While the movie starts off with an engagingly familiar hook — take lonely girls: Emma (Bethlehem Million, “Throuple”), Julia (Alex Essoe, “Death of Me”), Harriet (Ally Ioannides, “Jesus Revolution”), Lex (Juliette Kenn De Balinthazy) and Dusty (Bex Taylor-Klaus, “Blackbird”), isolate them and put them at the mercy of a cult-like family — it never truly forms into something more than its collective parts. Worse, these collective parts move at a glacial pace, inching forward for a payoff that only shows its hand late into the film’s 100-minute runtime. Patience, apparently, is key in this mostly shallow, slow-moving venture.

The thin layer of suspense, concocted by a quintet of mostly first time screenwriters (Ariel Vida, Cullen Poythress, David Blair, Megan Sutherland and Sean E. DeMott), is one that any horror movie lover can see through long before the gotcha is revealed. This is especially true since the owner of the weed farm, Mona (Jane Badler, “The Lies We Tell Ourselves”), is instantly recognizable as someone hiding a lot of secrets. But without going into spoilers I will say the reveal is executed well enough and that weed does thankfully play a large role in the overall narrative, just it’s much more of the chill strain than I think people would anticipate.

Because of the first half’s aggressively slow exposition, viewers are left to idly sit by and watch the paper-thin and equally motivated characters “grow” to know one another better. Emma, our main protagonist, is most skeptical of this obviously sketchy job but outside of that, she is hardly differentiated from the rest of the group which includes a non-binary character for the sake of having a non-binary character. Without a solid character arc throughout the story, we are stuck with one-note characters that would rarely make it past the first draft stage of a screenplay.

Putting the slow start and nondescript characters to the side, once the gore does finally start flowing, it’s extremely chunky and visceral. Some spooky lighting design also enhances the blood bath, making what we so long waited for that much more pleasing. For “stoner horror” (is this a horror subgenre?), it’s got some great weed motifs, but it takes much longer than it should to get to most of them. If you’re planning on lighting up before the film I recommend going easy as you might pass out long before the movie gets good.

Katie is a university student raising money through events and social media related to her cancer. After the initial head-shaving, we see her making her way to campus, meeting her friends and rehearsing for a dance recital. This opening sequence is a masterful piece of visual storytelling, as writer-directors Yonah Lewis and Calvin Thomas construct the environment of the film, Katie as well as other characters, almost entirely without dialogue. Cinematographer Christopher Lew lenses the Ontario locations in chilly and stark colors, with deep focus shots of dilapidated buildings, bridges and elevated train tracks constructing a sense of entrapment that is furthered by editor/composer Lev Lewis’ smart cutting on the notes of the ominous, but never overbearing, score. As the film progresses, the sense of enclosure becomes ever stronger, as the camera pushes in towards Katie. This technique means, whether Katie is outdoors or indoors, in a two-shot with girlfriend Jennifer (Amber Anderson, “Your Highness”) or alone in a room, the camera creeps towards her in a manner that shrinks the frame, suggesting threatening and Katie’s increasing fear and desperation. During one tense conversation, the frame is partially occupied by a large mirror, Katie in the foreground but the shallow focus blurring the mirror. This reflective void expresses the confrontation that Katie is making with those around her and with herself, both of them equally frightening.

Katie’s fear is a product of her own actions, because that initial expectation about cancer and a “White Lie” is proved correct — Katie does not have cancer. The dance recital, crowdfunder, magazine articles that we see arrayed round her are all in the service of her elaborate and sustained deception, the extent of which is impressive as demonstrated in conversations that she has with Jennifer, her father Doug (Martin Donovan, “Tenet”) as well as university and medical administrators. The history of her diagnosis, symptoms and treatment are all meticulously researched and delivered with a conviction that would make any undercover agent proud. When further evidence is needed to sustain her ruse, she performs additional manipulation to get the money she claims is for medication and further treatment.

