Darius McCollum loves public transit. More specifically, he loves the trains that stream through the MTA system. The New York subway has been a lifelong obsession for him—a playground, a safe haven, and a place where new friends are never in short supply. It’s also a forbidden source of temptation, as Darius has been arrested more than 30 times for impersonating a train operator as well as various other transit employees. Considering his passion for the Transit Authority and his considerable knowledge of subway routes and procedures, one might wonder why Darius doesn’t apply for a position with the MTA rather than continue on as a criminal. As director Adam Irving details in Off the Rails, the reality of the situation is not so simple.

At the root of Darius’s compulsion is his Asperger’s syndrome. A defining characteristic of the disorder is an intense interest in one subject, and this has led Darius to study everything there is to know about the New York subway system. There is nothing malicious about his repeated transgressions. While most hijackings of public transit might spring from violent derangement or anarchistic intent, Darius’ actions rise from personal fulfillment and uncommon dutifulness. He follows the schedules, making every stop without deviation and carefully attending to any malfunctions with the necessary precautions.

Off the Rails takes viewers through the origins of this infatuation using home movies, cartoons, and testimonies from his mother as well as extensive interviews with the subject himself. We learn that Darius was bullied as a child and struggled to make friends. He found solace in the subway, where people didn’t judge him. Beloved by MTA employees for his enthusiasm, Darius became a kind of junior volunteer, helping out the operators with various tasks and eventually being taught how to run the train (an experience he compares to losing his virginity). But things turned sour when he was spotted behind the controls by police at the age of 15. Darius was arrested on the spot and soon became Public Enemy Number One to MTA executives for his repeated crimes, as posters bearing his image covered the subway walls. Even after growing to be of age, every application Darius sent to the corporation was rejected. Most of his life since that first arrest has found him wavering between jail time and virtual homelessness.

The documentary builds upon the context of Darius’s past to deliver a compelling study of his character and inner conflicts. We spend a lot of time with Darius, as the filmmakers capture his feelings with a compassionate camera, juxtaposing personal reflections with vibrant montages of train yards, bustling subway stations and brief scenes of everyday NYC street life. Listening to Darius, one gets the impression of a heartbreakingly sincere man—a man who sees the value in a few words of levity spoken to brighten another person’s day, who refers to Superman as a moral standard to live by, and who wrestles with delusions of his capacity for self-control. Darius may call himself “shy,” but he makes some fascinating insights, and his consistent presence really holds the film together.

Unfortunately, the audience isn’t allowed to draw its own conclusions on his behavior, as multiple therapists and Asperger’s specialists are brought on as talking heads. A certain degree of clinical observation is necessary to better understand Darius’ needs, but the impulse to frequently cut to the experts feels excessive. Rather than letting the implications of the subject’s words and actions stand by themselves (with perhaps some minor supporting commentary from those close to him), the filmmakers lean a little too heavily on the objective assessments to fill out their central characterization. As a result, Darius’ narrative comes off as slightly less intimate and more constructed.

About halfway through Off the Rails, the film begins to shift its focus from Darius to the legal system he finds himself ensnared in. Irving confronts the perpetual cycle of law-breaking and incarceration, taking aim at a courtroom that fails to acknowledge Darius’ unique psychological circumstances and a correctional department that doesn’t know what to do with him. This is where the sound bites from therapists and experts are most meaningful. The film campaigns for common sense solutions, calling upon the MTA to hire a man who would likely be their best employee and arguing for court rulings that wouldn’t serve to exacerbate the situation. A portrait of injustice begins to take shape and Darius is effectively painted as the victim of institutional neglect.

Pulling its unusual subject matter from the tongue-in-cheek headlines of local TV news, Off the Rails serves to humanize a person too often made out to be an eccentric curiosity. It’s a solid character study that admirably balances empowerment, hardship, empathy, and advocacy.

Deep in the wilderness of northern British Columbia beats the heart of the Tahltan people. They’re a First Nations tribe, surrounded by breathtaking snow-capped mountains and sharing space with various beasts they’ve called neighbors for thousands of years. The glorious expanse is seemingly timeless, largely unspoiled by deforestation and man-made structures. But as the Tahltan people struggle to retain their language and keep up native traditions in the 21^st century, a new threat to their land and way of life looms. Companies wanting to mine the area for its copper and gold set up shop, and their plans put the health of the land at stake.

Director Nettie Wild weaves a dazzling tapestry with KONELĪNE: our land beautiful. More formally experimental than the average documentary, the film doesn’t attack the environmental issues through any one perspective. In fact, there isn’t much of anything here that qualifies as an “attack” at all. The approach is far more meditative. A multitude of voices overlap, sharing feelings and personal histories while Wild showcases the region through expressive cinematography and editing. What this method produces is a lyrical ode to a bountiful and diverse landscape, along with the human beings who make it their home.

For all the beauty of KONELĪNE’s visuals, it’s the human subjects who make up the bedrock of the film. A series of vignette-like sequences are threaded throughout, giving the audience some quality time with the lifestyle and viewpoints of Tahltan natives and foreigners alike. Wild follows local fishermen as they cast their nets, a woman guiding hunters on horseback through steep mountain ranges, and a man with a dogsled who speaks with pride about running the same trails his ancestors followed. She speaks with a driller who chronicles the area’s geological history, and turns her camera on a pair of conflicted Tahltan mining employees who say that, in their impoverished state, they can’t afford to turn down the jobs.

This is only a sampling of the subjects that take the spotlight. The doc’s colorful tableau of experiences brings the viewer close to the realities of living in the region, and Wild appears to take pleasure in documenting the nitty-gritties of everyday work, showing a narrow focus on the work each person does with their hands. Horseshoes are fashioned and fastened to scuffed hooves, transition lines are painstakingly set up by a small crew, and fish are carefully cleaned at homemade butchering stations by the riverbank—all of this captured with a strong attention to detail. For fans of Werner Herzog, some of these scenes may feel reminiscent of his film Happy People: A Year in the Taiga in their fascination with the earthly qualities of independent living.

The film cannot be discussed without addressing its handling of the environment. The remote countryside is lensed with the same attention to detail as the people, but the land conveys the added weight of something formidable and pure. Wide shots capture postcard-ready vistas, and well-placed close-ups—such as one of hailstones falling on butterfly wings—express a measure of fragility. As one of the interviewees notes, it’s a land “with a personality.” Aided by a soundscape that mixes twinkling bells with wind gusts and rhythmic tribal drums, Wild demonstrates how that personality transfers to the spirit of the people who live off the land.

KONELĪNE: our land beautiful is a serenely delivered tribute to the Tahltan people and the earth they’re tied to. The themes here echo environmentalism, but the film moves more like a poem than a preachy assault on corporate greed. This is transportive, ethereal documentary filmmaking that is well-worth experiencing on the biggest screen possible.

Pandemic is exactly what it says it is. There is no deceptive setup, no mind-altering plot twist, and no moment where the story’s world suddenly expands to encompass something much more grand and complex. Director John Suits’ infection thriller has none of the disease politics of Contagion or the thematic underpinnings of Blindness. It skews much closer to the raw thrills of something like [REC], sticking to a simple, survival plot, relying on its POV gimmick (the film is shot almost entirely through cameras mounted on the characters’ hazmat suits) and gore money shots for entertainment value. This is an unpretentious B-movie executed with enough competence to keep it out of the Syfy Channel’s late night rotation, but that doesn’t mean it’s particularly compelling.

