen over the years would have spawned more imitators. There have been several high-profile horror musicals since Rocky Horror — Sweeney Todd, Little Shop of Horrors — but none have really achieved the adoration Sharman's film has.

Something of a cross between Scream, Sweeney Todd, and Phantom of the Opera, Stage Fright combines graphic violence with catchy show tunes to both horrific and comedic effect. In the film's opening flashback, rising Broadway starlet Kylie Swanson (Minnie Driver) nails her opening night in a musical called The Haunting of the Opera — and is quickly and gruesomely murdered by a killer wearing the mask of the play's villain. Flash forward ten years and Kylie's children, Camilla (Allie MacDonald) and Buddy (Douglas Smith) are living with Kylie's old flame (Meat Loaf) at a prestigious musical theater summer camp in upstate New York.

When Roger announces that this summer's production will be a kabuki version of The Haunting of the Opera — the first time it's been staged since Kylie's slaying — Camilla decides she wants to step out from working in the kitchen and audition for the musical. But things take a turn for the worse when someone dressed as the play's killer starts offing campers for real, and begins to terrorize Camilla after she's given the lead role.

Interspersed with cheeky musical numbers — especially the songs the killer sings, which are more like heavy metal ballads than musical theater numbers — Stage Fright effectively strikes a balance between self-aware humor and classic slasher tropes. The story is hackneyed, retreaded horror film fodder, but writer/director Jerome Sable's clever script and sleek direction that keeps it afloat. Theaters across the nation probably won't end up hosting sing-a-long midnight screenings of Stage Fright for decades to come, but it will hit the sweet spot for both horror and musical aficionados who are looking for something new.

There's a scene toward the end of rock documentary Mistaken For Strangers in which director Tom Berninger sits in his brother's guest room, surrounded by hundreds of editing notes taped to his wall, and breaks down. He knows that there's a good film buried within the hundreds of hours he shot; he just doesn't know how to cut it together. It's a surprisingly poignant and honest moment in a documentary that often feels farcical and fake. But Mistaken For Strangers isn't a Spinal Tap-esque mockumentary — it's an honest, hilarious, and surprisingly touching examination of two brothers and their often strenuous relationship. The only difference is that one of the brothers is a famous musician.

His brother agrees on the condition that he pitches in as a stagehand when he's not filming the band. To say that Matt is bumbling is an understatement. His interviews with The National's members are amateurish at best, and he's constantly being yelled at by the tour manager for screwing up. In one of the film's funniest scenes, he loses the guest list for the band's show in Los Angeles, which includes celebs like the cast of Lost and Werner Herzog. (To rectify the situation, he asks his brother to just go out there and "point them out" to him). It would be easy to laugh at Mistaken For Strangers, but the soul emerges as Tom Berninger he wasn't making a film about The National at all — but a film about his relationship with his brother.

Of course, it's still full of explicit sex. Taking place right where Volume I left off, Nymphomaniac: Volume II finds heroine Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg as an adult and Stacy Martin as a teen) reunited with Jerôme (Shia LaBeouf), the man who took her virginity. Despite her previous declaration of polygamy, Joe finds herself in a place of domesticity with Jerôme, but things aren't that sunny: She can no longer achieve orgasm. While she challenges Jerôme to please her sexually and more aggressively, it's clear that she's craving something more.

This leads to a series of bizarre sexual encounters that can best be described as von Trier-esque: bleak, perverted, but somehow darkly funny. She attempts a threesome with two African immigrants who don't speak a lick of English, only to have it go wrong because they can't stop arguing. Eventually, she hooks up with "K" (Jamie Bell), a mysterious sadomasochist — but when the relationship begins to cause problems in her day-to-day life, Volume II takes an intriguing shift.

All the while, the narrative periodically cuts back to the present, where Joe is telling her story to the bookwormish Seligman (Stellan Skarsgård). But where Volume I had Seligman vindicating her actions, he pays attention to Joe in Volume II with a more ominous agenda. Nymphomaniac: Volume II raises the bar that the first chapter set, and together, this might be the boldest, bleakest, funniest, and best film of Lars von Trier's career. It's also perhaps the hardest to stomach. But with a film called Nymphomaniac — and a track record like von Trier's — did you really expect this to be an easy watch?

