Freudenthal uses special effects when required such as showing the contents of a room swirling around as if caught in a tornado and Adam’s vision of an office being consumed by fire. Though a few scenes indulge in familiar clichés of the genre, for the most part the film exhibits restraint, showing compassion for Adam’s struggles and using humor to lighten the mood. Adam loves to cook and dreams about owning his own restaurant. At first, he dismisses his love for cooking, telling us it’s a distraction but ultimately acknowledges that when he is cooking, “Everything disappears and I get to be exactly who I want to be.”

Unfortunately, a meltdown at a high school chemistry lab that causes injury to another student leads to his expulsion and the decision to enroll him in a strict Catholic school. His acceptance, however, comes with the condition that he maintains an A- average and continues to take his medications which he claims makes him feel worse. When Adam is being interviewed by the nun who heads up his new school (Beth Grant, “Jackie”), we hear him passively give the answers he thinks she wants to hear but his doubts about whether he can meet the imposed conditions are written on his face.

Meeting Maya (Taylor Russell, “Escape Room”), a young student at the new school slated to be the school valedictorian, however, brings a renewed sense of optimism for Adam and his mom (Molly Parker, “Madeline’s Madeline”) and stepdad (Walton Goggins, “Three Christs”). Seeking additional support, Adam finds a shoulder to lean on in Father Patrick (Andy Garcia, “Book Club”). Though he tells the priest that he does not believe in God, Father Patrick’s calming manner and gentle humor allows Adam to feel safe enough to talk about his struggles without fear of reprisal. The relationship between Maya and Adam, both with their own vulnerabilities and secrets to protect, elevates Words on Bathroom Walls to a new level of authenticity, but the truth of their circumstances cannot be hidden forever and is sadly revealed during the school prom.

Both Plummer and Russell deliver magnetic performances, and their chemistry gives their characters depth and believability. The characters of Parker and Goggins, however, are not well drawn and barely come alive as real human beings but it does not detract from the film’s impact. As Adam attempts to come to terms with schizophrenia, Freudenthal wants to show that he deserves as much sympathy and caring as anyone else struggling with a debilitating illness. In a key moment, Adam says that teens with cancer are shown more compassion and patience. But for those with schizophrenia, “people can’t wait to make you someone else’s problem, no one wants to grant our wishes.”

Do love, support, and self-acceptance cure schizophrenia? No, and the film never suggests that it does, but only that it can help. Freudenthal says he hopes his film can be a “generator of empathy.” The next time, he says that “we encounter someone with the illness, [I hope] we encounter them as a human first . . . seeing everyone as equal and seeing people as sort of suffering from an illness other than being the illness.” Words on Bathroom Walls is a film for those who know what it feels like to exist in a world at odds with your deepest longings for connection and belonging. It is a film that can make you feel that you have found a kindred spirit.

Additionally, only cinematic techniques could be capable of presenting such seamless alternative realities that appear to coexist in the film, and are meant to challenge us as viewers to discern which scenes are projections of the major protagonist’s consciousness and which are not. Plenty of films attempt to make the viewer believe in multiple realities or shifts in time or perception, but few do so without a certain clumsiness and with the uncomfortable sensation that one is watching gimmickry. Such films — and there are far too many to list here — may be clever and at times provide us with that “Gee Whiz!” factor, but usually are no more significant than circus acts. The Father, on the other hand, presents competing narratives as elegantly as a world class ballet dancer completes pirouettes: Eloquent as they are meaningful to the narrative of which they are a part.

Florian Zeller’s play from a few years back garnered numerous awards and rave theatrical reviews from British critics. Christopher Hampton co-wrote the film adaptation with Zeller, then handed it over to Zeller to direct. As a movie, especially a debut film, it is quite impressive. Despite its familiar theme, the cognitive decline of an aging, prideful man, it is original and finely executed. The scenes are structured so well and interwoven so expertly, and Hopkins’ shifts in mood are so subtle as he tries to navigate an unreliable reality, that the viewer is often as shocked as the character in learning that what seems to be the “ground zero” of who, what, and where the truth of a life resides is perhaps another hallucination.