Lauren (Rachel Nichols) is newly stationed at a compound that serves as a quarantine zone for survivors of an outbreak that has swept across the planet in the near future. The origins of the disease are kept relatively vague, but we’re given plenty of hints at the condition of the outside world through a dose of exposition that opens the film. Our protagonist gets assigned as a doctor to a four-person squad. Their mission is to maneuver a bus across a ravaged Los Angeles to a school, where they must gather any survivors hiding there and pick up whatever supplies they might find. As you might expect, the trip doesn’t exactly go as planned, and the team finds itself stranded amongst diseased monsters.

Standing in the way of the main characters’ survival are the infected hordes. They’re never referred to as “zombies” but they might as well be, if not for their intelligence. There are multiple levels of the virus’ degradation, and depending on where someone falls on that scale, they may have the ability to set traps and use tools, or they may possess superhuman strength and exist in an animalistic, heightened state of awareness. Either way, they’re out to kill anything that moves.

The environment of Pandemic is a post-apocalyptic cityscape that’s all too familiar. Short drive-by montages show signs of a severe societal upheaval; bodies hang from a towering crane, disenfranchised citizens shuffle along the sidewalks, and the walls are covered with ominous messages written in graffiti. The film’s world is grimy and squalid, but the up-close and personal nature of the POV camerawork does little to sell viewers on its authenticity. Clearly showing the limits of its low budget, the key locations are confined to empty interiors and small portions of isolated side streets. The idea of a larger city, teeming with dangers, existing beyond the boundaries of these secluded spaces is almost never grasped with any tangibility, and this is a major blow to the sense of immersion that Pandemic tries to evoke.

When it comes to the compact unit of protagonists, the details aren’t any more inspired. The armed bodyguard of the group (Mekhi Phifer) is gruff and authoritative, full of big talk and more than capable of backing it up with action. He criticizes Lauren for her dangerous indecisiveness and knocks heads with the team’s driver (Alfie Allen), a scrappy ex-con who manufactures a snarky line or hotheaded retort for every occasion. Completing the group of four is a navigator named Denise (Missi Pyle), a warmer presence in comparison to the other two who befriends Lauren. Phony banter between team members is consistent throughout, and the chemistry shared by the actors is nothing more than superficial.

Screenwriter Dustin T. Benson tries to fill out these one-dimensional characters with a series of emotionally contrived backstories, giving almost everyone a missing or dead loved one. The undercurrents of self-doubt and atonement give some weight to the characters’ predicaments, but these redemptive arcs are so tired it’s hard to care about how they play out. As with the setting, these conflicts are far from new, and neither the middling direction nor the serviceable performances are enough to elevate the familiarity to something more nuanced.

However, Pandemic is a film with schlocky roots and instincts, taking more pleasure in its cheesy-looking creatures and bloody encounters than in its tacked on human drama. But a mix of dark settings and shaky POV cinematography makes it difficult to see every moment of action. Only one sequence—which transforms a locker room into a gory obstacle course—stands out as especially riveting. But it’s only one scene in a long string of dull skirmishes and numbingly repetitive jump scares.

When looking for outbreak thrillers, there are a lot of films worse than Pandemic, but this is hardly prime material. The film offers nothing new besides its POV visuals perspective, and even that aspect isn’t terribly memorable. Poor effects and mediocre sound design round out what amounts to a bland, derivative experience.

There’s a difference between “simple” and “simplistic” storytelling, and The Nightingale is a film that walks a fine line between the two terms. Director Philippe Muyl relies on an unfussy narrative, familiar character dynamics and placid visuals to make the sentiment of his tale resonate. The film is old-fashioned and contains a fair amount of charm, but it takes no risks (neither in the film’s aesthetic or its plot complications). Themes of reconciliation, youthful optimism and multigenerational bridge-building mosey on through, their potency limited by a lack of conflict and a penchant for easy answers.

Set in modern day China, The Nightingale finds a family suffering from disconnection. A married couple (portrayed by Xiaoran Li and Hao Qin) and their young daughter, Ren Xing (Xin Yi Yang), are living in a cold, sterile apartment in the city. The parents are preoccupied with their busy professions and the girl seems to be more endeared to the bright screen of her iPad than anything else. When a pair of important business trips send each of the parents away, the mother has no choice but to leave her daughter with her grandfather (Baotian Li). He lives a quiet life on the other side of town and has his own voyage in the works. The destination is his childhood village—a place nestled far away, deep in the Chinese countryside. A wealth of memories, both joyous and sad, await him there and whether the temperamental Ren Xing likes it or not (spoiler alert: she doesn’t), she’s coming along for the ride.

The bulk of the film follows the travels and interactions of this girl and her doting grandfather. Right away, it’s shown that he won’t get through to her easily. Ren Xing huffs about, making up complaints, willfully disobeying her grandfather and spurning any of his attempts to pick her brain. She’s clearly very independent, but her antics are unreasonable at times. Of course, the early friction transparently sets the relationship up for a tender reversal, as the more time the two spend in the countryside and amongst the smiling villagers, the more they bond and the better they understand each other. At the center of this is the titular nightingale that the grandfather carries around in a cage. Its meaning is gradually revealed and the bird eventually comes to be the film’s unifying emotional symbol.

From these descriptions, one might envision a gently affecting tale with low stakes and the potential for a hugely poignant takeaway. It is indeed gentle and the stakes are definitely low, but the execution is bland and conventional. The look of The Nightingale isn’t quite televisual, but the lighting and camerawork are so disappointingly unexpressive and flat. Even the sections in the countryside are—with all the gorgeous landscapes that are at the director’s disposal—generically “pretty” in the way the spaces are captured. Muyl is after a relaxed pace and ponderous tone here, but the imagery fails to provoke any thought.

As far as subtext goes, there’s plenty, but the motifs and messages are obvious. All throughout The Nightingale, there’s a running theme of dichotomies, the most prominent one being the unceasing movement and chaos of the city and the serene wisdom of the country. There’s something to be said about the divide between these two realms, but the film doesn’t do the topic justice, approaching it with a lack of nuance. The sprawling metropolis is repeatedly established with what appears to be slight variations of the same shot of sped-up traffic. By the third or fourth instance of this, we get idea. Meanwhile, the countryside is presented as a picture of paradise—accented by the perpetual laugh of children and shimmering, imperfect vistas.

This is where that “simplistic” sensibility comes in. The story is very straightforward and for a while, the absence of big, game-changing events is kind of nice. Baotian Li contributes a lot with his sweetly sympathetic performance and the sauntering nature of the tale is pleasant enough. But at some point, I began to hunger for something a little more substantial. Every little obstacle that comes up for the characters is very quickly dismissed or assuaged, and each beat of the characters’ individual developments falls into place, unearned. The countryside works like a magical sedative on Ren Xing’s sour mood and technological enslavement, and a previously strained relationship between the grandfather and the girl’s dad is quickly mended.

