Spectre, Sam Mendes‘ latest riff on the classic James Bond formula, comes with all the trimmings fans have come to expect from the undying international superspy series: Daniel Craig‘s 007 kicks henchman ass, kisses gorgeous women, sips on his famous martinis, stares death square in the face more than once, and causes some serious property damage as he visits some of the most ridiculously picturesque places on earth in search of a European big bad hellbent on world domination. It’s the same old schtick, but it’s a schtick millions have come to embrace as a moviegoing staple, one we can count on to deliver insanely expensive-looking action and a fair amount of clean-cut operatic drama. It’s a good Bond film, though there’s nothing remarkable enough about it that it’ll be a standout in the series.

As he’s liable to do, Christoph Waltz plays the film’s central villain, Oberhauser, a worldwide crime boss and tech terrorist who plans to hold humanity in his clutches via some kind of big brother surveillance system. Bond’s path to finding Oberhauser starts in Mexico City, where he causes an explosive international incident involving a helicopter spinning out of control above the city’s annual Dia de los Muertos celebration. It’s an eye-popping opener with clever staging (Bond’s life is saved by a couch) and a sky-high fight scene that’s sure to have those afraid of heights hanging onto their armrests for dear life.

Following his mid-air dance of death, Bond’s journey takes him to Rome, then back home to London, then to Austria, then to Tangier, and back to London again. Mendes doesn’t stray from the series’ touristic traditions one bit, throwing up jaw-dropping locales onto the screen rapid-fire. From the snowy peaks of Austria to the serene desert sprawl of Tangier, mother earth looks her beauty-pageant best, and she’s rocking some shiny jewelry to boot: the baddies’ fortresses look like marvels of modern architecture and the stunning cars Bond rockets around in will make you drool. Bond movies have become increasingly obsessed with suit-modeling and vista-ogling in recent years, but that’s not a bad thing. At least not yet.

Bond’s allies aren’t in short supply in his latest romp: M (Ralph Fiennes), Moneypenny (Naomie Harris), and gadget maven Q (Ben Wishaw) have all got 007’s back, though the bad guys’ eyes-everywhere tech prevents them from aiding Bond remotely. Spending the most time with him is newbie Madeleine Swann (Lea Seydoux), the latest addition to his ever-growing list of doomed lovers. She’s the daughter of an old villain who operated under the Oberhauser umbrella, and she insists she’s got no interest in bedding James like the rest of his international floozies. But who’s she fooling? After a romantic train ride and a close-quarters fistfight with one of Oberhauser goons (Guardians of the Galaxy‘s Dave Bautista), the sexual tension becomes too strong for even the strong-willed Madeleine to resist.

Craig’s got his Bond routine down to a science by now, hunting down his villainous prey with that same signature cold-eyed scowl he uses to make women melt. He’s a very good James Bond, but what slows him down in Spectre is his romance with Seydoux’s Madeleine, which unfolds in such a cursory fashion it’s laughable. She confesses her love for him after spending only a few days together, and even an actor of Seydoux’s talent can’t make such an unlikely leap in affection feel natural. If this is the girl Bond’s meant to consider leaving the spy life for, the writers (Neal Purvis, John Logan, Robert Wade, Jez Butterworth) don’t do enough to convince us of it.

Thankfully, the rushed romance one of only two of the film’s major downers (the other is the movie’s theme song, by Sam Smith, which is insufferable). The action set pieces are all show-stoppers, though the thrills of the opening helicopter scene are never outdone. A close-quarters fight scene between Craig, Bautista and Seydoux is a lot of fun and reminds us that Mendes doesn’t need pricey visual effects to keep us on the edge of our seats (the scene’s absence of music is a great touch that makes the brawl doubly tense). The movie isn’t exactly action-packed, though, as the explosions and car chases are used to punctuate the long stretches of character development/plot progression. Skyfall had a more striking and cohesive visual style than Spectre does (shadows and blackness are the recurring themes, but none of the inky images stick), but Mendes’ craftsmanship is never less than elegant and fully composed.