The primary anchor in The Father’s life (we never learn the character’s name) is Anne, his dutiful daughter, played subtly and sympathetically by Olivia Colman (“The Favourite”). She is complemented by a fine cast that includes Mark Gatiss (“The Mercy”) as The Man, Imogen Poots (“Vivarium”) as Laura, Olivia Williams (“Victoria and Abdul”) as The Woman, and Rufus Sewell (“Gods of Egypt”) as Paul. The concept of ensemble acting in film is not as common as it is in live theater, but the actors work off one another so effortlessly that the term is appropriate, although, of course, Anthony Hopkins takes center stage or screen.

To help transform the play to film, Ben Smithard has selected a photographic palette that creates an extra layer of emotional and visual confinement by framing the action through doors and hallways. This causes the setting to amplify the tension between the baffled Hopkins and the characters who constantly dispute the reliability of his personal narrative. The pressure becomes so intense you may feel that at any moment the apartment could explode.

In lesser creative hands, the subject matter of the film could devolve into a presentation of clinical symptoms. Or the claustrophobic setting could make an audience yearn for wide open cinema spaces. However, The Father is an exceptional merging of drama, setting, acting, and film structure. It is worth viewing to appreciate these elements. It’s worth multiple viewings if you want to analyze what is required for melding superb dialogue and performance, scene structure, and dramatic tension. Witnessing Hopkins’ confusion provides us with a glimpse into a troubled brain. And if his performance does not move you, you have no heart.

The opening of the film shows promise, as the camera tracks along a road surrounded by desert scrubland, before arriving at an overturned pickup truck. A young woman, later revealed to be Zoe Guzman (Elizabeth Selby, “A Cry in the Night: The Legend of La Llorona”), emerges from the vehicle and starts to run, only to meet a mysterious death. From here, various figures appear and inspect the scene, make reference to wider events that the viewer can expect to be clarified later, and leave us with more questions than we started with. It’s a typical and effective opening, used functionally here although with less sense of menace or atmosphere than something like “Wind River.” The comparisons keep coming, and they don’t get more flattering.

Director April Mullen (“Below Her Mouth”) leans into the modern Western setting of Tim Doiron’s screenplay. The story emphasizes small figures within wide and potentially overwhelming environments, echoing “No Country for Old Men” and “Hell or High Water.” This conceit of scale includes the characters, vehicles and buildings within expansive vistas, lensed attractively enough by Russ De Jong and Gavin Smith. It also includes the narrative, which works as a neo-noir in the same vein as “Red Rock West” and “Sicario.” The titular town forms the main location, and its isolation from wider civilization recalls the frontier town of the western myth. Into this town that [insert law, God, society] forgot comes Arthur Bretnik (Aaron Eckhart, “Sully”), a grizzled ex-cop, now private investigator, with a tragic history and a massive conspiracy complex to boot (although no drinking problem, must have missed that at the Cliché-Mart). Arthur is a man beyond the edge, living in a converted trailer out in the New Mexico desert, on an area of land literally named “Middle of Nowhere.” Making him a conspiracy theorist is potentially interesting, as Arthur and his slightly less-unhinged friend Jimmy Cleats (Tommy Lee Jones, “Ad Astra,” creating another intertextual link to “No Country for Old Men”) record a conspiracy theory podcast. When contacted and subsequently hired by the mother of Zoe Guzman, Arthur sets out to investigate what happened.