Daniel Patrick Carbone's Hide Your Smiling Faces is less a film than it is a poetic meditation on nature, friendship, adolescence, and death. The dream-like, loose narrative of the film follows two young boys one summer in rural America as a tragic event forces them to confront their own mortality. But Hide Your Smiling Faces isn't a rumination on the loss of innocence; it's an exploration of the things that make up youthful innocence in the first place. With a thoughtful script and gorgeous, naturalistic cinematography, Hide Your Smiling Faces is a beautiful, inquisitive, philosophical film for the Terrence Malick fan in all of us.

It's another sticky, aimless summer for 14-year-old Eric (Nathan Varnson) and his 9-year-old brother Tommy (Ryan Jones). They spend their days riding around on bikes throughout their nameless rural town in New Jersey, exploring the woods, and rough-housing with the other neighborhood boys. Things get dark, however, when Eric peers down from a steep bridge and notices the body of a kid lying motionless by the water. He and a friend go down to explore and discover the lifeless body of a neighborhood kid, who turns out to be one of Tommy's friends.

Some will find Hide Your Smiling Faces' minimalism to be a somber slog, and those turned off by movies that aren't heavy on plot should certainly steer clear. But if you like a philosophical portrait of adolescence, wherein the heady themes are portrayed through lush visuals, you'll find plenty to ponder and admire in Hide Your Smiling Faces. It's one of the most striking independent films in recent memory.

E.L. Katz's wildly entertaining pitch black comedy Cheap Thrills doesn't exactly have the same sense of gritty realism — but it does have the same deranged spirit. There's an ebb and flow to the film's narrative vileness, as its characters desperately try to raise the bar in the degenerate acts they commit. But unlike Pink Flamingos, Cheap Thrills doesn't exist merely to make you gag; there's an interesting story here, and Katz's assured direction makes it a sometimes bitingly funny, viscerally unsettling film.

Craig (Pat Healy) is a downtrodden everyman on the verge of losing it all. His family is facing eviction and he doesn't have the money to pay his landlord what he owes. To make matters worse, he gets fired from his job as a car mechanic. Scared to face his wife, Craig heads to the bar to drink his troubles away when he runs into an old high school buddy, Vince (Ethan Embry). While they catch up and Craig tells him about his recent woes, a rich, boisterous man (David Koechner), and his wife (Sara Paxton) buddy up with Craig and Vince, buying them drinks and giving them cash for completing petty, immature bets.

Let's get this out of the way: If you've never seen an episode of the TV show Veronica Mars, there's probably no reason for you to watch this movie. The cult TV series followed the exploits of teen private detective Veronica Mars (Kristen Bell), who lives in the fictional, economically divided town of Neptune, California. Throughout the show's original run, Veronica helped solve cases involving murder, infidelity, theft, drugs, and more while balancing life as a high school girl and all the social anxieties that came with it. (Think Buffy the Vampire Slayer meets The O.C. and you're not far off.)

Fast forward ten years and you arrive at the beginning of the Veronica Mars movie. Veronica has long since left both the private detective game and Neptune behind. She's a soon-to-be lawyer in New York City living with her boyfriend, Piz (Chris Lowell), whom she first met in college (during the show's third season). All is well in Veronica's life until she learns that Logan Echolls (Jason Dohring) — her celebrity ex-beau, with whom she shares an epic history — has been accused of killing his pop-star ex-girlfriend. Against her better judgment, Veronica returns to Neptune to help solve the case and clear Logan of his name.

As an accessible, mainstream movie, Veronica Mars doesn't quite hold together. Fortunately, that's irrelevant; it doesn't really need to. This film was demanded by fans, paid for by fans (in a $5.7 million Kickstarter campaign), and in turn, tailor-made for preexisting fans of the show. It feels less like a cinematic film than it does a made-for-TV movie — but again, that's not necessarily a bad thing. For Veronica Mars fans this is certainly an enjoyable, satisfying experience: Signature characters return, the show's trademark wit and humor is back, and all the little nuances and niche elements that made the show so special aren't lost in the adaptation. For the viewers who waited seven years for this movie, that's probably good enough.