There’s a twist to Waltz’s character that I won’t spoil here, but what I will say is that he disappoints, again, by playing a villain exactly the way we all expect him to. The man’s capable of great things, but we’ve seen him play this smirking, unfazed, cold-blooded a million times before, and it’s a letdown every time he decides to stay in the pocket and not add any new dimensions to his act. Harris and Wishaw make a better effort, and it’ll be nice to continue watching them support Bond in future entries.

If Skyfall was the pinnacle of Craig’s run as Bond, Spectre signals a slight downturn and a need for the series to break new ground and redefine who James Bond is for the next generation. Mendes has made a fine movie that pays homage to Bond lore in surprising and delightful ways (there’s something off about that Oberhauser…) but it feels like the timing’s right for a change of the guard. Craig is perhaps the quintessential alpha-male Bond, always in control of his situation and surroundings; maybe it’s time for a double-0 who gets a bit more shaken and stirred in the face of danger.

After the massive success of Skyfall–the biggest James Bond film ever—it was rather surprising to see all the trouble it took to get Spectre off the ground—especially in today’s sequel driven culture. Originally, Oscar-winning director Sam Mendes said he felt “physically ill” at the prospect of returning to the spy series—even after smashing box office records and racking up awards nods. Rumors swirled around the developing picture for months before it was finally confirmed that Mendes would direct. Now, with a new trailer arriving today, we can all be thankful that he did.

While most of the plot has been kept tightly under wraps, what we do know is, Spectre finds Bond (the only-getting-handsomer Daniel Craig) confronted with a cryptic message from his long-hidden past that leads to an encounter with the mysterious organization Spectre. All the while the new M (Ralph Fiennes) takes on political adversaries to keep the British secret service alive.

Written by the same team behind Skyfall (John Logan, Neal Purvis, and Robert Wade) Spectre hopes to capitalize on the reinvigorated tone of the franchise and make another cool billion. To boot, the support here is deep, rounded out by Lea Seydoux, Christoph Waltz, Dave Bautista (Guardians of the Galaxy), and Monica Bellucci.

Spectre arrives November 6th.

How does one even begin to describe the enigma that is Yorgos Lanthimos’ The Lobster? Since reading a brief description of its bizarre narrative months ago, it has been one of my most anticipated films of the year (and made our list for most anticipated films of 2015), and those familiar with Lanthimos’ previous work (most notably his 2009 Academy Award nominated film Dogtooth) are probably aware of how strange his work can be—but never without justification. The Lobster tells the story of David (Colin Farrell), a man who has recently been left by his partner and decides to check into The Hotel, where he has a month and a half to meet a new, suitable partner, otherwise he will be transformed into an animal of his choice.

The Lobster functions as part absurdist comedy, part dark romance and part social satire. The comedy is sharp and the romantic elements provide it with a sense of lightness which would have otherwise been absent; the execution of its societal commentary, however, is what sends it into uncharted territory, and the main reason why it comes across as such a deeply original work. Lanthimos pokes fun at certain commonalities of the modern romantic relationship, such as the notion that “birds of a feather flock together,” by utilizing the element of exaggeration. For instance, each character in the film has their singular unique characteristic. David is nearsighted, and thus is only interested in finding a woman who is nearsighted as well. The Limping Man (Ben Whishaw) pursues a woman who suffers from frequent nosebleeds, so in order to capture her attention and fool her into thinking that they are a match, he begins inflicting trauma on his nose, causing it to bleed when in her presence.

When I first saw Dogtooth, I praised it for its technical mastery: its carefully framed static shots, sharp editing and claustrophobic production design. Still, something held me back from fully embracing it, and looking back on the viewing experience now, I’m certain it was that I had a difficult time trying to figure out what it was saying about civilization. Its surreal and otherworldly, for sure, but what sort of comment is it trying to make about the human condition? It is indeed a tough egg to crack. The Lobster, on the other hand, is much more coherent (and dare I say accessible) in its satire. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, as I never thought I would be describing a Lanthimos film as accessible, but I definitely think people will have an easier time figuring out the meaning behind all of the madness here.