I’m assuming that The Nightingale’s target audience is children and easy-to-please families, as more cynical or discerning viewers may feel patronized by the easy sentiment and cookie-cutter storytelling. At the same time, there’s an oddly undercooked divorce subplot in the film that doesn’t fit the otherwise buoyant tone and feels out-of-place each time it’s brought up. Maybe this part is meant for adults seeking greater dramatic weight, but it isn’t thought out well enough to properly satisfy those needs, so I’m not sure what to make of it.

With all this negativity, it needs to be reinforced that The Nightingale is entirely harmless entertainment with, at the very least, a good heart and a nice message. It may be a fine choice for a casual afternoon viewing, but you probably won’t remember it the next day.

In The Sinking of Sozopol, a middle-aged man returns to his childhood home with ten full bottles of vodka and a determination to empty each one. In his younger years, the formerly vibrant coastal town was the site of many poignant events, the bad seemingly outnumbering the good. Upon revisiting, the man’s emotional pilgrimage of sorts yields a plethora of tenderly recalled memories and the image of an ancient hamlet that is now cold and empty.

A torrential rain falls without pause, the waves hungrily lapping at the rocks as the waters rise; a collection of dogs without masters mournfully skulk about, their eyes on the sea and the depressed man who might be causing this steady engulfment. Before half the bottles are gone, familiar faces begin to arrive in Sozopol, all of them sent by a mysterious woman, and all of them curious about just what their friend expects to happen when the last drop of vodka is gone.

Director Kostadin Bonev tells this somber tale through an alternating structure of flashbacks and modern day conversations that unexpectedly dip into the metaphysical on occasion. Quasi-dreams and a couple of surreal moments are sprinkled throughout, and the use of editing to intermingle past and present furthers the somewhat playful approach.

But ultimately this is a largely straight-faced portrait of conflicted self-destruction, and the capacity that friendship and community have to help quell the inevitable storms of a troubled mind. It’s slightly monotonous in places and not as stirring in its thematic impetus as the premise promises, but the thoughtful script and frequently beautiful compositions pull it through.

In a time when the punk aesthetic was increasingly resonant in art and pop culture, Icelandic painter Georg Guðni decided to pursue a different style: landscape depiction. He took to the misty plains and craggy highlands of his country, engaging in a kind of quiet, visual dialogue with the vast expanses. These conversations would be mentally tucked away, allowed to expand and stretch as the nature of Guðni’s memory dictated before being carefully spilled out on the canvas. For him, painting was a product of the mind, and through his strikingly minimalist work he was able to elevate the landscape “genre” beyond something stereotypically attributed to amateur “Sunday painters.”

Above all, Horizon is a tribute to Guðni, who passed away at the age of 50 in 2011. Brief descriptions of his early days as an artist fly by, and testimonials to the depth of his craft are provided by interviews with colleagues, professors and art historians, but the film is most interested in exploring the specifics of Guðni’s process and technique. Lucky for the audience, the insights come unfiltered, through the words of the painter himself.

The majority of Horizon is made up of lengthy scenes in Guðni’s studio, where he wanders from past paintings to old sketchbooks, breaking down the methods and philosophies of his artistry. On its face, the directness is a welcome approach, but the film’s monotonous, unbroken passivity and sheer lack of dynamism quickly yields something that is too dry to properly engage with. A handful of visual interludes gorgeously juxtapose Guðni’s work with the settings that inspired it, but even these sequences fail to imbue the film with some kind of cinematic sensibility. They eventually grow tiresome in their slideshow manner and redundant repetition.

Truly, this is a documentary made for hardcore art enthusiasts. The formal and structural elements are bland and Guðni isn’t all that mesmerizing a speaker, so we are left only with a flurry of highly technical discussions on painterly procedure and inspiration. Those who take an interest in such matters will likely be satisfied, but for the rest of the audience, Horizon may prove to be a dull, slightly alienating experience.

Cruising the skies of South Sudan, Director Hubert Sauper can see almost everything. Below lies the vast expanse of a fertile land abused and butchered by foreign powers and misused by its own government. The inhabitants scurry about like ants, escaping dwellings freshly christened by fire in a never-ending civil war. Sauper’s vehicle for this relatively remote surveillance is a tiny homemade prop plane. For now, the drama on the ground is but a distant nightmare, but soon, the director will land his quirky aircraft and witness the sad situation firsthand.

We Come as Friends narrates a history of colonialism and imperialism while documenting its modern day effects and continuance. It’s a narration made through the lens of an outsider as well as through the clamoring voice of the Sudanese people, but the impact of its message is most richly felt when the language being spoken is entirely visual.

Near the start of the film, a villager says: “Did you know that the moon belongs to the white man?” It’s a recurring line and when coupled with the title We Come as Friends, it becomes an evocation of eerily relevant science fiction imagery. In the hordes of glad-handing profiteers, self-satisfied peacekeepers and pushy missionaries, Sauper paints a portrait of an alien invasion. He shoots South Sudan as a remote and ravaged faraway planet with wordless, upside-down aerial footage, shots of spectral dust clouds rolling across the plains and lightning bolts disrupting an unfathomable darkness. In these quiet, observational moments, the film’s ideas are made distressingly potent. A hub of exploitation and a collision point for resources between the U.S. and China is transformed into a haunting landscape headed toward an apocalypse.

The sense of warped reality and dark prophecy is very strong, but We Come as Friends is not a pure tone poem in the vein of Godfrey Reggio’s Koyaanisqatsi or Herzog’s The Wild Blue Yonder. Much of the doc is done in the style of cinéma vérité, sporting rough, handheld camerawork and interactions that run largely uncut. The approach yields something that feels incredibly raw, and the aesthetic both helps and hurts the film. On the one hand, the audience is brought closer to the realism of the subject, but more overpoweringly, it blunts a lot of the message’s white-knuckle impact. Conversations ramble with little direction and linger unnecessarily while those that do stay on topic prove to be frustratingly insistent in the way they are prompted and one-note in the extent of their insight.

An editing problem is mainly what the film suffers from, and Sauper’s lack of thematic progression only compounds the issue. He speaks with embedded evangelists, aid workers, local community leaders and even a bomb diffuser (to name just a few of the subjects) and through it all, the same general notion is reinforced: Sudan is falling apart, the walls are closing in and the ideal of self-sufficiency is being replaced by institutions of foreign interest. Not too far into the film, one gets the feeling that the director has exhausted what he had to say, causing the remaining material to come off as monotonous and repetitive. It simply loses steam, circling the issue with a choppy sense of focus and direction.

In spite of its loose structuring and thin thesis, We Come as Friends emerges as a genuine, sporadically unsettling and urgent piece of work. Its detours into more allegorical, “unreal” territory is refreshing, and if it weren’t for a slightly inconsistent vision and the lack of conciseness needed to maintain that urgency and meaning, this could have very well been one of the year’s standout docs. Instead, it is a halfway engaging, mostly fascinating and somewhat jittery experimental snapshot of a deeply troubled place, one that unfortunately exists outside the make-believe realm of science fiction lore.

