The same problem has plagued Ben Falcone’s filmography, which Thunder Force pitifully exacerbates: It has no idea when to stop a joke. The comedic bits that are funny (which happen once in a blue moon) stretch themselves to shred until it becomes terribly awkward. For example, when Lydia starts to gain strength, she accidentally injures her trainer, which then becomes a recurring bit. The first two instances are funny enough, but the longer it sticks with the joke, the more tired it becomes. The same can be said for every unfunny comedic moment, which starts with Lydia’s awkward love with raw chicken. Okay fine, the treatment she undergoes can only make her eat raw food, but do we really need to see at least three different scenes of gross-out humor involving Lydia deliciously savoring raw chicken. It wasn’t funny the first time, and it surely isn’t funny when you’re doing it for the third time.

The only proper hilarious bits are found when McCarthy hangs out with Jason Bateman’s “henchman with a conscience” vibe as The Crab, where Lydia falls in love with him in a surreal dance sequence. Bateman is the best part of the movie because he seems to be the only one to understand how awkward comedy works. Any awkward comedy needs to bathe itself fully in the concept for it to be funny and never stop when it only reaches “surface-level” funny. By having crab claws for hands, Bateman’s awkwardness makes for terrific physical comedy, and his performance never stops being funny. He always finds new ways, with McCarthy, to continuously have fun with the concept, even though his arc ends with . . . raw chicken.

The awkwardness also finds a bit of footing when characters interact with Cannavale’s The King, a somewhat compelling (but terribly predictable) antagonist. Cannavale brings some form of levity (and humor, too), making for great banter between the heroes and The King’s henchman. It’s the plot surrounding The King’s ploy that feels completely ripped off from legitimate superhero films. That’s not to say that the superhero antics aren’t entertaining — they’re the best part of the movie (with Jason Bateman); it’s the plot that feels uninspired. I mean, when Melissa Leo shows up as Emily’s assistant, some audience members can look at her outfit and cold demeanor while she talks at Lydia to automatically associate her as a double-crossing antagonist. Guess what? She eventually double-crosses Thunder Force and works for The King. In almost every action comedy, there’s this “shady protagonist” that doesn’t necessarily hide that they’re working for the villain if you look closely enough. It’s a tired trope in many action comedies that either needs to be reinvented without falling into the familiar beats or dropped entirely. The more you do it, the less inspired it becomes.

However, there’s something in Falcone’s staging of superhero action that feels fresh and creative, which could be associated with the only time he can be considered a serious filmmaker. There wasn’t an action sequence in Thunder Force that didn’t feel entertaining — Falcone understands the kinetic excitement of superhero cinema brilliantly. Lydia makes henchmen fly off through walls, while Emily uses a taser to comedically stun other antagonists. It’s no secret that Falcone and McCarthy are both fans of the Marvel Cinematic Universe (they even landed a role in the upcoming “Thor: Love and Thunder”) and the action sequences here feel particularly reminiscent of Peyton Reed’s mechanics in the restaurant fight in “Ant-Man and the Wasp.” Oddly specific, yes, but it’s also one of the few action sequences of the entire MCU where you’ll find many clichéd henchmen flying around the space while being easily battled by Ant-Man and The Wasp. That same exhilaration is found in Thunder Force, but most of the film’s action sequences are plagued with terrible humor, making its tension falter a bit.

It’s quite odd to watch a superhero movie with such incredibly visceral action mastery that fails at almost virtually anything else. Falcone’s lingering joke problem is the number one reason why his movies don’t work. The acting is mostly good; there’s palpable chemistry between McCarthy and Spencer. Cannavale fully bathes himself in the corrupt politician antagonist, and Jason Bateman is having the time of his life. The talent is there for a great comedy, the budget is there to blend the comedic antics with action properly. All Falcone needs, for a successful comedy, is to know when to stop a joke and know the difference between “awkwardly hilarious” (see “Barb and Star go to Vista Del Mar”) and “painfully cringeworthy” (see any other Ben Falcone comedy). If Falcone relied on the stars and their comedic talents instead of a terribly unfunny script without a sense of comedic timing, it could’ve worked. But alas, let’s hope his next film will be better — he’s getting there, slowly but surely.

Before diving into the movie itself, it’s important to grasp the context in which this story is based upon. Beginning in 1917, United States Radium Corporation operated three factories — including one in Orange, New Jersey. To finish their product at an accelerated rate, the factories hired hundreds of young women to help paint the watch dials. But due to the way they instructed them to lick the harmless brushes, the women began to see life-altering results. From their skin glowing to jaws disintegrating, the supposed “magical” properties of radium were anything but, and these girls were the terrifying examples of its true toxic nature. Yet in an effort to seek retribution, the girls at these various factories would fight in court against the Radium Corporation, yet no genuine conclusion to the story would come about until the mid-70s. And even so, there’s still many unanswered questions.

