Ava DuVernay’s Selma, about Martin Luther King Jr.’s organization of three marches from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama in 1965 (protests that led to the Voting Rights Act), was produced for about $20 million. The film was privately funded (it was picked up for distribution by Paramount following completion) and that meant DuVernay had artistic autonomy, but it also meant that she didn’t have the dough to buy the rights to King’s famous speeches. For those expecting Selma to be a biopic about a legendary leader (it’s not), this may seem like a critical omission, but the absence of the speeches ends up being one of the film’s biggest boons; this is a story not about a great man’s famous sound bites, but about a flawed man, the burdens of greatness, and the scars they left on his mind, body, and heart.

Selma‘s a focused film that covers a pivotal moment in American history (about 90 days), with no flashbacks to King’s upbringing or the march on Washington. The story’s concern is Selma, and what King did there. The pertinence of the film to the issues of today is undeniable, and is most evident in its most horrific sequence, in which we’re shown the gory results of the March 7, 1965 march. The march ends in a sickening bloodbath as we see white police officers savagely brutalize King’s protesters without mercy. While the imagery is rightly appalling and explicit, it isn’t the most disturbing thing about the film: What’s most disturbing about Selma is how relevant today, in 2015, in light of current events, the image of a white “protector” murdering an unarmed black man is. It’s been 50 years. That’s the most disturbing thing. It’s not the most interesting thing about the film, though.

What’s most interesting is that the film is a human history lesson, not a mythical one. Prolific English actor David Oyelowo takes a more grounded, sensible approach to playing King than anyone could have expected. His King is a man of intense focus and imperfect ego. Jealous. Neglectful. You expect him to channel the commanding presence and oratory prowess of King, and to be sure, on that front he delivers: He makes the speakers rumble when on the podium or pulpit, mobilizing large crowds to take a stand. It’s thrilling to watch, and he sounds just like King, and it’s all very, very impressive. But the real key to Oyelowo’s performance is when his mouth is shut; that’s when you’ll quiver.

The best scene is an uncomfortable domestic impasse. After listening to a surveillance recording that’s supposed evidence of her husband’s infidelity, Coretta King (a strong Carmen Ejogo) launches a low, slow, burning set of yes-or-no questions at King (concerning his mistresses), who looks puny sitting in a chair as she towers over him. Having Coretta impose her will by commanding her husband, one of the greatest speakers in history, to answer yes-or-no questions, is brilliant. He looks weak, and bruised. In a later scene, Coretta visits King while he’s behind bars after being arrested following a public protest. She mentions that she’s met with Malcolm X, who’s willing to give King his support. He’s hurt upon learning his wife met with his rival, and even dares to suggest that she’s infatuated. It’s these moments of sheer vulnerability, off the front lines, that honor King’s life like no history book or documentary ever could. It’s a thoughtful perspective. To truly appreciate his accomplishments, we must remember that King breathed and bled and hurt like all of us, and yet still did all the things he did. He was strong, not invincible.

In the film’s first incarnation, which was written by Paul Webb and was to be directed by Lee Daniels (who eventually passed the project up to do The Butler), the story centered heavily on King’s negotiations with President Lyndon B. Johnson. When DuVernay was brought on to direct in 2013, however, she revised the script (with Webb, who stayed on as penner), shifting its focus significantly, concentrating more on King’s organizing in Selma. LBJ is still in the movie (Tom Wilkinson plays him very well), but his presence is limited and is clearly de-emphasized from the original script. DuVernay makes it crystal clear that the President is no white savior (he’s mostly utilized as a force of opposition), though the film has come under criticism for allegedly misrepresenting LBJ’s level of cooperation with King on the Voting Rights Act.

Also in the film as government officials are Tim Roth, as AL Gov. George Wallace, and Dylan Baker, as J. Edgar Hoover. Their malevolence feels largely overplayed, and though Roth’s turns as weaselly heels are always fun, he and Baker (who’s not nearly as good) feel like they’re in a separate film. Oprah Winfrey, Common, Martin Sheen, and Cuba Gooding Jr. also play supporting roles, with Winfrey making the biggest impression as a Annie Lee Cooper, a woman fighting tooth and nail for her right to vote as an American citizen (she was also a producer on the film).

Selma is a phenomenal movie when it operates as a character study, showing us King having one-on-one conversations with different people around him, revealing layers of his personality in a nuanced, elegant way. When the film zooms out however, as in the big marching scenes or the handful of times King takes the pulpit, the film loosens its grip and becomes a less rich, less grounded affair. Whiffs of “prestige picture” arise now and again (especially near the film’s close), but Oyelowo does all he can to maintain the film’s sense of immediacy. There’s an emphasis on chronicling King’s perceptive maneuverings and strategies when orchestrating the marches, but these sections ultimately feel like detours on the more compelling, emotional journey of getting to know the man behind the scenes.

Like I mentioned earlier, we hear none of the famous speeches. DuVernay wrote new speeches in their stead, and remarkably, they sound 100% in accordance with King’s voice and philosophy. (To be fair, I’m no MLK historian, but for what it’s worth it was totally believable to me that he wrote these things.) Because they’re tailor-made, the new lectures and sermons fit into the film’s larger narrative much better than the original speeches would have, and in fact, had the original speeches made it in, they probably would have pushed the film into the realm of hagiography in earnest.