On the one hand, it is impressive to see Katie’s skill at developing her fiction. On the other hand, the viewer may roundly condemn the protagonist for her blatant preying upon people’s sympathies not to mention the financial fraud that she is committing. Conversations with doctors and lawyers reveal the wider ramifications of her actions, creating further expense and risk as suspicion grows. The score escalates both in tempo and volume, and conversations with officials raise the stakes still higher, culminating with one of the tensest photocopying sequences ever seen on film. Mobile phones are also used to great effect: The device is common enough to be part of the scenery and can provide something of a deus ex machina, but in White Lie, the cell phone is a lifeline, a tool and even a threat, as Katie receives texts and calls that she lies about, social media notifications that induce panic, other alerts that offer relief, and the policing of online shaming and bullying makes a timely but not heavy-handed appearance.

Throughout the increasingly fraught events, Rohl performs a remarkable balancing act, using subtle shifts in expression to express both her fear of exposure and adherence to her story. Her performance is central to maintaining audience sympathy — despite her actions, the film never condemns Katie but presents her as a figure threatened and frightened but determined to continue. Maybe we want her to succeed; maybe we want her to be found out; maybe we want her to find a way out of this mess she has created for herself; would the ultimate irony be that she actually develops cancer? Katie is certainly manipulative, but not vindictive or cruel. The only times she becomes angry are when people who know the truth deny her what she seeks.

Perhaps most importantly, the film does not dwell on WHY Katie is doing all this. The amount of effort, discipline and self-inflicted suffering, not to mention expense, that she goes through and incurs is geared towards her elaborate deception, but is it all for money? She pursues a specific financial aid through her university that requires particular documents, but this seems more of a McGuffin than anything else. Perhaps her project is to maintain a sense of control, Katie’s strained relationship with her father suggests that she is determined to make things happen her way. There’s may also be a political comment on university tuition fees: That one way to pay for college is through dishonesty and deception. Ultimately, Katie’s reason is not explored in White Lie because it is not the point. The film’s emphasis is on the psychological (and to a lesser extent, physical) strain and commitment to her project, inviting the audience to consider how to deal with such a situation. The ending is pleasantly ambiguous, showing both an ongoing commitment, and also the cost. It is noticeable that the cost seems inevitable, as either the truth will out, or even if not, the scaffolding of deception dictates a very heavy price.

As she heads back into town, eager to get some answers from the locals, including among others, prostitute Betty (Lanette Ware, “Anything for Jackson”), she is met with a constant refrain: To leave Golden County while she still can. Just when you think she might take this bit of advice, she runs into Charmer (Faust) — all you have to do is turn to his name to have an idea of what his character is like. Their interactions together make us feel a bit happy for Girl, since she seems to be a bit of a loner and a drifting persona despite her connection to her mother back home. Faust’s Charmer is really good at swindling us to let our guard down, and I have to say that his character is perhaps the most compelling part of the film.

Once, however, it is revealed who the killers of Girl’s father are, the more interesting facets of Girl just go downhill from there, because now there’s less investigative conversation and suspense, and more scenes with Girl either being subjected to violence or being threatened by violence. I mean heck, Mickey Rourke (“Berlin, I Love You”) always plays this kind of slime bag characters, so it didn’t really surprise me that he was involved somehow, even if he was cast as the sheriff. And while I fully understand Girl being compelled to find out who murdered her father (even though she was planning on doing the exact same thing to him), and the film does well in communicating the complexities there, we, the viewers, don’t really know her father, nor do we feel like we have to care about the murder mystery in any way, shape or form.

What Girl does establish is that Bella Thorne has it in her to take on more challenging roles. Before this, as she moved towards her post-Disney image, she took on roles that basically established her as the beautiful, sexy (and more often than not, mean) girl, so she never really got to stretch her acting range. Chad Faust also has a bright future ahead, be it in acting or directing. Considering this is his directorial debut he does manage to craft quite the visually-satisfying film even if the screenplay (Faust’s second) needed some additional tinkering.