Poetry and its personal process are notoriously difficult topics to portray with accuracy, but The Kindergarten Teacher bypasses the burden, hinging its story instead on the mystery of a child’s inexplicable artistic gift. We first meet the five-year-old prodigy (Avi Shnaidman) in the schoolyard, where he paces, dictating a new poem to his nanny. His name is Yoav, and his expression is deadly serious in this moment, eyes lost in a world of words that only he can see materializing. His teacher, Nira (Sarit Larry), looks on from a doorway nearby. She can’t believe what she’s hearing. Such unblemished beauty is hard to come by in her daily life and to see it pour from the mouth of someone so naïve and easily influenced spurs in her the immediate instinct to foster and protect that talent.

Yoav is a quiet boy who does not quite understand the occasional pangs of inspiration, himself. He does not reflect on the words or linger on their meaning. His nanny treats the poetry as nothing more than a pretty novelty and his father disregards it altogether, harshly discouraging the practice when Nira brings it up. So what is one to do when something so miraculous arises and the world writes off its importance?

As the title might suggest, The Kindergarten Teacher is more focused on Nira than Yoav and it is the study of her character that is most engaging. Nira’s home life is not strenuous, but she is visibly unenthused by the mundanities surrounding her (a loving, but oblivious game show-watching husband and a “married to the military” son among them). In her spare time, she attempts writing poetry, herself, regularly attending a club where we learn that, despite her good intentions, she is not exactly a saint.

Nira passes off Yoav’s work as her own at the weekly gathering, partially using it to advance a relationship with the group’s moderator, and it is around this point that her character begins to develop some creepy tendencies. She obsesses over Yoav and his gift; stalking, calling him at home, manipulating his father and waking him up from daily naps in an effort to spark some creative fire and squeeze some buried wisdom from him. Her behavior is disturbing at times, and while it is interesting to watch this desperation progress, the film constantly calls into question the ethics of a character that we’re seemingly meant to empathize with. The complexity is good, but the messages are understandably mixed. The lack of context behind Nira’s motivation only perplexes further.

Such emotional and conceptual imprecision is all the more disappointing considering that The Kindergarten Teacher concerns itself so heavily with undertones and ideas. It is a film that is vaguely about critiquing society (targeting the cheap things they values and the beauty they malign), but also about the reckless preservation and cultivation of things that society has collectively moved away from. Intermingled with this is the curious problem of the enigmatic Yoav. Where does his poetry come from? How does he reach depths of truth that writers much older and wiser than him have struggled to internalize? The audience is gently teased with the notion of him repeating words others have spoken—is this merely a game to him? Are we overestimating the situation? All of these issues tread lightly and because of this, the quietly growing story is perpetually interesting. Always seemingly on the verge of a revelation, some great qualifier just around every corner.

Nadav Lapid’s direction plays a substantial role in making that sense of intrigue stick. Primarily, it’s his use of the camera. Negative space in framing is hauntingly evocative, fluid pans are favored over hard cuts, and tricks with focus serve to subtly suggest the world surrounding what is immediately in sight. Additionally, he’s made a funny choice in allowing the camera to exist with the film. From the first shot, the audience is made aware of its presence, as a character bumps into it twice. The same phenomenon repeats later on and from time to time, characters will peer directly into it. These aren’t point-of-view shots from an invisible character, and Lapid’s reasoning for this tactic isn’t always clear, but it affords the audience an almost uncomfortably close involvement with the events and lends the film a self-awareness that is highly fascinating.

Sadly, The Kindergarten Teacher’s great downfall lies in its inability to translate its mystery and conceptual ambitions into something productive and satisfying. The ideas fail to cohere. That great revelation waiting around the corner never arrives. The slow burn of the story peters out and grinds to a halt with a flat anticlimax that frustrates more than it provokes thought. After two hours, Lapid’s initially tantalizing ambiguity wears thin and with nothing to show for it by the end, the result is a film that is far too oblique for its own good.

It’s hard not to have mixed feelings. Here is a work that is formally arresting and narratively gripping (but only on the basis of what it obscures). A film that takes the effort to dirty up its well-meaning protagonist but confuses its intentions in the process. It’s interesting until it isn’t anymore and appears profound without actually possessing the substance to prove it. Sometimes too much subtlety is a bad thing, and while The Kindergarten Teacher boasts plenty of striking visuals and thoughtful flourishes, the film’s apparent hollowness is hard to get past.

Comedy has always been in close proximity to suffering. Whether it’s a tragic news headline serving as the butt of a joke or the hidden inner turmoil of the actual joke-teller, the two opposing sentiments seemingly go hand in hand. It calls to mind the Looney Tunes principle of laughter derived from extreme misfortune, or the notion of the “Sad Clown.” But anger has also played a role for some comedians bearing their demons and grievances onstage and many a man and woman have since been enshrined for their sharp-tongued antics (Such as Lenny Bruce, Joan Rivers, George Carlin and Bill Hicks among others). In Call Me Lucky, Director Bobcat Goldthwait asserts that one comic has gone missing from that list of greats and there’s much more to his story than that of a funnyman who never got his due.

The name of this unsung comic is Barry Crimmins. You’d be excused for not recognizing him as he’s has been out of the public eye for some time, but for comedy buffs who grew up in a certain time and place, he’s something of a legend. The mid-1980’s was when he came to prominence, setting up two clubs in Boston and fostering a tight-knit community of young, burgeoning talent. His personal brand of stand-up centered on anti-consumerist, anti-authoritarian political satire (something that didn’t always resonate with audiences lulled into a lack of social consciousness by the hyper-patriotism of the Reagan era). Described by one interviewee as a cross between Noam Chomsky and Bluto (from Popeye), he was a curmudgeonly firecracker on stage, drumming himself up into a surprisingly coherent rage over the numerous egregious acts perpetrated by his country.

While lauded for his incredible comedic chops, Crimmins was more than someone who merely entertained with harshly humorous truths. He drifted into genuine activism, delivering stirring, fact-studded tirades at anti-war rallies and lending his support to badly afflicted South American countries. In a time without Internet, he was remarkably knowledgeable about the injustices and intergovernmental dealings taking place around the world and took pride in making a stand against them. By the time the ’90s rolled around, Crimmins’ impact had been felt by an entire generation of comedians and left-wing demonstrators, but it was a haunting realization of long-suppressed childhood abuse that sent his life in a new direction and refreshed his sense of purpose.

The power of Call Me Lucky is in its evolution from a humdrum comedian profile to an emotionally involved journey of survival and positivity born from pain. Expectations are initially set low by an opening act that ticks all the boxes necessary to qualify as an average bio doc. The film takes us through the bullet points of Crimmins’ early life in typical “who/what/when/where” fashion, filled out past the point of reason with several anecdotes from friends and famous admirers (Like Marc Maron, Tom Kenny, Patton Oswalt and Margaret Cho, to name a few). The humorous yarns are somewhat cursory, but as told by professional storytellers, they prove to be one of the film’s most entertaining aspects. Crimmins himself doesn’t appear that often through this first portion of the picture, and aside from a series of fluid firsthand accounts describing his personality, the key details of his early life are skimmed over rather quickly.