Arthur as a protagonist opens the film to criticisms of the white savior complex. A town where indigenous, immigrants and people of color are under threat requires the intervention of a white figure of authority to save them from, something. Ah, you might say, but Arthur is hardly a savior, since he walks with a limp and is clearly mentally unstable. Arthur’s instability is emphasized through the repeated use of flashbacks and hallucinations, recalling the death of his family as well as a previous case that he worked on. These moments as well as others make the film reminiscent of “Shutter Island,” and like that film Wander refers to wider issues, including crime and immigration, government control and mental health. However, these various elements receive little more than lip service that comes across as lazy rather than interested. If the film is attempting to critique or unpack the white savior archetype, it needed to do more not to deliver a pretty perfunctory take on mental health.

Eckhart does a decent job of portraying someone struggling with reality, and he bears the physicality of Arthur well with his rolling gait and weighted stance. The other performances are mostly fine, although Heather Graham (“Wetlands”) is wasted as Shelley Luscomb, Arthur’s friend and, when the plot requires, lawyer. For Batman fans, there is some fun to be had in seeing two versions of Harvey Two-Face go face-to-face (pun intended), and one may wonder if Jones and Eckhart compared notes on such things. However, neither have much to work with in the script, and the development for Jimmy is as creaky as the rusted doors forced open at some points. As Elsa Viceroy, Katheryn Winnick (“The Dark Tower”) comes off the best, bringing genuine steel as well as mystery to her role as well as the film overall.

While the convolutions of the plot might be acceptable, what ultimately makes Wander unforgivable is Mullen’s near hysterical visual style. From that opening long tracking shot, we are treated to an almost constantly mobile camera that serves to distract rather than engage. At times, the camera rushes towards a location, only to then retreat at equal speed. This device is at least narratively motivated, but other visual tics seem intended only to remind us again and again that ARTHUR IS UNSTABLE. Yes, thank you, we got it, could we have some show, don’t tell please? The spinning narrative and style reach their zenith (or nadir) in the film’s climax, which could have been tragic and emotionally resonant. Instead, it leaves one with the feeling that everything we have seen was rather stupid, but with an earnestness that removes any sense of shlocky fun. Indeed, for all the mirth at the end, the final moments may leave you thinking that the last laugh is on you.

Filled with the sounds of various voices, we meet Jane (Hawkins, “Maudie”), a paranoid schizophrenic woman going through a rough patch. She’s dealing with various levels of shame from her family, struggling with taking her new medication and continues to hear the sounds of a past romance at the worst of times. But as luck would have it, Jane meets Mike (Thewlis, “The Mercy”), an odd ball musician who captures her heart. Sure, he might not be able to sing like an angel, but he worships Jane’s sparkle like no one else. Yet not even the magic of love can concur the demons within our heroine — an element that Roberts never shies from. And thus we, as the audience, go on Jane’s journey towards discovering her own sense of solace, bumpy roads and all.

Permeated with fascinating visuals from beginning to end, Roberts freely takes us into Jane’s quirky world. It is one that is equally inviting as it is uncomfortable. Think Wes Anderson’s delicate touches mixed with Darren Aronofsky’s bold realities — a description that works in many facets, but mostly towards describing Jane herself. She’s a character that has a flat covered in precious decor, but is convinced she hears voices through the walls. Jane wears cozy cardigan sweaters, yet often dwells on thoughts of cannibalism. And to say this overall juxtaposition is unsettling may be the understatement of the year.

But what makes Eternal Beauty so refreshing is its overall optimistic view point. For Roberts’ examination of mental illness is not colored in muted tones, but rather pastel whimsy in every corner of the frame. And with the excellent talents of cinematographer Kit Fraser, art director Alison Adams, and production designer Tim Dickel working behind the scenes, this female gaze approach to something so grim is a stimulating shift from the norm.

The same set of descriptions can be used towards Roberts’ screenplay, for Eternal Beauty is narratively a blend of cringe and comfort. From Jane bringing over gifts for herself on Christmas morning, to the terrifying messages she hears over the radio, some scenes are earnestly charming while others evoke spine-tingling levels of creepy. This particularly comes across in a sequence involving Jane driving a car with a child inside. It’s the kind of moment that will either leave audiences wanting to continue or stop them right in their tracks. But regardless of your own reaction, Roberts should be commended for his willingness to go the cinematic distance for the emotional punch to the gut.