In The Color Rose, released as “The Sinners” in the UK, writer-director Courtney Paige uses excessive lighting, dreamy music and shifts in the speed of action to create a suffusive, sensual and sinister tale of teenage rebellion gone horribly wrong. It’s not entirely successful, with some sections working better than others, but The Color Rose is discomfiting and involving in its world building and thematic expression. An early part of this establishment is the location, an isolated town surrounded by gorgeous mountains, deep forests and an ominous lake. Small wonder that the opening voiceover refers to the lake and a feeling of submergence pervades much of the film.

The location recalls the sublime in art, attempts to represent the majesty and terror of divine creation. This duality is further emphasized by the setting of a small and strictly religious town, where church and Bible study inform every part of life and sin is rigidly avoided. Except it isn’t because the film follows seven teenage girls dubbed “the Sins” by their classmates. Grace Carver (Kaitlyn Bernard, “The Professor”) is the leader of the group and the film’s antihero, dubbed Lust with a certain amount of irony, although certain sequences emphasize a sensuality in her that is almost tactile. Grace’s relationship with her family, especially her father Pastor Dean Carver (Tahmoh Penikett, “Painkillers”), is the source of considerable tension which boils over into violence that impacts the entire community. Tori Davidson (Brenna Coates, “Coroner” TV series) is Wrath, Grace’s close confidant and clandestine lover. Rich girl Katie Hamilton (Keilani Elizabeth Rose, “Woodland”) gets whatever she wants but her Greed is never satisfied. Stacey Rodgers (Jasmine Randhawa) has Envy for those around her. Molly McIvor (Carly Fawcett, “Night Sweats”), insecure about her body, comfort eats due to her Gluttony, while Robyn Pearce (Natalie Malaika, “Picture Day”) demonstrates her Sloth by coasting through school and athletics despite her natural gifts. Brenna Llewellyn (“CR: Complete Reality”) is Aubrey Miller, Pride and the narrator in a way that is, well, that would be telling.

Within their repressive community, the girls are a talking point and it is not long before they start their own little rebellion. And as you might expect, it isn’t long before things go too far. In constructing this story, Paige combines elements of teen drama, folk and occult horror. Holy verses rub shoulders with Satanic rituals, and a careless word can have severe repercussions. This is an interesting comment on religious dogma, as intolerance and judgment seem to be the watchwords of this community rather than love and forgiveness. When characters turn up dead, cries for vengeance and retribution drown out those of mourning.

The film’s presentation of teenage pranks leading to mob hysteria creates inevitable comparisons with “Heathers,” although the film lacks the strong satirical bite of that teen classic. The film is also reminiscent of “Scream” and “Mean Girls,” as well as “The Craft” with its incorporation of occult imagery. A more recent antecedent is 2018’s “Assassination Nation,” which was a scathing indictment of various social expectations. The Color Rose is less acerbic, but perhaps oddly has a warmer heart, since the girls at the center of the drama are presented as flawed and confused, trying to figure out how to be themselves when their elders regularly tell them they are not good enough. Religion works as a metaphor for gender repression here, as the girls’ school classes appear to consist of Bible study based on how well they know the material, yet it seems they can never know it well enough. The stricture on display may well provoke annoyance from disagreeing viewers, but it would be simplistic to view the film as a condemnation of religious dogma. The girls are recognizable from the genre entries as mentioned above, as much products of contemporary western society as they are of their specific niche of it. Also, the repression is largely implied rather than enforced, with nothing in the way of punishment as seen in something like “Carrie.” Thus, the notion of an expectant atmosphere and how one negotiates one’s own identity within that atmosphere is central to the film, again adding to the suffusive nature of The Color Rose.