As for the movie, the story centers around New Jersey sisters, Bessie (King) and Josephine Cavallo (Abby Quinn, “Landline”), who are watch dial painters at (the retitled) American Radium. While Bessie fantasizes about transforming into a Hollywood starlet, Josephine suddenly becomes ill, forcing the pair to discover the deadly truth behind the glowing liquid that funds their lives. Yet as more truths become unearthed, Bessie’s Tinseltown dreams shift to thoughts of justice; risking everything to protect not only the lives of her family and friends, but for the countless workers across the world putting themselves in jeopardy. And no matter what new corporate foes they face, Bessie and the other titular girls aren’t willing to go down without a fight.

Both on and off the screen, the tale of Radium Girls is the classic David vs. Goliath situation. Yet in the case of this project, the focus seems to be more on the accessibility of the story for a wider, younger audience, rather than paying tribute to the actual individuals that were involved. And if you’re the sort of person that gets sucked into a Ryan Murphy mini-series for the glam rather than the grit, you’ll know (or may have no clue) where this movie is going. And similar to Murphy’s recent efforts for Netflix (particularly “Hollywood”), Mohler and Brittany Shaw’s screenplay is filled with the kind of dialog that reads more Tumblr than authentic. It’s wish-fulfillment in the most well-intentioned of ways, yet still feels too heavy-handed to be organic sentences coming from teens of the era.

This choice particularly comes across whenever Mohler and Shaw place Bessie into social situations. From casual hipster-like discussions at parties, to melodramatic cries for justice at the most cringe-worthy of times, the approachable nature of these interactions is borderline laughable. And when adding in Bessie’s fan-girlish mentions of new films, every line comes across as too polished and unbelievable. Sure, there is nothing wrong with showcasing these events in a more palatable manner for a modern crowd, but it begs to wonder (if this story were in much more polished hands) how better the end result would be if it wasn’t.

Luckily, the film has Joey King (“Wish Upon”) — who even in 2018 (when the film was going through its initial festival circuit) had the kind of sparkle inside her to become something special. And as we (and Hulu, along with Netflix) know, she certainly did. With her puppy dog eyes and memorable pout, King swings the attention towards her, no matter where she stands in the frame. She has a raw kind of magic inside that is familiar to Winona Ryder fans of the 90s — for she is relatable as she is beautiful and as heartbreaking as she is enchanting. And regardless of what hokey bit of dialog is written for her on the page, she delivers it with a fire burning within her core.

The rest of the cast does equally well at making the best of what is handed to them. Abby Quinn, Colby Minifie (“Submission”), and Susan Heyward (“Poltergeist”) all leave memorable impressions; each bringing their brand of appeal and vulnerability to their respective roles. But perhaps the greatest surprise is the inclusion of Greg Hildreth (“Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps”) as the girl’s lawyer, Henry Barry. An actor who doesn’t get nearly enough fanfare on the Great White Way, Hildreth certainly deserves more film-related opportunities than he’s been given. Here, he exhibits a Jimmy Stewart like quality that (though not given as much screen time as he should) certainly leaves a charming impression.

Similar charm can be found in the work of costume designer Sylvia Grieser and set decorator Heather Yancey. Perhaps some could argue that the visuals on display comes off more sleek than other period dramas, both Grieser and Yancey define the world of Bessie and Josephine with a ModCloth sort of whimsy. Every garment, piece of furniture, and detail in-between is hard not to drool over. And though specific viewers might find this style over accuracy approach to be jarring, considering their small budget, Grieser and Yancey deliver in giving each of the film’s heroines their unique visual aesthetic that is just as courageous as the actions they take.

Ultimately, Radium Girls is the trail mix of indie biopic dramas. It has an inherent sweetness that cannot be denied, but easily as much of an uneven saltiness in-between. Neither flavor compliments the other perfectly throughout the film’s 102-minute runtime. But the elements that do blend nicely stand out in this easily digestible adaptation. And though Pilcher and Mohler’s finished product doesn’t take the same risks as their titular heroines, perhaps this will lead them to make bolder and more confident choices as their careers progress. Because their work can glow, without a drop of radium.

There are no men in Céline Sciamma’s (“Girlhood”) Portrait of a Lady on Fire (Portrait de la jeune fille en feu) but the male presence still dominates. Set in an isolated home on the Brittany coast in the eighteenth century, it is the story of an “impossible” relationship between two women in an era that rejected their form of sexual expression. Told with an understated passion, the lovers, Héloïse (Adèle Haenel, “The Unknown Girl”), the daughter of a countess, and artist Marianne (Noémie Merlant, “Paper Flags”), are bound by the rules determined by the patriarchal society in which they live, and the full expression of their love is burdened by the knowledge that it is doomed to end.

Though the film is without stories of taboo, struggle, and self-abnegation and the language often feels contemporary, Sciamma says, “This movie is not about wondering if such a relationship would be possible — it’s not, and they know it. But I wanted to show how luminous and how satisfying it could be. We all know what society thinks — I don’t need to repeat it.” Powerfully supported by cinematographer Claire Mathon (“Atlantics”), Portrait of a Lady on Fire begins in present time and unfolds in flashback. When a student of art instructor Marianne discovers the painting of an elegant young woman with fire consuming the bottom of her dress, the film takes us back to the circumstances that generated the mysterious painting.