The technical elements of The Lobster are just as sound as those of Dogtooth, and aesthetically similar. The camera is almost perpetually static, and much attention is paid to the framing of certain shots, which is interesting because it allows the director to isolate aural elements such as off-screen noises that, though they cannot be seen, having a significant bearing on specific scenes. The musical score is jarring, but not in a negative way; I imagine it will be one of the first technical aspects that viewers take notice of, as its a loud and powerful score which makes itself known within the first few minutes. There isn’t much that I would change about The Lobster; if I was to suggest anything to the editors, it would be to pick out and remove certain scenes which might not seem as pertinent as others, for the film does exhaust a bit in its third act. Aside from that, it is a hilarious and biting critique of interpersonal relationships that is sure to appeal to a wider audience than Lanthimos’ previous works, and may bring him back into the limelight when award season rolls around.

Bertrand Bonello, a characteristically unorthodox, visually gifted filmmaker, pays tribute to the life of Yves Saint Laurent in the most nebulous way with Saint Laurent, a stupefying art film starring Gaspard Ulliel as the chain-smoking fashion icon. Unlike last year’s rigid biopic Yves Saint Laurent, Bonello’s picture is more impressionistic and smaller in scale, a disorienting haze of sex, drugs and excess unconcerned with the Saint Laurent’s myriad accomplishments. It’s a film about texture, rubbing and poking its fingers in and around the nooks and crannies of Saint Laurent’s life that the other film brushed over in one fell swoop.

Instead of dramatizing, say, Saint Laurent’s volcanic rise to prominence at Christian Dior (an indisputably defining period which is audaciously given no screen time), the film fastens tightly on moments of little historical significance and flashes of sweaty debauchery that serve as opportunities to observe his behaviors, habits and vices. An emblematic scene sees a stone-cold wasted Saint Laurent sprawled out on his couch, the room a mess of spilt booze and broken glass that leaves his arms bloody. There’s a toppled bottle of his favorite pills, the contents of which are gobbled up by his poor French bulldog, Moujik. The inebriated pooch just happens to be one in a long line of Moujiks; Saint Laurent had a routine of replacing his deceased dogs with new, identical ones. What this says about him is for us to interpret on our own.

The film mostly occupies the period in the 1960s and 1970s that comprised Saint Laurent’s professional heyday. Highlights are his affair with model Jacques De Bascher (Louis Garrel), his relationship with model/designer Loulou de la Falaise (Léa Seydoux), and the unveiling of his 1976 “Russian Ballet and Opera” collection. The “Russian” portion of the film provides the best moment, a breathless, Mondrian-inspired split-screen runway montage that blows everything we saw in Yves Saint Laurent out of the water. (An earlier split-screen montage of runway models contrasted newsreel footage from the turbulent years of 1968 and 1969 is almost as exhilarating.) Seydoux  and Garrel don’t get much to do besides look ridiculously pretty (can’t be mad at that), and they exist almost exclusively on the periphery.

In fact, if you take a step back, you’ll see that everything in this movie—the characters, the locations, even the lines of dialogue—seem to exist on the blurred edges of reality. It’s all fluid; nothing is concrete. There’s no effort made by Bonello to contextualize anything that happens in Saint Laurent save for that newsreel/runway montage, which comes closest to making a strong statement. Any other narrative threads or statements are as graspable as wet spaghetti.

The name of Bonello’s game is abstraction and refraction. The film feels like following the smirking specter of Saint Laurent through a maze of mirrors (like the one in Enter the Dragon) while tripping on a cocktail of opiates. His image is swirling all around you, and it’s an intoxicating thing. After 150 minutes of this, though, you get queasy, and all you want to do is get out of the stinking maze and go home. Saint Laurent is often frustrating, tedious, and ultimately doesn’t say all that much about the guy. But there are fleeting moments when you do feel absorbed in Saint Laurent’s psyche, and in these moments the film is one hell of a drug.

Ulliel’s greatest gift to Saint Laurent is that his performance is the only thing that feels bolted to the ground in a film that feels narcotized beyond all recognition. He’s like a possessed sex demon inhaling his fill of hedonism wherever he goes. A lot of the film resembles those trashy fall-from-grace rock ‘n’ roll biopics where the rock star gets lost in a whirlwind of sex and drugs, but Ulliel elevates the material by accentuating Saint Laurent’s more sinister, predatory side. (There’s no better example of this than the creepy final shot, in which Ulliel stares down the camera, a Cheshire Cat grin creeping across his face.) Otherwise, the film is pretty formless. It moves and sways and slips out of your fingers like a puff of smoke. That can be a beautiful thing in small doses, but at 150 minutes Saint Laurent feels like a chore.