Yet even with all of Jane’s drama on display, Eternal Beauty never judges its lead character. Because Jane is an unconventional leading lady that, despite her flaws, is easy to cheer for. This aspect is due in large part to Sally Hawkins’ beautiful yet calculated performance. From quite moments of melancholy to warm looks of glee, Hawkins knows exactly when to punch up the dramatics and when to hold back like a skilled athlete. And though Jane shares a lot of similarities to Hawkins’ character Eliza from “The Shape of Water” (including a singing day dream sequence), Hawkins makes Jane a unique individual that is hard for any viewer to ever forget.

The rest of the cast does a lovely job of bringing Jane’s family and friends to life as well. David Thewlis gives Mike the right amount of heart and awkwardness to make him problematically lovable, while Penelope Wilton (“Summerland”) gives quite a cold, yet believable, performance as Jane’s strict mother. But the true standouts next to Hawkins is Billie Piper (“Doctor Who” TV series) and Alice Lowe (“Sometimes Always Never” ) as Jane’s sisters, Nicola and Alice. When it comes to Nicola, Piper perfectly personifies the failed prom queen archetype, who has no moral code. Lowe’s Alice on the other hand, is the glue that holds this dysfunctional family together, even in the midst of her own internal drama.

The organic quality shown through the characters, along with the story itself, is what makes Eternal Beauty a fascinating cinematic gem. It’s by no means an easy watch and may require a few breaks to get through, but the conclusion to Jane’s story is one that is relatable to a fault. And in a year in which happy endings are hard to come by, audiences may find themselves looking to characters like Jane for guidance. For she’s taking life one step at a time — a lesson we all should follow.

Motherless Brooklyn, an adaptation of Jonathan Lethem’s novel of the same name, is clearly a labor of love for Norton, who writes, produces and directs as well as starring in this smart and knowing blend of social realism and detective thriller. Motherless Brooklyn recalls earlier urban crime films such as “Serpico” and “To Live and Die in L.A.,” while also providing its own distinctive view on the social structure and hierarchies of 1950s New York. Norton plays Lionel Essrog, a private investigator blessed with an eidetic memory but cursed with Tourette’s Syndrome. Lionel is the prized employee of Frank Minna (Bruce Willis, “Glass”), an experienced detective who has effectively adopted Lionel as well as other orphans Tony Vermonte (Bobby Cannavale, “The Irishman”), Gilbert Coney (Ethan Suplee, “Unstoppable”) and Danny Fantl (Dallas Roberts, “Mayhem”), employing them and using their skills in his detective agency. After a secret meeting as part of a case results in Frank’s death, Lionel resolves to continue the case despite his colleagues’ reluctance and even warnings against doing so. Along the way, he encounters various characters including mysterious ranter Paul (Willem Dafoe, “The Lighthouse”), admin clerk Laura Rose (Gugu Mbatha-Raw, “The Cloverfield Paradox”) and Brooklyn Authority commissioner Moses Randolph (Alec Baldwin, “Mission: Impossible – Fallout”). He also uncovers layers of intrigue, oppression, corruption and violence.

What Lionel does not discover is cliché, which is an area the film constantly flirts with but largely avoids. Central to this understanding and careful handling of the material is Norton’s own performance. Norton is no stranger to playing mentally ill characters, as demonstrated by “Primal Fear,” “Fight Club” and “The Score,” and another actor might have approached Lionel as a performance of weird tics. Instead, Norton expresses Lionel’s condition the way that the character describes it: A head full of broken glass. These shards emerge as uncontrollable outbursts and repetitive acts, characterized as Lionel’s inner voice “Bailey.” Lionel regularly apologizes for “Bailey” and, while there is initial hostility from those who do not know him, they also tell him “It’s alright.” This highlights the importance of what Lionel finds and says, as others are willing to listen to him despite the jagged edges that he projects.