DuVernay proves that she’s a terrific director, especially when it comes to collaborating with her actors. Oyelowo, a young veteran, has his proudest outing as an actor here, and we miss him every moment he’s not on-screen. Like Steve McQueen’s 12 Years a Slave, Selma‘s cultural significance is critical and will inevitably permeate all conversations about the film. As a reviewer, I must stress that its cinematic value speaks for itself, even when you swipe away the context of today’s struggles.

When approaching my critique of Machete Kills—Robert Rodriguez‘s second entry into the eponymous character’s bloody B-movie saga that started with a fake trailer and continued in 2010’s Machete–I made the firm decision to not deny my inner 9-year-old that was having an absolute blast in the theater. Sure, I could poke and prod at the film’s cheap-o special effects, poor acting (only in some cases–there are strong performances here), and asinine plot, but wouldn’t that be missing the point? To be distracted by the film’s “faults” (many of which, like in other Rodriguez offerings, imbue the film with a sense of big fun) would hinder me from mining Machete Kills‘ many riches–spectacular violence, gleefully shameless cameos, tasteless zinger-happy dialog, a bad-ass anti-hero, and a villain who is more fantastic than he has any right to be.

Machete (Danny Trejo) is recruited (against his will) by the president of the United States (Carlos Estevez, a peculiarly familiar face…) to stop a maniac Mexican warlord (a scene-stealing Demian Bichir) from launching a nuclear strike on Washington D.C. He’s been promised–if he’s successful–U.S. citizenship and a clean record. On his action-packed mission, he encounters allies and enemies both new and old (all played by a bucketload of A and B-list celebs) and wreaks blood-splattered havoc along the U.S.-Mexican border. The killing spree leads Machete to the mastermind behind it all–a diabolical tech wizard played earnestly and hilariously by an on-point Mel Gibson.

Again, I’m not going to deny my inner child in my critique, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give the film’s flaws a pass. I acknowledge that Rodriguez’s game isn’t to make movie Mona Lisas, but even if we play by his rules, he fumbles the ball quite a bit. A lot of the gags–including a lot of the one-liners Trejo unenthusiastically mutters (“Machete don’t text”)–aren’t funny, period. In an awful scene, Michelle Rodriguez–playing Machete’s old ally, Luz–sniffs him (after he’s gotten busy with a girl hours earlier) and says she smells “fish taco”. Lady Gaga, Cuba Gooding Jr., Antonio Banderas, and Walton Goggins play the same character (an un-cleverly conceived villain called El Camaleón), and with the exception of Goggins (he’s good in everything), the cameos are an utter waste, amounting to a parade of idiotic posing (Gaga) and a lame joke of against-type casting (Gooding Jr. and Banderas) that’s clichéd and isn’t funny for a second. Sofia Vergara plays a sadomasochist who yells and shoots bullets out of her tits and vagina, a gag that was much funnier in Austin Powers 16 years ago.

The good news is, the major players in the film–Trejo, Gibson, Bichir, and a sizzling Amber Heard–are unbelievably entertaining, committing to the material with all their hearts. Unlike the rest of the cast, they don’t play it like a joke; from Bichir’s mad-man schizo lunacy, to Heard’s luscious sexuality (and perfect Spanish accent), to Gibson’s Oscar-mode performance, the quality of work these actors offer up is, frankly, surprising. Gibson is so good at being evil here one wonders why he hasn’t been cast in the villain role more often. Trejo’s dialog delivery isn’t on-par with his top-tier co-stars, but visually, physically, he embodies everything a testosterone craved moviegoer wants in an action hero.

With a title like Machete Kills, the death scenes had better be spectacular, and boy do they deliver. Rodriguez’s Mortal Kombat style violence engages the same twisted area of the imagination young boys use when blowing their action figures to smithereens with bb guns or melting their army men to puddles of plastic with matches in the backyard. It’s sadistic, sure, but it’s all in good fun. Heads roll, bullets rip flesh, innards explode (courtesy of a sci-fi gun that turns objects inside-out), and faces get melted (just like the army men!), but the most entertaining kills are the inventive ones. My personal favorite is one in which Machete latches himself to a spinning propeller of a helicopter with a grappling hook, sticks his machete out (there’s a dick joke in there, for sure), and lobs of the heads of a dozen or so baddies like some sort of gruesome, demonic carnival ride.

Rodriguez cleverly avoids showing graphic sex (be sure to bring your 3-D glasses!), though there are plenty of scantily clad ladies running around to satiate all you horn-dogs out there (I, as an esteemed journalist, am obviously not interested in such naughty things). The film bookends with trailers for the next film in the series, Machete Kills Again: In Space, keeping the spirit of the original “fake” trailer alive while nostalgically recalling the days of grainy VHS tapes, and I’ll be happy to make the trip out to the theater to watch Machete hack and slash again. The appeal of Rodriguez’s ’70s grindhouse influenced films like Machete Kills is bound to wear thin one day, but not today.