As always, the journey to the next Bond film is an interesting one. Before the $1 billion earnings of Skyfall, MGM filed for bankruptcy, leaving everyone to assume it would be a long, long time before we saw 007 again. Obviously, the four-year wait was well worth it, with the Sam Mendes directed film going above and beyond the average blockbuster. We can all be thankful that he’s back for the next round.

Spectre finds Bond (Daniel Craig) and the rest of MI6 still reeling from the aftermath of Skyfall. While struggling to keep the secret service alive, Bond must face off against a menacing organization and find the truth about SPECTRE.

The cast is rounded out by some familiar faces (Ralph Fiennes, Ben Whishaw, Naomie Harris) and some new to the Bond world (Christoph Waltz, Dave Bautista, and Lea Seydoux). And while the film doesn’t arrive for more than half a year, this first trailer looks gorgeous–thanks mostly to the fine work of Roger Deakins’ replacement, Hoyte van Hoytema (Interstellar, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy).

Check the trailer below. Spectre arrives November, 6 2015.

Partway through The Grand Budapest Hotel, there’s an argument between Dmitri (Adrien Brody, looking brilliantly evil) and his deceased mother’s lawyer (Jeff Goldblum). The lawyer refuses to hand the dead woman’s fortune over to her son as the details of her murder haven’t been cleared up. Dmitri angrily leaves, and his henchman (Willem Dafoe) casually tosses the lawyer’s cat out of a window on his way out. It’s a cruel act, and a funny visual gag, until the lawyer peers out his window and the camera cuts to his cat’s splattered body below.

Writer/director Wes Anderson uses these shock moments of sudden violence more than once throughout the film. The dead woman (Tilda Swinton, unrecognizable with pounds of old age makeup) is Madame D., an old rich countess who frequented the titular hotel. Located in the mountains of the Republic of Zubrowka, a made up European nation, the hotel is a gorgeous and highly popular establishment. Gustave H. (Ralph Fiennes) is the hotel’s concierge, a charming man who was also taking Madame D. to bed during her visits (one of Gustave’s many duties as concierge included sexually satisfying the rich old ladies who visited). When it’s revealed that she put Gustave in her will as the recipient of a priceless painting, Madame D.’s family frames him for her murder.

Gustave receives help from Zero Moustafa (Tony Revolori), a young lobby boy that Gustave has taken a shine to. The story, taking place in 1932 during some unnamed war ravaging the country, is narrated to us by an older Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham) in the 1960s. He’s telling his tale to a young author (Jude Law) over dinner at the hotel, now well past its glory days. Law narrates the 1960s segments, which are actually from a novel being read to viewers in the 1980s by (presumably) a now much-older author (Tom Wilkinson). The nesting-doll structure may seem frivolous, but Wes Anderson’s films thrive on frivolity.

The multi-layered narrative also establishes Anderson’s attempts to comment on memory and nostalgia. Moustafa’s story in the 1930s, shot gorgeously in 1.33:1, is stylistically Anderson’s best work to date. The set design, meticulous framing, whip pans, quick zooms, and use of animation and miniatures, among Anderson’s other visual trademarks, operate at a level that more than matches his story’s large scale. Anderson and cinematographer Robert D. Yeoman are clearly having a field day, and it shows. The charming style also shows Moustafa’s nostalgia for this period of his life, as if these “good ol’ days” represent something that’s never to return.

Anderson is aware of how dangerous this way of looking at the past with rose-coloured glasses is, which is why he throws in scenes like the one with Goldblum’s cat. He is purposely breaking the spell his film casts, reminding viewers that the time period was still a tumultuous one. The hotel is not so much a shining example of long-lost civility and politeness as it is an escape from the harsh realities of wartime and poverty. These two worlds of fantasy and reality eventually come together, but through Anderson’s lens the stylistic flourishes still remain. The final scene of the ‘30s timeline, also the bleakest part of Moustafa’s story, switches to black and white, showing how Anderson still finds a way to fill his heavier moments with aesthetic quirks.

