Consider for a moment the sticktoitiveness required to complete a documentary upon the order of Tim’s Vermeer. First off, Tim’s Vermeer required an artisan. And not just any artisan, mind you. Tim’s Vermeer required an absolutely exceptional artisan … a savant, by all appearances, who was equal parts innovative and intuitive. Next, the film required said artisan to possess an exhausting combination of both malleability and focus. Beyond that, the film required eight full years worth of time … time and enough money to finance international travel, production and architectural costs. Lastly, Tim’s Vermeer required an inconceivable shitload of good fortune … good fortune and good faith that every wrinkle could be ironed.

And so what does it mean, exactly, the fact that Tim’s Vermeer ultimately succeeded on an Oscar-worthy scale? Well, assuming you’re of the belief that revelation and change are the highest virtues any film can aspire to, Tim’s Vermeer represents one of the most effective documentaries of the past 15 years. It also represents a seismic shift in both the historical perspective and artistic application of oil painting. It’s Bob Ross for the intellectual set, and it’s highly recommended.

(Tim’s Vermeer opens in limited release this Friday.)

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“When you really come up with some new, fresh ideas, a lot of people get frightened. And who could blame them? I’m the GM of a station, making a shit-ton of dough, and here comes this asshole who tells me how to do radio. I remember at WNBC, this guy wanted us to change the news so that Robin and I would sound like the rest. We had the highest ratings of the whole station. I was like, ‘Why don’t you change your news to be like ours?’ It didn’t make any sense to me. When you’re coming up with something new, it’s threatening. It really is. And some people in business fear success. They’re comfortable where they are, not wanting to cause too many waves.”

(Via “Howard Stern: The Billboard Cover Q&A“)

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Watching Visitors feels like going to mass. It’s slow and it’s boring, and it lingers on too long. But if you can somehow suffer through it, you just might connect to what’s not being said.

(Visitors premieres at the Landmark Sunshine Cinema in New York City this Friday.)

Ever heard somebody say, “Yo, man, that movie really fucked me up.”? Yes? No? Well, anyway, Big Bad Wolves will fuck you up, and I mean that in the best possible way. Assuming you’re not easily distracted by subtitles and you’re the type that gets off on peeking through veiled fingers, Big Bad Wolves‘ll skin ya good. The movie, an Israeli suspense thriller, peels back like an onion, forcing an increased emotional response the deeper – and more pungent – it gets.

Written and directed by award-winning filmmaker Aharon Keshales, Wolves comes masquerading as a morality play – cerebral enough to achieve obfuscation, fast and loose enough to provide an occasional laugh. Tzahi Grad is Oscar-worthy, as is the screenplay, brimming with indictment. The climax lingers on, but only after it’s achieved heart-pounding impact, the tension tuned so high that one could pluck it like a wire. Keshales does just that, time and time again, which is why Big Bad Wolves will fuck you up, and I mean that in the fiercest way.

(Big Bad Wolves arrives in limited release this Friday.)

Two-and-a-half months from now Paramount Pictures will release Noah, a modern retelling of the Old Testament flood story originally related via Genesis. Darren Aronofsky’s version will offer a feast for the eyes, all CGI grandeur and Clint Mansell score. What will remain mostly the same, however, is the assertion that Noah, a 600-year old patriarch (ala Yoda), maintained some telepathic link to God. God, eager for upheaval, imposed upon Noah to “make an ark,” thereby rendering the long-time artisan a kook. Following the deluge of mankind, Noah was proven a survivor – the unsung savior of our ecosystem.

Historically speaking, characters like Noah represent what’s known as Classic Crowe Bait – domineering reflections of an actor viewed as martyr. For years, the majority of Hollywood has regarded Russell Crowe as a brilliant-yet-intolerable phenom, a blowhard who spent the early aughts engaged in volatility. Through it all, Crowe’s irrepressible conceit has shone through, very often via the roles he’s chosen to pursue.

To wit (a chronological breakdown):

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1. New York, NY
2. Philadelphia, PA
3. Washington, DC
4. London, UK
5. Los Angeles, CA
6. Chicago, IL
7. Toronto, CA
8. Dublin, IE
9. Melbourne, AU
10. Boston, MA

(Based on cumulative traffic numbers from November 2011- January 2014)

The primary conflict that arises when one hinges his entire existence upon God – or any faith-based ideology, for that matter – is that God accepts the blessing, while man assumes the blame. I mean, there’s more, of course, including an ongoing lack of accountability and stiff reluctance to rely on foolproof science. But in the end it all circles back to unrequitement, and unrequitement’s stern ability to breed contempt.

This is the dynamic Canadian director Denis Villeneuve chose to explore during his 2013 drama, Prisoners … a movie throughout which God – and by extension, organized religion – keeps clawing at the surface. During the first three minutes alone, viewers are confronted with one crucifix, talk of the Rapture, the Gene MacLellan classic “Put Your Hand In The Hand (Of the Man from Galilee)“, and, most importantly, the “Our Father” (offered as a ritual prior to the killing of an innocent).

That’s an awful lot of subtext for a little bit of sequence. And yet, Villeneuve proves so expert about inserting it, one tends to overlook the symbolism entirely. Aaron Guzikowski’s adapted screenplay, meanwhile, reveals God – or even godlessness – via the arc of several characters. Consider the following, by way of example:

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