It isn’t until almost halfway in that the film finds its footing. Goldthwait simultaneously narrows his focus and broadens the story’s scope as he hones in on the boisterous comic’s sexual assault as a child, poignantly addressing the effect it had on his perception of the world and the role it played in his compulsion to expose its ugliness. Topics that were vaguely mentioned in passing earlier suddenly spring to life. The problems and struggles of separating oneself from victimization are discussed. Barry’s attraction to comedy is a defense mechanism and the film gets to the heart of why humanitarian issues resonate so strongly with him, exploring the very roots of his notoriously impassioned fits of anger (To paraphrase what he says at one point: “There are entire countries that feel abused, like I do”). It’s deep, dark stuff and Goldthwait thankfully surrenders most of the commentary to Crimmins, who makes for a highly thoughtful, illuminating speaker.

Despite the sudden shift in subject matter, Call Me Lucky does not make itself about wallowing in the doom and gloom of past trauma. Instead, it takes an inspirational route, chronicling Crimmins’ renewed sense of responsibility and his resulting crusade against Internet child pornography in the ’90s (a mission that would ultimately carry him to Washington D.C., where he confronted a criminally enabling AOL leadership). Coupled with the testimonies of friends who benefited from Crimmins’ support through their own intensely personal crises, the film’s final act tastefully caps off a loving portrait of a genuinely good man with a soaring celebration of his enduring, unbroken spirit.

While the film benefits from its powerful structuring, it also undoubtedly benefits from the inherently compelling nature of the story it tells. In other words, Goldthwait doesn’t always make the best directorial decisions. His indulgence in talking heads is the film’s most strikingly negative aspect. Those lingering anecdotes from the first act really bog down the pacing, and we get the feeling that Goldthwait couldn’t resist including some of his pals’ wild tales (regardless of their relevancy), but the worst examples of this nepotism come toward the end of the film when Goldthwait leans heavily upon the praises of those who personally know Crimmins and the film devolves into a string of sentiments essentially adding up to “Gosh, isn’t Barry just the greatest?” There’s no doubt of the truth of their words, but it feels forced when so much of the man’s actions and experiences speak for themselves.

Such indulgences come from the heart, though, and no matter how much they hinder the film’s conciseness, one cannot deny the empathy that Goldthwait generates. It may not always be the most eloquent piece of work, but Call Me Lucky is as moving and life affirming a documentary as you will find.

There’s a woman on a mission in Frank the Bastard. She’s on a quest carrying her back to her roots, back to a community she’s long forgotten about, and back to a childhood event she’s suppressed for years. Surprising discoveries and greedy conspirators line the path, but a genuine sense of intrigue is unfortunately absent.

The film sports the kind of run-of-the-mill mystery plot that could potentially be elevated by other factors. With an emphasis on atmosphere and a central McGuffin that is cleverly interwoven with the characters’ emotional development, one could easily get distracted from the dull narrative. However, the problem with Frank the Bastard is that its story just isn’t a particularly interesting one, despite its attempts to throw in some (stale) twists. Save for a small handful of expressive sequences, Frank the Bastard amounts to a film simply going through the motions.

Our protagonist is 33-year old Clair Defina (Rachel Miner). Recently divorced and suffering from a series of debilitating panic attacks, best friend Isolda (Shamika Cotton) coerces Clair to make the drive out of the city to an isolated region of Maine where she spent her early years. Clair hasn’t visited the little fishing town—a former hippie commune—since her mother’s tragic death in a mysterious house fire, and the bulk of her memories from that time remain frustratingly blocked. Upon arrival, the two women encounter a number of locals (both friendly and suspicious) and the mention of Clair’s family spurs a great deal of reminiscing. But something else is going on, as talk swirls around an enigmatic and crookedly composed childhood friend named Frank (Andy Comeau), and a wealthy nearby family looks to cover up the truth that Clair is desperately looking for.

The film’s first act provides plenty to chew on, dishing out soft-spoken hints about Frank as a complicated and possibly dangerous man. Every time someone speaks his name, there’s an aura of dread lingering over the sound of it. But then he shows up, suddenly and without warning, and as soon as he comes on the scene the intrigue invested in the character flatlines. Frank becomes just another supporting player, rather than the ticking time bomb of revelatory information and concealed aggression that he was seemingly positioned to be from the beginning. The film simply fails to have Frank live up to the image it creates of him, making all the hearsay about him ring hollow.

A similar dynamic of empty buildup and halfhearted follow-through falls across basic storytelling lines, comprising the bulk of Frank the Bastard’s problems. The surreal nature of Clair’s panic attacks and the notion of returning to a traumatic and isolated place suggests a couple different things. It gives the vibe of something deeply sinister and removed from society’s norms. The cinematography’s deceptively handsome twilight glow and shadowy high contrast only furthers the notion of wickedness being right around the corner. The image of a mixed up woman in a sleepy hamlet, either supernaturally affected or haunted by the demons of misdeeds, comes to mind (Think Martha Marcy May Marlene crossed with The Wicker Man or one of Stephen King’s many visions of small-town Maine), but the reality is not nearly as titillating. The teases of a horror/thriller narrative are present, but they clash violently with an underwhelming land-grab plot that skews closer to a generic crime drama. It also doesn’t help that the awkward tone, one that wobbles between leisurely and purposeful, undercuts the attempts at establishing a dark mystery element.

The focus on the out of place real estate plotline doesn’t have to be a problem in and of itself. Rather, it is the unimaginative modes of conveying information pertaining to that storyline that makes it even more tedious than it already is. The filmmakers’ idea of delivering plot points is unequivocally narrow, confined to clunky conversations in which characters discuss loads of newly revealed clues in a way that obviously stands in place of the screenwriter addressing the audience directly. These exposition dumps only increase in prevalence as the story begins to leave some of its character moments behind in favor of feverish amateur detective work.

The characters themselves are barely more interesting than the knowledge they express, usually falling into one of three camps: a devious “bad guy” type, a curious truth-seeker, or someone with answers. There’s very little gray area between these groups of characters, and the lack of nuance really hurts the small character studies going on in between the more procedural material.

The finale does a good job of recentering the focus on what matters most, organizing a confrontation that actually brings the plot strands together in a decently satisfying way, but it still misses the poignant note that the entire film is groping for. It’s a good effort, but it doesn’t make up for the film’s glaring flaws.

Frank the Bastard shows the promise of a writer-director with a good eye for visuals, but a reluctance to allow them to stand on their own. Brad Coley’s film never rings as “bad,” but it is at odds with itself in almost every way, and in the process of this struggle with itself, it loses sight of its emotional potential.

It’s the near future and a wrongfully imprisoned ex-soldier named Rick Tyler (Dominic Purcell) is given a shot at freedom. Chosen for the extremity of his supposed crimes, he is dropped into a brutal game show called “Turkey Shoot.” The object is simple: survive. Four “shooters” of varied talents are assigned to each level, hunting the convict and aiming to stop him from reaching a designated endpoint within a specific amount of time. Depending on when you grew up, this might sound like a rip-off of The Running Man or The Hunger Games, while in actuality, it’s an update on the cult classic exploitation film, Turkey Shoot (aka Escape 2000). As such, one can only hope for some fun stunts and a cheekily employed b-grade storyline, but there is neither creativity nor camp in Elimination Game, and the film winds up being just as forgettable and generically awful as its American re-titling.