Director Lars von Trier has earned a reputation for his bleak, provocative films like Antichrist and Melancholia. His latest work is no different: Nymphomaniac: Volume 1 has been described by von Trier as a two-part "sex epic" — but as it turns out, it's less about the physical act of sex than the morals of it. Is someone a bad person simply because of their heightened sexuality? Nymphomaniac: Volume 1 has plenty of attention for both its graphic nature and the recent off-screen antics of star Shia LaBeouf. But looking beyond the controversy and hype, viewers will find a genuinely fascinating tale of sexuality, morality, and the blurry line that separates the two.

Nymphomaniac: Volume I kicks off with a gorgeous slow-motion tracking shot of a young woman lying bruised and beaten in a dimly lit alley way. The woman, Joe (played by Charlotte Gainsbourg as an adult and Stacy Martin in her younger years), is found by a curious passerby, Seligman (Stellan Skarsgård). He takes her in, cleans her up, and offers to get her help, but Joe isn't having any of it: She claims to have deserved whatever happened to her and insists to Seligman that she's a bad person because she's a self-described nymphomaniac. Broken up into five chapters, the film's narrative is presented as a dialogue between Joe and Seligman as Joe explains how her tumultuous history with men and sex has led her to the present situation.

Most of Volume I depicts Joe's sexual history from high school through early adulthood, showing her evolution in an episodic nature: She loses her virginity to a scruffy local stud named Jerôme (LaBeouf) in her early teens; partakes in a contest with a high school bestie to see who can sleep with the most men in a given train ride; and forms an anti-love, pro-sex club in college, wherein members cannot sleep with the same guy twice. As Joe enters into early adulthood, she balances sexual relationships with as many as 10 men at a time, carefully parsing her schedule to make time for all the hookups. The film repeatedly cuts back to the present day, as Joe and Seligman volley back and forth as to whether Joe is a good person.

Nymphomaniac: Volume I's fascinating central narrative feels like an inner dialogue von Trier is having with himself about his own moralistic insecurities, offering a balanced, raw exploration of mankind's most primal desires. It's a graphic film, and at times it's hard to stomach, but its frank sexual depictions are never just for spectacle; they're just the impetus for the stark, thoughtful questions at the heart of the film.

Part of what makes The Machine so great is its simplicity: The film takes place almost entirely in a single military compound, and it uses its single-setting location to establish its dark, stylish mise-en-scène. The Machine's central narrative might sound conventional — a scientist invents an artificial intelligence that blurs the line between man and machine — but there's a lot more going on than your average sci-fi potboiler.

The Machine takes place in a not-too-distant dystopian future in which Great Britain is in the midst of a Cold War with China. Vincent McCarthy (Toby Stephens) is a scientist working for the British army on a new secret weapon that could potentially be a game-changer in the war: An android programmed to think and act on its own. After numerous unsuccessful attempts to integrate the artificial intelligence into severely wounded veterans, Vincent finds success after his newly hired assistant Ava (Caity Lotz) is killed by a Chinese spy.

Vincent uses software developed by Ava before she died to develop a fully functional, free-thinking android that's physically modeled after Ava. Vincent's daughter is suffering from a mentally debilitating illness that's slowly killing her, and he's optimistic that his recent breakthrough can also be used to save her. But the military general (Denis Lawson) overseeing the project has other plans for The Machine, and when it begins developing its own sentience — inheriting much of the same compassion and reluctance toward violence that Ava had — The Machine ends up at the center of a philosophical battle for the future of technology.

Matt is an arts journalist and freelance writer based in Washington, D.C. He has written about film, music, and pop culture for publications including Washington City Paper, The American Interest, Slant Magazine, DCist, and others. He is a member of the Washington D.C. Film Critics Association.

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