While Anderson’s toying with memory and nostalgia is interesting, it fails to make any impact to the film overall. The handling of violence makes for an awkward juxtaposition, one that’s more admirable in its intent than execution (I never thought I’d say this, but Anderson should take some tips from Quentin Tarantino in this area). The war going on in the film’s background is wiped of any details, save for some vague allusions to the SS. The obscuring of these elements only muddy the water, and the dense plotting of Anderson’s screenplay make his thematic points get swallowed up by the film’s aesthetics.

Not that the aesthetics are a bad thing; The Grand Budapest Hotel is still a treat to watch. Fiennes is perfect as Gustave, and Anderson’s script is filled with plenty of hilarious moments. The massive ensemble, where seemingly every role is filled with a well-known actor (supporting cast includes Edward Norton, Harvey Keitel, Saorise Ronan, Jason Schwartzman and Owen Wilson just to name a few), work together perfectly. While The Grand Budapest Hotel works well, it only does up to a certain point. What the film amounts to is nothing more than a well-done and admirable piece of fluff.

The Grand Budapest Hotel trailer

Was I a little upset that I did not catch Blue Is the Warmest Color while at the Cannes Film Festival earlier this year? Absolutely I was. Especially when the film went on to win the top prize of the Palme d’Or as well as awards for both leading actresses (a Cannes first). In my defense, it was not the most buzz generating film during the festival (Inside Llewyn Davis probably was), but the people I talked to who did see the film where generally blown away by it. Now having just watched it myself, I can see why.

Blue Is the Warmest Color begins with Adèle (Adèle Exarchopoulos) as a junior in high school who catches the eye of an attractive male in her school. The problem is her circle of friends seem much more interested in him than she does. They are the ones that encourage her to go on dates with him and then demand to hear the details afterwards. It is heartbreaking when Adèle begins to think that something is wrong with her because she has no feelings for him. When she cannot take it anymore and breaks down emotionally, so do we.

There is something that Adèle cannot stop thinking about—the girl with short blue hair (Léa Seydoux) that she once passed while crossing the street. Slowly but surely she begins to figure out that it was not specifically the guy she was seeing that she was not attracted towards, but males in general. With no help from her so-called friends (who tease and tell her names), Adèle decides to follow her urges of being with a woman instead of a man. Over the next few years of her life she will continue to have hills to climb and hurdles to jump over, no matter what her gender preference or relationship status is at the time.

This is every bit of a story about self-discovery as it is a story about love. While the story is quite good on its own, its effectiveness is only made possible by the amazing acting talent from both Adèle and Lea. Due to their tremendous performances, the fight that breaks out between the two leads late in the film very well may be the most emotionally charged scenes of the year. It is quite astonishing just how realistic and intimate the relationship between these two souls is represented on screen.

It is a real shame that the first thing you will likely hear about the film is the lesbian sex scenes and the gratuitous amounts of nudity. I say this because Blue Is the Warmest Color is a three-hour love story in which a ten-minute scene should not define it as a whole. Yes, there is a graphic sex scene involving two girls. Whether or not it goes on for a bit longer than it needed to is certainly up for debate, but the scene is not just thrown in haphazardly to boost ratings or as an excuse to show off the female body–it is part of the narrative between two passionate people who are madly in love with each other.

The amount of blue found throughout the film is not exactly surprising given the title. The most obvious instance is the color of Emma’s hair, but blue color is found all over. A blueish tint of light pulses in a gay bar where an overwhelming amount of people are wearing blue shirts. The bed sheets were blue where Adèle experiences her first sexual lesbian experience. At a gay pride parade, you guessed it, more blue. These visual themes add to the overall cinematical experience, but also serves as an essential part of symbolism in the story as it defines this time period of her life.

Same-sex marriage was still not legal in the country of France during the Cannes Film Festival where Blue Is the Warmest Color first premiered. On day 3 of the festival the bill was passed and France became the thirteenth country to permit same-sex marriage. Although this film had no direct influence on the ruling, you cannot help but see the how important and relevant the film’s subject matter is in these times. By no means is this the first pro gay or lesbian film, but it is certainly one of the most powerful to date.