There are several basic plotlines to director Jon Hewitt’s on-screen world, but none of them is given enough attention. On the one hand, we have a government conspiracy against our framed hero inciting his need to clear his name. On the other, we have two crucial relationships and their relevant backstories: A romantic one between Tyler and his rescuer, Jill (Viva Bianca) and an antagonistic one with former friend and celebrated Turkey Shoot sniper, “Ramrod” (Robert Taylor). The third thread competing for attention is the most interesting, which is the game show iteself, which provides the action of the film as well its satire. In theory there is plenty going on in the film, but the total refusal of the writers to make anything more than the obvious out of each of these familiar themes renders the entire film as more dumb and meaningless then its complicated premise may suggest.

Elimination Game’s lack of detail is mind-boggling, especially considering the possibilities of the Turkey Shoot game. Here is where the real action of the film lies, not to mention where the stakes lay the highest and yet it’s constantly neglected. Each round in the show is terribly brief, as Tyler cuts through one heavily armed opponent after another, improbably evading point-blank gunfire and miraculously healing from whatever wounds he suffers. To give an idea of the action’s hastiness, the first round lasts all of 8 minutes and the climactic round pitting our protagonist against an entire city of potential shooters (what an awesomely absurd setup!) is dealt with in a speedy montage.

Of all the missed opportunities, the lazily designed enemies are what sting the most. Cheesy monikers like “Killshot,” “Golgotha” and “Armageddon” fit right into the ridiculous world on display and the hosts’ enthusiastic intros promise a crazy and diverse crew of bosses to defeat, but their flesh and blood representations never live up to the hype. A Japanese woman with precisely honed ninja skills. An American longbow specialist. A beefy, Turkish wrestler-type with a proclivity for the scimitar. This is just a smattering of what Turkey Shoot has in store, but when put into the field, the rivals are completely underutilized. Most are dispatched within moments of their first encounter and not a single one-liner or personality trait can be spotted among them.

The flavorless aesthetic extends to all things outside the game show as well. Matters of character are skimmed over and histories are vague. Rick and Jill’s relationship stands out in particular, as it is frequently taken for granted, an obligatory sex scene being the only thing that denotes any kind of passion between them. Few if any characters are given much to work with, but the actors contribute very little personal flair. Robert Taylor appears bored and Dominic Purcell is a charisma vacuum in the leading role, serving as nothing more than a scowling sack of muscles. Perfectly bland in every way, the film doesn’t even deliver on a visual level as an ugly grey color scheme dominates throughout.

If I were to stop at this point, I’d be leaving the impression that Elimination Game is a mediocre and tedious mess of bargain bin quality. But there’s one more thing that elevates it from mere mediocrity to infuriating ineptitude. It’s the jaw-dropping incoherence. In many B-action movies, the audience is asked to accept a lot of ludicrous happenings, but when it comes to Elimination Game, the requests are unreasonable, doubly so because of the seriousness with which it carries itself. The holes in logic are so blatantly obvious and so easily fixable that one has to wonder if the script was ever given a second draft. This is more than just plot quirks; it’s spatial coherence as well. Why’s, when’s and how’s pile up on every action scene and queries like “How do you go from being in the middle of a highway car chase to running around in a city within two shots?” are never answered with even the slightest bit of verbal justification. Considering the straightforwardness of the story and its action, confusing things so much seems like it would be difficult, but Jon Hewitt somehow pulls it off. If that’s an accomplishment, then I guess it’s the only one the film has to its name.

A thumbs-down is a no-brainer here, but if you do decide to check out Elimination Game, be sure to set your expectations low (as in below ground level). For those tickled by threadbare tales of tough and grizzled men punching and kicking their way to justice, the film might manage to hold interest, but I’m doubtful it’ll do anything more.

Carnal desire is on everyone’s mind in Josh Lawson’s directorial debut The Little Death. Deriving its title from a French euphemism for orgasm, the film is a sex comedy anthology telling five loosely connected stories of fetishism and dysfunction. Both male and female perspectives are voiced, and the kinks range from quirky to disturbing. The topic lends itself to the potential for a biting satire on selfishness, sexual dishonesty and the consequences these things yield, but The Little Death is not heavily concerned with these things. It’s a trifle of shallow pleasures, unfortunately, let down by one too many tired gags and a series of contrived, somewhat clumsily assembled plots.

The film wastes no time wrestling the audience from its comfort zone with an opening scene in which a woman hesitantly confesses about a long-held rape fantasy. The tension is broken when her boyfriend humorously mishears the admission, and the sequence sets the tone for a comedy of blunt words balanced out by charming misunderstandings and exaggerations. Masochism soon gives way to roleplay tested out by a couple experiencing communication problems. Suggested by a relationship counselor, the practice helps reinvigorate their bedroom encounters, but the husband starts to take the acting too seriously after an offhand compliment. Elsewhere, a woman manipulates her significant other for the arousal brought on by his tears, a family man is stimulated by his abrasive wife’s “sleeping beauty” state, and a signing tele-interpreter mediates a lonely deaf man’s call to an impatient phone sex worker.

Lawson’s intentions are a bit tricky to pinpoint. While much of The Little Death is content to coast on bubbly kinkiness and wacky complications, it occasionally takes a turn into darker territory, with a handful of morally questionable character decisions posed as playful, and a pair of uncharacteristically brutal conclusions. At the same time, it strains for blushes and raised eyebrows by courting tabooed subject matter while also infusing unearned romantic sentiments in an attempt to stir sympathy for terribly repulsive and single-minded characters. The confusion leads to mixed feelings and a slightly inconsistent tone, but there are bigger issues threatening to tear down what starts out as mildly enjoyable, amusing fluff.

The greatest shortcoming of The Little Death is its structurally problematic script. To call an anthology “episodic” wouldn’t be so much of a put down as it would be a simple descriptor of the genre’s trappings, but the trouble with Lawson’s film is that it doesn’t fully commit to that format. Each tale is largely isolated to its own figures and events, but a few characters briefly cross into other stories for no discernible reason. A sense of the broader community is never established, and these peripheral characters wind up looking out of place, especially when Lawson goes for a bewildering Crash­-style intertwining of narratives toward the end (one that doesn’t even include all the plot strands).

As it is, the individual segments are insubstantial. Held together by little more than sexually fueled scenarios and a whiff of relationship drama, there’s an absence of significant forward movement or development in these stories. They come off as extended situational skits with tacked on conclusions instead of complete arcs with a beginning, middle and end. Despite the looseness of it all, there is still a feeling of over-complication and a logically flawed progression. A pair of unnecessary subplots—one concerning a dead relative and the other a lost dog—only lead to neat conveniences, and an ill-conceived “neighborhood perv” character pops in and out of the film as a predictable distraction. Each extraneous addition adds a shot of black humor but fails to be very productive in the long run.