This acceptance of the unusual informs the portrayal of Lionel himself as well as his place in the city, awkward yet belonging. The city is crucial here, the different districts of New York forming the stakes as well as the locations of the drama. Cinematographer Dick Pope shoots the film in cool tones, the characters’ clothes and the buildings cast in a melancholy yet beautiful hue. Deep focus shots capture the buildings in detail, making them significant figures within the visual composition. Lionel’s flashbacks are often overexposed, expressing his simultaneous confusion and clarity with what he sees. Yet he is not the only one who is unusual in one way or another. Baldwin’s Randolph has a distinctive and almost comical walk; Frank’s widow Julia (Leslie Mann, “Blockers”) seems to lack empathy; Dafoe’s Paul is wracked with guilt and anger; Billy Rose (Robert Ray Wisdom, “Live Cargo”) has a damaged arm. Throughout the film, people have something identifiably odd about them — Lionel is simply the most extreme of them. The film’s soundtrack reflects unexpected juxtapositions, as jazz plays across much of the action and crucial events revolve around a Harlem jazz bar, where trumpet playing Michael Kenneth Williams (“Ghostbusters”) proves an unexpected ally for our confused detective.

The paradox of everyday abnormality characterizes the film as a whole. Motherless Brooklyn contains familiar elements of the hard-boiled detective genre, including threatening thugs, distinctive hats and coats and untrustworthy authorities. But these aspects are not over-emphasized, resulting in a film that is best described as par-boiled. There is tough dialogue and a sense of the detective being the sole figure of integrity in the tradition of Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe, but these aspects are blended with social realism that stops the film slipping into generic cliché. The enemies that Lionel encounters, while they do commit crimes, are not gangsters in the traditional sense. The corruption that Lionel uncovers is endemic but also intrinsic to the city, as much a part of the urban institution as the voter registration and electoral administration that Laura works with. What fills the function of villainy in the film is committed out of a sense of doing the right thing for the city, driven by visions and indeed realities of urban and social development rather than a lust for power or even material greed.

Baldwin’s performance includes some flowery monologues, but rather than echoing Sidney Greenstreet in “The Maltese Falcon,” Don Corleone in “The Godfather” or Jack Nicholson in “The Departed,” they are more reminiscent of contemporary political figures. The building of new facilities such as bridges, parks and walls is equated with doing good for “the city,” while the people, especially the black inhabitants of Harlem, are swept aside in the relentless drive of “progress.” In doing so, Motherless Brooklyn engages with the extremely contemporary danger of demagogues, highlighting the malevolence of industrial entrepreneurship and urban development. To do so through the perspective of a mentally ill protagonist and an African-American woman makes Motherless Brooklyn a shoutout for the under-represented and under-privileged. The voices of these groups are largely excluded from mainstream discourse, and therefore need to be constantly highlighted. The eventual revelations and confrontations of the film are muted, offering little in the way of triumph or even resolution, which gives the film a downbeat ending. This sobriety also reflects contemporary events, as discoveries about misdeeds or political impropriety seem to make little difference, because these things are part and parcel of the political economy that we live in and that the film dramatizes. Norton’s film is therefore a timely piece of social reflection as well as being an engaging crime drama that balances despondency with a mild but genuine sense of hope for human decency.

The film, Three Christs, tells the story of one Dr. Stone (Gere, “Norman”), who discovers three paranoid schizophrenic patients that all believe to be Jesus Christ. First, there’s Joseph (Dinklage, “The Boss”), a devoted-opera lover who is the most genuine (yet ill-tempered) of the trio. Next up is Clyde (Bradley Whitford, “Phil”), the eldest, who suffered a significant loss and often feels he’s unclean. And then there’s Leon (Walton Goggins, “Ant-Man and the Wasp”), the most serious of the bunch, who uses his words to cut others down. By putting the three in the same space, Stone hopes that their discussions will bring something new to the psychology table. But the road to such discoveries may be well-intentioned, but certainly aren’t without dramatic bumps.

