The majority of “The Boy Behind the Door” finds Bobby sneaking inside and—literally, quite routinely—hiding behind a person door or another as he skulks about, trying to find his friend while outwitting his captors. As working day turns to night as well as creaky house grows darker, the directors and cinematographer Julian Estrada use dramatic streaks of light to illuminate ominous hallways and cramped quarters. They also use silence successfully, prompting us to hold our breath just like the kids to avoid being found.

“What’s the main difference between a Black male and a n****r?” A landmark noir that hinges on Black identification along with the so-called war on medication, Monthly bill Duke’s “Deep Cover” wrestles with that provocative issue to bloody ends. It follows an undercover DEA agent, Russell Stevens Jr. (Laurence Fishburne at his complete hottest), as he works to atone for your sins of his father by investigating the cocaine trade in Los Angeles in the bid to bring Latin American kingpins to court.

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Other fissures arise along the family’s fault lines from there as being the legends and superstitions of their earlier once again become as viscerally powerful and alive as their difficult love for each other. —RD

The movie was motivated by a true story in Iran and stars the particular family members who went through it. Mere days after the news item broke, Makhmalbaf turned her camera on the family and began to record them, directing them to reenact selected scenes based on a script. The ethical questions raised by such a technique are complex.

Out with the gate, “My Own Private Idaho” promises an uncompromising experience, opening over a close-up of River Phoenix getting a blowjob. There’s a subversion here of Phoenix’s up-til-now raffish Hollywood image, and the moment establishes the level of vulnerability the actors, both playing extremely sensitive male sex workers, will put on display.

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Played by Rosario Bléfari, Silvia feels like a ’90s incarnation of aimless twenty-something women like Frances Ha or Julie from “The Worst Person during the World,” tinged with Rejtman’s usual brand of dry humor. When our heroine learns that another woman shares her name, it prompts an id crisis of kinds, prompting her to curl her hair, don fake nails, and wear a fur coat to a meeting arranged between the two.

But Kon is clearly less interested in the (gruesome) slasher angle than in how the killings resemble the crimes on Mima’s mom sex show, amplifying a hall of mirrors impact that wedges the starlet further away from herself with every subsequent trauma — real or imagined — until the imagined comes to think a reality all its own. The indelible finale, in which Mima is chased across Tokyo by a beeg con terminally online projection of who someone else thinks the fallen idol should be, offers a searing illustration of a future in which self-id would become its personal kind of public bloodsport (even within the absence of fame and folies à deux).

“After Life” never points out itself — on the contrary, it’s presented with the uninteresting matter-of-factness of another Monday morning in the office. Somewhere, while in the silent limbo between this world along with the next, there is really a spare but peaceful facility where the useless are interviewed about their lives.

Discouraged by the interminable post-production of “Ashes of Time” and itching to acquire out in the modifying room, Wong Kar-wai hit the streets of Hong Kong and — inside a blitz of pent-up creative imagination — slapped together attractive young brunette aidra fox enjoys hardcore among the list of most earth-shaking films of its ten years in less than two months.

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Stepsiblings Kyler Quinn and Nicky Rebel reach their hotel room while on vacation and discover that they acquired the room with just one bed instead of two, so they end up having to share.

From that rich premise, “Walking and Talking” churns into a characteristically very low-important but razor-sharp drama about the complexity of women’s internal lives, as The author-director brings such deep oceans of feminine specificity to her dueling heroines (and their palpable display screen chemistry) that her attention can’t help but cascade down onto her male characters as well.