But all is not lost, as the film’s cast is a consistently dependable saving grace. Befuddled reactions are natural, plainspoken naughtiness is nicely timed, and each couple is compellingly genuine. It certainly helps that the actors have a good deal of wryly funny dialogue to work with, and almost everyone plays off each other well. A hint of staged direction and an irritating predilection for overly insistent music threatens to derail the cast’s work but doesn’t fully wash away the goodwill that the performers engender for the film.

In what is mostly a mediocre experience, The Little Death strikes gold for an entire 15-minute sequence toward the end. It’s the deaf interpreter story and, unlike the other segments, it plays out over the course of a single scene. The scenario carries the potential for something uncomfortable and raunchy, but it surprisingly isn’t either of these things. Sex talk ensues, of course, but the affair becomes sweet and endearingly offbeat in a way that nothing else in the film really matches. The scene is compact, has a degree of edginess, and has a fun, simple concept. It’s an outlier, but it’s a delightful one.

Those seeking out a titillating comedy may be enticed by The Little Death’s various bawdy premises, but will likely end up disappointed by a quintet of plots that only go skin deep. It’s an unambitious film, and one that plays it relatively safe when it comes to the physical act so little should be expected. Even taking its meager goals into account, the film falls short of the mark. It would be a gross overstatement to view it as an unsightly stain on the rich tapestry of a storied genre, though. The memory of it merely drifts away. The Little Death is a one-time fling that has its moments but ultimately fades by the light of the morning after.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with breezy, lighthearted entertainment. In the right hands, a small-scale story populated by sympathetic faces has the capacity to deliver big-time charm. Of course, the issue comes in when an airy aesthetic is all a film has to offer; a quirky lead and thin plot strands substituting for real personality and substance. I Dream Too Much suffers from such faults. Its total lack of energy and tired attempts at fleshing out the skeleton of a familiar tale with half-baked themes of self-empowerment results in a lifeless experience that evaporates as soon as the curtain falls.

Our protagonist is eccentric twenty-something Dora (Eden Brolin). She is the one who “dreams too much.” Pressured by her mother (Christina Rouner) to take the LSAT and become a prosperous lawyer, she languishes in the wintry New Jersey suburbs, obsessively fantasizing about fabulous, far away places and the excitement they’d surely bring. Upon hearing of her Great Aunt Vera’s (Diane Ladd) foot injury, she volunteers to help, only to find a stubborn, tough-to-please diva in an unbearably quiet town. Through dull housework, spontaneous storytelling and martini-drenched evenings, the relationship is hot and cold, but Dora finds an outlet in her frustrated poetic scribblings, romantic daydreams and the laughs shared with a new, like-aged friend (Danielle Brooks). The discovery of Vera’s glamorous past reinvigorates the bond between Great Aunt and Great Niece, and the two begin working together in an effort to get past their personal and poetic muddles.

For a film so lighthearted, it’s surprising that I Dream Too Much is as lifeless as it is. The direction by first-time helmer Katie Cokinos is really what’s to blame. Most scenes have an uncomfortably dead air about them as characters stand around awkwardly listening to each other speak, their fake half-smiles and darting eyes straining for an ounce of guidance. Additionally, there’s an absence of effective blocking to provide some relief from the stagey dialogue (which is frequently derailed by Dora’s trivial squeaky-voiced ramblings).

Cokinos (who also wrote the film) attempts to inject some vitality into the events in different ways, but she is rarely successful. While functioning in part as a drama, it’s the comedy that has the greatest presence, and it hardly ever works. Weak sort-of-punch-lines paired with sub-par acting create what often feels like a cringe-worthy sitcom without the laugh track. What ensues are fruitless games of spot-the-joke.

Also hoping to start a heartbeat of some kind is a series of transitional interludes. These are the only times when the smiley, guitar-strumming soundtrack appears, and while the sequences are probably the movie’s most visually engaging moments, I cannot reconcile the notion that they don’t do anything but establish setting and give the false impression of an emotional landscape taking shape.

Diane Ladd is perhaps the film’s only saving grace. Although she occasionally stoops to slight overacting, her performance is the kind of assured turn that only an experienced vet like herself could give. Ladd’s comedic timing is great and she fully sells the character of this sardonic, swaggering old woman harboring hidden insecurities.

Unfortunately, a single solid performance is not capable of elevating the film beyond its larger problems. As previously stated, I Dream Too Much is excessively light, but not in a purely stylistic sense. It busies itself with several plot elements and fails to give the proper attention to any of them. One conveniently presented subplot deals with a famous local music producer (James McCaffrey) and another has to do with Vera’s old journals. Meanwhile, Dora’s 19^th century gothic novel-inspired daydreams come and go with little impact and a dramatic device regarding her dead father lingers in the background. Each of these components is shallowly addressed and whatever conflict arises is generally resolved with improbable rapidity. Voice-over narration and cutaways to Dora’s handwritten couplets struggle to express complex coming-of-age dilemmas and when a film can’t even engage you on a conceptual level, let alone a story level, the only thing that resonates by the end is a feeling of emptiness.

I hate to rag on a film of such innocent intentions, but I Dream Too Much forces my hand. It ventures to evoke a few laughs while telling a story about taking responsibility and living on your own terms. These are noble messages to send, for sure, but oblivious direction and careless writing ruins it. Like its main character, film has its head firmly stuck in the clouds. Do yourself a favor and remain earthbound on this one.

There’s plenty of intrigue to be gleaned from the story of a poet. The romantic notion of a wandering wordsmith of keen mind and melancholic disposition; quick to find a phrase where others can’t, and the first to offer a cheery limerick or profound recitation to the battered soul that bothers to listen. But the mystery of this figure is in their removed quality, emotionally isolated by his or her own will. Tormented inside and perhaps contradictory in the action they take, the celluloid poet is usually found inspiring others as they slowly destroy themselves.

In the case of Set Fire to the Stars, the troubled artist in question is Dylan Thomas (most popularly known for the poem, Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night). The year is 1950, and the Welshman’s been scheduled for a number of poetry readings across the U.S. His first stop is New York City, where he is received by a creative writing professor named John Brinnin (Elijah Wood). A great admirer of Thomas’s prose and an aspiring poet himself, Brinnin flippantly disregards the man’s incorrigible reputation and agrees to be his guide on the tour. Unfortunately, Thomas lives up to the unsavory stories and what was meant to be a professional companionship between a literary celebrity and his liaison soon becomes something closer to that of a man-child and his reluctant babysitter. After a rowdy night on the town and an ugly bottoming out at the hotel, Brinnin decides to take the drunken poet out of the city, to a family owned cabin in the woods of Connecticut. There, the two men alternate between bonding and butting heads as Thomas prepares for an upcoming engagement at Yale University.

While the events are from the perspective of Elijah Wood’s character, it is ultimately Celyn Jones that commands the spotlight as Dylan Thomas. The poet is a hurricane of a man, strong and aggressive, always looking for either a drink or a hefty meal. He’s introduced to us at a party, playing the part of a wild gorilla, swilling alcohol and drunkenly crashing through another man’s apartment as he carries a shrieking woman over his shoulder. The boorish behavior extends to all settings and no matter who the audience is, Thomas seems unable to stop himself from indulging his impulsive spirit. He cares not what others think of him and frequently frustrates his comrade, but through it all, he retains a certain eloquence, his brilliant mind making itself known at the most unlikely times. Jones’s performance is magnetic and aside from the occasional overly-sentimental moment, his portrayal of the larger than life poet is well-balanced and often nuanced.