To think of Abdellatif Kechiche’s Blue Is the Warmest Color as simply a lesbian love story is border-line insulting. Sure that serves as the underlying framework, but the film is equally, if not more, about the discovery of one’s own sexuality and the social pressures that are attached with it. It is remarkable that not only does the three-hour runtime never test your patience, but by the end the film actually leaves you wanting more. That alone is a testament of just how masterful the filmmaking, storytelling, and performances are in Blue Is the Warmest Color. In many ways the film is among some of the best cinema has to offer this year—every bit as poignant and rewarding as you could hope for a film to be.

Blue Is the Warmest Color trailer:

Hot off the heels of its huge Palme d’Or win at this year’s Cannes Film Festival, two clips from Blue Is The Warmest Color have emerged. This three-hour lesbian romance story is an adaptation of a graphic novel by Julie Maroh generated a lot of buzz before winning Cannes’ top prize, as the film features about a twenty minute graphic sex scene. Blue Is The Warmest Color is a timely film, at least for the French audience, considering France just recently allowed gay marriage to be legal.

Blue Is The Warmest Color Clip #1

Blue Is The Warmest Color Clip #2

The Swiss entry into this year’s Foreign Language Film race at the Academy Awards, Sister could work almost as a companion piece to Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne’s masterful The Kid With A Bike. This one also centers itself on a small, stubborn and determined parentless young boy who strikes out on his own, gets into some criminal behavior and develops a surrogate mother/son relationship with a woman he meets by chance. Here, the boy is Simon and is played with remarkable maturity by Kacey Mottet Klein. Simon is well beyond his years, having to grow up quick in order to provide a living for himself and his sister, portrayed by Lea Seydoux. The two live near a ski resort, and every day Simon heads to the top of the slopes in order to steal equipment from those spending their vacation here so that he can profit from selling it off himself.

Directed by Ursula Meier, Sister has clear influences from the Dardenne brothers, particularly in its shooting style. The camera stays close on the characters almost at all times, often giving a documentary feel to its examination of the two of them and their relationship with one another. There’s a shaky subplot with a kitchen worker played by Martin Compston and a much better one with Gillian Anderson’s wealthy resort guest, but the primary focus of the picture remains on Simon and his relationship with his sister Louise.

The two have grown up with one another and spend their days trying to get by, but as Simon has grown more responsible and composed, sacrificing himself every day in order to provide, Louise is nothing but a burden — she relies on Simon for practically everything, spending most of her time with a bevy of men that she picks up and leaves with for days at a time. The co-dependent relationship between the two of them is further put to the test as Simon’s actions begin to receive unwarranted attention and he grows increasingly jealous of the attention that Louise gives to the other men in her life.

Klein’s performance matches his character in being far beyond his years, perhaps even eclipsing the brilliant work from the young Thomas Doret in that similarly told Dardenne picture, but the standout here has got to ultimately be Lea Seydoux. As a young woman struggling with the burdens of moral responsibility and a yearning desire to just be free and wild, there is always more working beneath her exterior than she lets on and when we finally begin to see her facade crack in the later stages, a character who started off quite unlikeable is quickly turned into one I felt great sympathy for.

There’s a whopper of a twist that I wasn’t expecting at all, but I felt it wasn’t utilized as well as it could have been; however, it does add a whole new level to Seydoux’s brilliant work here and makes you re-examine every stroke of her superb performance that came before it. Sister contains two physical fight scenes between Simon and Louise throughout the film, and in the contrast of them you can see the extensive rift that has grown between them over these events. At the beginning, they are playful and loving, rolling around on the floor while jokingly fighting each other for who can have the best sandwich that Simon stole. The later fight though, is violent and dirty, taking place in the filthy mud and featuring the two going at one other with an almost homicidal rage.

The relationship between the two characters at the center here is fascinatingly explored by Meier, but also impressive is the way that she inserts a subtext with the high/low nature of the setting. There’s a very distinct contrast between the clean, white and beautiful setting of the resort that Simon ascends to each morning and the bleak, muddy and ugly bottom of the hill he returns to every night. Not only does the opposing nature provide a look into the class distinction that Meier softly examines, but it also keys into the lost nature of these wandering figures, constantly striving for something more than the squalor they truly exist in. This all adds an impressive extra layer to Sister, while never becoming such a focus that it takes attention away from the true centerpiece which remains the study of this powerful relationship between a brother and sister.