The atmosphere of the film is its most effective element. Sometimes the style is inconsistent and a little jarring, such as Paige’s device of speeding up the action at moments of high tension. This can induce shock, but the device is used somewhat clumsily at times. More effective are the sudden inserts, such as moments of violence where we only see a little: As is often the case, suggestion can be more frightening than explication. Best of all are the slower moments, such as the girls walking through their high school with blatant disregard for their moral instructors, flesh on display as an act of defiance rather than spectacle. Speaking of display, as might be expected with a large cast like this, some of the characters receive more attention than others, with the film’s focus largely on Grace and Tori and the other girls somewhat sidelined. It is also a film of discordant narrative threads — a criminal investigation thread is somewhat mechanical, with Sheriff Fred Middleton (Aleks Paunovic, “Volition”) and Deputy Douglas Sanders (Taylor St. Pierre, “Last Night in Suburbia”) shifting from buffoonery to competency as the plot demands it. But despite these problems, The Color Rose still succeeds as an effective blend of repression, rebellion, teen terror and occult horror, largely because of the atmosphere that suffuses and discomforts the viewer.

As we watch Melinda attempt to connect with the customers, and fail miserably, we feel very sorry for her, yet at the same time, recognize the desperation that leaks from her — we would avoid her too if we came into contact. She is treated poorly by her colleague Sheila (Suki Waterhouse, “Pokémon Detective Pikachu”) and has a crush on Officer Liu (Harry Shum Jr., “Crazy Rich Asians”), a policeman who stops by the gas station nearly every night before he does his route. We discover Melinda has been secretly taking pictures of Officer Liu, highlighting her loneliness once again, but also coming across as fairly creepy. This is the constant characterization of Melinda — you feel for her plight yet you worry about your own moral fortitude when you find yourself rooting for her.

Then comes the complication — a man named Billy (Josh Hutcherson, “The Disaster Artist”) enters the gas station and wants to rob it. He feels a bit too nice and polite to be a committing a crime, however, he needs the money because of some trouble he stirred with a biker gang. There is definitely some comedy here as he realizes that there isn’t much to rob because everyone pays with cards nowadays, and Melinda adds on to that by acceding to his request. I guess if a robber asks nicely, then the least you can do is help him rob you.

The conflict emerges when Melinda wants to leave with Billy, and won’t give him the money unless he takes her with him. This is of course asinine, but as we have previously established, there is something off about Melinda, so this development makes sense. In a twist of events, the aggressor becomes the victim, and the victim becomes the aggressor. Melinda is so desperate to feel something she does unspeakable things to Billy — her intent is still unmistakable, but it is horrifying to watch unfold. Once again we, as the audience, are in a moral conundrum because of Melinda. We shouldn’t want her to win, and she shouldn’t win, yet it is clear that the movie bestows her with plot armor, leaving a burning mess and getting away scot-free.

The issue with Burn is that with the exception of Melinda, everyone else feels one dimensional. Billy is the antagonist because the movie says he has to be. Hutcherson also fails to be slick and sinister at the same time. He tells us he has anger issues but it’s hard to buy it. Shum Jr. plays the typical white knight while Waterhouse’s Sheila is that bitch of a colleague we all have at work. Melinda’s motivations, though bonkers, is in line with the portrayal of who she is, the rest are just gathered in convenience to serve the plot.

The movie could have be tighter and more succinct as well, since things get a little snooze-worthy around three quarters of the way in, where they try to amp it up with Sheila’s hapless boyfriend (Shiloh Fernandez, “Evil Dead”) making an appearance. I understand his presence is to highlight Melinda’s lack of connection and how Sheila is always desired over her. But their interaction doesn’t come across as significant, and we are merely waiting for him to leave so that Melinda can begin her plotting. Ultimately, Burn is a movie to watch in the moment and enjoy to some extent, but it’s not one due a revisit — for what would be the point?

Booksmart is the coming of age story of Molly (Beanie Feldstein, “Lady Bird”) and Amy (Kaitlyn Dever, “Men, Women & Children”), high school seniors about to graduate (not unlike Seth and Evan in “Superbad”). Molly and Amy are BFFs, overachievers focused on good grades and colleges, and also ardent feminists, activists and progressives (completely unlike Seth and Evan in “Superbad”), especially Molly who is both high school president and valedictorian. They have fulfilled every expectation any parent or teacher could have, and in the case of Principal Brown (Jason Sudeikis, “Colossal”), have gone beyond expectations, to the point that he is exhausted by their righteousness. As graduation approaches, Molly and Amy realize that they might have missed out on some aspects of high school and resolve to have a crazy night of partying.