As Thomas’s cautious caretaker, Elijah Wood is not nearly as compelling. Wide-eyed and slightly awkward, Wood fits the role, but his affectation is flat in almost every scene. He doesn’t quite sell his embodiment of John Brinnin, and with a character that is so thinly written in the first place, it’s hard to get a real sense of him beyond his politely hesitant tendencies. The film hints at something more interesting in a scene in which Brinnin tells a heartbreaking impromptu story at a dinner party, but outside of this anomaly, the character remains underwhelming—little more than a window for the audience to view Thomas through.

The brief emotional odyssey these two characters traverse is unconventional, but not always engagingly so. Plainly stated, the structure and pacing of their story is off-putting at first. The film starts quickly, leaping right into Thomas’s arrival and presenting the men as being more familiar with each other than would be expected of two people who’ve just met. There’s very little time devoted to the relationship being built up, and twenty minutes in the film and its characters feel well into their falling action. It’s a strange way to open a film—saved only by the natural story progression—and the remainder of the movie plays like an extended third act. The eventual slow down in pace is appreciated, as a series of introspective conversations and encounters with off-kilter personalities are allowed to take place and give the film some thematic focus. Though, this lengthened ending weighs the film down and makes it difficult for these series of moments to add up to anything truly memorable. Set Fire to the Stars goes out on a relatively high note, but the false climax at Yale and a couple of non-endings hamper it.

Beyond the confusion of the story structure lies a greater problem in the film’s dialogue. For a semi-biographical film dealing with a poet, one would expect there to be some analysis of the writer’s work in relation to his or her life. A study of the poet’s negotiation of real life issues through language. But, this is not exactly what Set Fire to the Stars does. The dialogue is unnaturally dense in an attempt to imitate poetic written prose, but only succeeds in undercutting emotional tone. Thomas’s own poetry is employed from time to time and its use resembles a dazzling crutch more than an enlightening tool. Pretty, but slight when it comes to informing the story.

Along with its flawed flow and stunted dialogue, the film teases with false emotional plot devices as well. Distractions that do the characters and story no real service and serve up more disappointment upon their eventual reveals.

Writer-Director Andy Goddard (best known for his work in TV shows like Downton Abbey and Torchwood) doesn’t lack in visual ability. The black and white cinematography is good-looking and a quietly somber mood is nicely evoked in a number of expressive visual flourishes. The only crime Set Fire to the Stars commits is the quaint crime of being unremarkable. Priding itself on lofty quotes, the film struggles to fully involve the audience on an emotional level begging the question, who is the film for? Lovers of jazz-inflected narratives set in early ’50s America may enjoy it and fans of Dylan Thomas will surely get more out of it than those unfamiliar with the man, but for everyone else, there’s not much to write home about.

Spartacus and Cassandra begins with the retelling of a child’s first 13 years of life. Born in Romania, he walks at age one. At two, he eats mud. His father goes to prison a year later. Year four brings begging. At seven, he comes to France, stealscar radios with his sister to get by and escapes a hostel not longer after. His family’s squat burns down two years later and now, at age 13, the boy finds himself at a crossroads. An immigrant in an unforgiving land, a victim of circumstance and a member of a poverty-stricken family, both he and his sister have been put through the meat grinder in their seminal years and still, they hold onto the hope that something better is waiting on the other side.

The siblings described are, of course, the Spartacus and Cassandra of the title. Along with a drunken father and an emotionally unstable mother, they are homeless. However, a young trapeze artist named Camille has given them (and other street children) refuge. She’s built her own small community that’s open 24 hours a day. With child services lurking about, Camille wishes to become the duo’s legal guardian and give them greater opportunities in life. While much stands to be gained, the separation is not easily made, as the father advocates maintaining custody of his children, bandying vague and unrealistic plans while his wife struggles with the notion of letting them go. Heartache tugs at all involved and thanks to director Ioanis Nuguet’s sensitive approach, and it’s hard for the viewer not to get caught up as well.

The sense of immersion that Spartacus and Cassandra offers is perhaps the film’s most striking asset. Talking heads are absent, no questions are asked and the cameraman is seemingly invisible to the wrenching human drama playing out between the run down subjects. The audience is afforded an amazing degree of intimacy with these people and their crumbling environment. Strenuous phone calls as well as circular conversations riddled with good intentions and misunderstandings establish the children’s complicated relationship with their parents. Meanwhile, scenes of Spartacus rebuking a curfew or gritting his teeth through a late night homework session tell of his thirst to break the necessary systematic constrictions placed upon him. Cassandra has an easier time adjusting to these things, but her brother wanders, failing to see the use in the likes of history or language studies. In spite of such stubbornness, the film captures an unprecedented maturity in the siblings and it’s fascinating to watch how they relate to the world around them, their words often more practical than those their parents impart. There’s a degree of world-weariness for sure, but one cannot mistake the impression of a cautious optimism flashing across their eyes from time to time, the feeling encouraged by a powerful and complementary bond between brother and sister.

Although much of Spartacus and Cassandra is done in a naturalistic fashion, Nuguet pulls a kind of stylistic coup with a series of tastefully placed poetic interludes. Unfiltered daily struggles captured with simple camera angles, free of dazzling edits, gives way to elliptical sequences of dynamic visuals and softly spoken ponderings. The floating shots and sparse, contemplative prose (whispered by the children, who write poetry as a hobby) possess shades of Terrence Malick and the beautifully evocative, abstracted asides serve as an interesting counterweight to the grittiness the film otherwise exudes. As the main line of focus plays to issues of a tangible, immediate nature, these interludes appeal to the bigger picture, posing philosophical concerns and symbolically expressing the children’s attitudes. It may not always be an easy balance with the other material, but the scenes are nothing less than captivating and reinforce the overriding spirit of the picture.

For all the beauty that is miraculously unearthed in Spartacus and Cassandra, the film is somewhat undermined by the slightness of the story’s details. The tale belongs to the children, so a lack of deeper perspective when it comes to the adults is understandable. But the context of their situation is frustratingly vague. There’s little else to latch onto. Conversations about the children’s welfare are repetitive and tedious, ultimately adding little to the audience’s knowledge of the situation, and the specifics of time and future solutions are hard to come by. Without these things, it may be difficult for some to tune into the real life drama of the film, no matter how tenderly it is presented.

The film’s gentleness cannot be underestimated. In conveying a childhood of many uncertainties, one question far outstrips the others in its prevalence: “Where are we going?” Again and again this is asked, only to be met with directionless bickering and a brutal, lasting silence. The answer could be right in front of them, but the compromise accompanying the decision might never be reconciled. At one point, Cassandra says, “The only solution for me to live without my parents is for my parents to be able to live without me.” Achingly insightful, the line neatly encompasses the raw impact of this heartfelt portrait of an immigrant family in turmoil. The issue at hand may be quite personal to those involved, but the empathy that these documentarians evoke gives it a rich universality. For that reason, Spartacus and Cassandra is a minor humanistic triumph, but a solid directorial debut.