As with The Secret of Kells and Song of the Sea, Golden Globe-nominee The Breadwinner boasts simplistically breathtaking animation. But its true beauty lies in the heart of its story. After her father is arrested, a young girl named Parvana cuts her hair, disguising herself as a boy, to save her family from starvation. Equally moving and at times heartbreaking—a scene where Parvana’s mother is beaten for being outdoors during the day brought tears to my eyes—The Breadwinner reminds us of the importance of family and standing up for what is morally right in the face of adversity.

Unconcerned with genre, Hostiles instead grapples with the enormity of Western Expansion. Scott Cooper’s methodical character study finds Captain Joseph Blocker (Christian Bale) tasked with returning a cancer-ridden Cheyenne Chief (Wes Studi) back to his people’s valley in Montana. Along the way, his escort rescues Rosalie Quaid (Rosamund Pike), whose family was massacred. Although beautifully lensed and expertly acted, Hostiles second act meanders and features a contrived final confrontation. Yet, the sum of its parts proves the Western’s heart still beats, even as it goes out in a good way as Blocker wishes for Yellow Hawk as he nears death. 

I, Tonya is the perfect homage to a bizarre story, capitalizing on the media’s villainization of Harding. As the first figure skating film that’s not considered a romantic comedy, it does everything it should. The romance is replaced by abuse. Abuse from her mother, from her husband, and now, America.

The film falls short on its ability to characterize Harding as more than a trashy ice princess, but it shines in its ability to maintain Harding’s innocence, blaming the media and its idealized perception of the female athlete in a ‘feminine’ sport.

The film isn’t perfect, but neither is Harding.

IFC Midnight’s Devil’s Gate earns the title of First Bad Horror Film of 2018. The film follows an FBI agent (Amanda Schull) and deputy sheriff (Shawn Ashmore) as they investigate the disappearance of a mother and son. Things get weird from there. Aside from a strong booby trap kill within the first ten minutes and passable creature effects, a weak script full of religious and extraterrestrial clichés that don’t gel, stilted acting, and God-awful color timing—seriously, skins tones look like Hellboy for half the movie—bring down this junkship of a film with no chance to phone home.

Ashley, the other relief bartender at the Disco Duck, had told me not to worry, that she was an expert at the manifestation of cold, hard cash. “It’s called the dry hustle, honey,” she’d said in her saccharin drawl. “Dry because you never have to, you know, fuck ’em?”

It suddenly occurred to Amy that the one person she wanted to talk to was the one person who remained elusive, hidden, actually, by the blacked-out glass of his Ram truck. The driver had not appeared. Between the tinted windows and the reflections off the glass, she couldn’t be sure who was in the truck or how many there might be. 

A silver-haired woman with still-taut cheekbones smiles from the ad. A pitch for magic potions aimed at women with crow’s feet and creases. A woman like me, experienced in flutters of self-doubt and twinges of loss. Vulnerable to the seductive pull of junk science and sly text—serums with proven clinical strength, the latest in anti-wrinkle technology. Sweet-smelling fruit extracts to moisturize, rejuvenate, illuminate. Who doesn’t want to glow with renewed vitality?