In the first opening shots, Three Christs comes off like the most vanilla of psychiatric dramas. Think “Awakenings” but with a TV movie of the week edge. There’s a legitimately crisp indie darling look (thanks to the cinematography talents of Denis Lenoir), but every other element on-screen reads as unpolished — especially the script. Avnet and screenwriter Eric Nazarian try their best to get a grasp on the material that is the cinematic definition of tricky. On the one hand, you have to stick to what authentically took place while simultaneously keeping the audience on their toes in the middle of a therapy session. But with confusing leaps of narrative fancy, overtly disgusting dialog (mostly coming from Leon’s mouth) to baffling exposition that tries to be “woke,” the script screams for a much more skilled storyteller to grab the narrative wheel.

Yet the worst issue this script suffers from is the use of individual vital players. Take, for example, the research assistant, Becky Anderson. It is known that in real life, Ms. Anderson was involved in Rokeach’s study (mostly in helping with Leon’s case). Still, her film counterpart (Charlotte Hope, “The Nun”) seems to exist purely to be dangled in front of both Dr. Stone and Leon as a carrot of sorts, or a doggie treat — whichever phrase makes you comprehend the uncomfortable nature of her development within the plot. One particular sequence, in which Becky decides to try some mind-altering drugs, sees her hallucinating flirtations towards Stone, as his wife awkwardly comes to visit him in the office. Is she there to prove some inner flaw of Stone’s? Or is she an actual well thought out female character? Avnet and Nazarian have no clue.

But perhaps the most egregious of these choices come in the form of Dr. Stone’s arc. From the beginning, this script desperately wants us to believe that Stone is a wacky, free-thinking rebel (in that late-50’s sort of way.) He supports the likes of Lenny Bruce, has “crazy” sex with his equally attractive and intellectual wife (Julianna Margulies, “The Upside”), dabbles in LSD, and (of course) isn’t down with the G.O.D. But by the end of the movie, Stone transforms into a walking Hallmark movie lesson — the kind that will make you simultaneously want a barf bag and a box of tissues.

Stone is the representation of Rokeach himself, but there’s no real knowledge as to whether Stone mirrors his real-life counterparts’ behavior to a “T” — coming across more like a superhero adaptation of a person who had god-like delusions. History would eventually tell us that Rokeach learned from the problematic elements of his behavior towards his patients. Still, Stone’s much mushier conclusion makes it seem he didn’t have the same hurdle to overcome — resulting in his journey coming off more Hollywood than Rokeach’s story ever was.

The same can be said of the performances for everyone in the cast, which range from the typical Tinseltown examples of sleepwalking to the purest cases of try-hard. Richard Gere plays Stone like every other role he’s ever done in a courtroom drama, seeming as if he’s probably yawning after each take. The three Christs themselves each make their own “interesting” choices, with Dinklage (obviously) coming across as the best of them. Goggins tries his best at making Leon come across as charismatic (despite the disgusting dialog he has to utter), and Whitford is doing his best audition for an SNL sketch.

In fact, such a description nails the majority of Three Christs problems — everything here is too silly, too over the top, and far too dated. If there ever were a time to reach through the bag of magic that the internet has to offer, this would be the moment to select the always perfect “What Year is it!?” meme. Because if any film seems like it (unfortunately) time traveled from the same year of “Patch Adams” release, Three Christs would be it. Both creations take a true part of history and replicate it in a fashion that is seeking the mush rather than the truth, embraces the quirky as opposed to the factual, and comes across as pure sloppy filmmaking. Thankfully, at least one of them has Robin Williams in it.