But they get more than they bargained for.

Where “Superbad” focused on sex and the teenage boy obsession with losing virginity, the heroines of Booksmart have wider interests. Fundamentally, they want to have fun and be crazy, and do this together. This makes the film very much about female friendship and camaraderie. But beyond that, Amy and Molly are also hormone-crazed teenagers, both with objects of affection. Pleasingly, the film does not emphasize this as all that matters to them. Molly’s crush comes as a surprise and Amy’s homosexuality is as normal and everyday as Molly’s heterosexuality. In this way, the film echoes “Love, Simon” as a mainstream teen comedy with progressive politics. Continuing this vein, Molly’s eventual revelation about her crush is not a rejection of her academic commitment, the film never suggesting that girls should be interested in boys rather than books. Indeed, if the film makes a judgment of its protagonists, it is of their obsession, a fair enough character flaw to be critiqued. When juxtaposed with their classmates, inadequacies caused by their joint obsession become apparent, as do their insecurities. However, once again the film succeeds by integrating the obsessions of the protagonists with their new goals, demonstrating character growth and development. Amy and Molly’s studiousness, progressive politics and overall nerdiness prove useful, indicating that they were not wrong in their goals, simply that they can be everything they are and also everything they can be.

Nor are the other characters a set of stereotypes, as stoners, jocks, tomboys and rich kids alike all prove to be more than meets the eye, as indeed do the teachers (watch out for Jessica Williams’ Ms. Fine). All of these characters, complete with flaws and foibles, are presented in a way that is warm while also being hilarious. From its creative profanity to escalating absurdity (using hair as masks, anyone?), from cringe-inducingly liberal parents to hopelessly pretentious parties, Booksmart is a film that knows coming of age comedy tropes and clichés and revels in them while also exaggerating them to ridiculous proportions. Most prominent among these hyperboles is Gigi (Billie Lourd, “Star Wars: The Last Jedi”), a wild combination of the Zooey Deschanel archetype and Christian Slater’s JD from “Heathers” (without the homicidal tendencies). Gigi is the type of character you would probably hate and find infuriating in reality, but on screen she is delightfully engaging and very funny.

While Booksmart presents all its characters humorously, Wilde shows great affection for her cast, ensuring that we are always laughing with the characters rather than at them. Her direction is confident and assured, slipping from dreamy sng to an intense argument captured in a long take, which presents multiple planes of action through its careful depth of field. Strikingly in this sequence, voices and background noise are subsumed into the music, the argument expressed through facial gestures and pronounced mouthing. It is testament to Wilde’s direction and the central performances that we can follow the entire conversation despite not hearing a word. Even during the film’s most surreal sequence, when life in plastic proves less than fantastic, Wilde ensures that Molly and Amy remain engaging and relatable. Come the end of the film, the viewer may be wiping away tears of laughter and joy as well as being moved by the wacky yet familiar misadventures of our heroines.

Booksmart comes along at an interesting time, as we are living at a crucial moment in terms of representation. In the wake of #MeToo and the Harvey Weinstein scandal, and recent legislative developments, there has rarely been a more prime moment for women to put their stories in the public eye. Popular genres are the perfect vessel for communicating equality and progression. In this regard, and following on the heels of “Lady Bird,” “Mary Queen of Scots” and “Out of Blue,” Booksmart is a film one can not only enjoy but also admire. Not only does it possess winning humor, delightful characters and superb craft, it easily smashes the Bechdel Test and challenges the nonsensical notion that mainstream films need to focus on men. Therefore, Wilde and her cast deserve the utmost credit for their superb production, which we can all enjoy in the theater and champion afterwards.