Dripping wet from having to rescue her pallet that fell overboard on her voyage to Brittany, Marianne waits in the reception room of a large chateau, placing her wet canvas near the fireplace to dry, smoking a pipe, and helping herself to bread and cheese from the kitchen. She has been commissioned to paint a portrait of Héloïse, but her subject’s angry refusal to sit for a portrait reflects her defiance of her mother, La Comtesse, (Valeria Golino, “Daughter of Mine”) and her wishes for her to wed a Milanese nobleman (whom she has never met) if he approves of her portrait. She is told by the young servant, Sophie (Luàna Bajrami, “Happy Birthday”), that Héloïse’s younger sister had been promised to the same suitor, but has just fallen from a cliff and died, an event Sophie considers a suicide.

Pretending to be her walking companion, Marianne joins Héloïse on her daily walks, closely observing her every feature, then painting her at night from memory in a hidden corner of a room illuminated only by candlelight. During their first walk together, we only see the back of Héloïse’s head until she suddenly begins to run towards the cliff, swiftly pursued by Marianne who is uncertain if she is going to jump or just admire the scenery. Upon reaching the edge, however, Héloïse turns towards the camera, her hood blown off by the wind, revealing her blond hair and the sublime expressiveness of her face, alive with idealism but burdened by the sadness and lack of freedom that defines her life. “I’ve dreamt of that for years,” she tells Marianne. “Dying?” Marianne asks. “Running,” she responds.

The attraction between them is obvious from Marianne’s furtive glances, but it is uncertain how — and even if — it will make itself known. According to Sciamma, “The journey of the gaze, the fact that it’s stolen at first, then consensual, then mutual, then . . . we don’t even know who’s looking at who makes it really physical and organic.” Marianne, however, must comply with the artistic rules, conventions, and ideas of the day even if they render her portrait inert, which Héloïse is not reluctant to point out. Their relationship only begins to grow when the subject begins to return the artist’s glances and surprisingly agrees to pose for her.

Discarding her first painting, Marianne begins again, and it is clear that her new painting will be transformed by their growing bond. Obligingly, her mother goes away for five days, leaving the two alone with Sophie. In a telling sub-plot that reinforces Sciamma’s theme of a women’s right to choose, Sophie is found to be three months pregnant and Marianne and Héloïse deal with the choice she has made with loving care and concern for her well being. Music also plays a large role in the film. One day, the three encounter a large group of village women who are participating in a feminist community ritual, singing the Latin lyrics, “fugere non possum,” which means “I cannot escape,” a metaphor perhaps for the plight of women in that era.

Though the fate of her relationship is sealed, like Elio’s tears by the fireplace in Gaudagnino’s “Call Me by Your Name,” Héloïse’s reaction to hearing Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” for the first time at a concert is a poignant moment of beauty and power. If Portrait of a Lady on Fire is a heartbreaking film, the pain is rewarded by the knowledge that happiness lies not in months or years but in indelible moments that will always remain with you. The film may or may not allow you to come to terms with these moments, but the tears it evokes can be healing.

Well, in the aftermath of the irreverent and spry Drew Barrymore/Cameron Diaz/Lucy Liu installments (and a failed short-lived updated series), there is a whole new spin to the “Charlie’s Angels” franchise that some may find refreshingly acceptable. No longer does this property have the stamp of masculine-influenced creativity from yesteryear. Now that we are firmly in the 21st century, writer/director/co-star/co-producer Elizabeth Banks has the final say as to how her version of Charlie’s Angels will soar at the box office. It is quite liberating to see Banks infuse her crop of crime-fighting cuties with a feminist sensibility while holding on to the sensualness that made the butt-kicking beauties such a sensation over four decades ago. However, the so-called new and improved take feels like it is trying to flesh out its synthetic soul in an erratic, female empowerment blender of rambunctiousness that is all too familiar.

Enthusiastically, Banks does what she can to breathe some flash and excitement into this latest offering, proving that it is not solely the boy’s club that can muster up the popcorn action-packed exuberance for mindless entertainment. There is no shortage of Angels high jinks to be had: Roaming around to lavish locales, donning suggestive outfits and disguises, attending swanky functions, tinkering with explosive gun-play, besting the baddies in elaborate setpieces, among others. Also, the casting of the Angels is quite curious but rather interesting. The usually stoic Kristen Stewart (“Personal Shopper”) is joined by newcomers Naomi Scott (“Aladdin”) and Ella Balinska (“The Athena” TV series) to form the newest trio of Angels out to save the world with their brand of beauty, brains, and brawn.

Sabina Wilson (Stewart) and Jane Kano (Balinska) are employed by the Townsend Agency, an enormous organization that has now expanded globally courtesy of its thriving operations. In fact, the agency has provided its share of Bosley overseers to cater to the women and their dangerous assignments. While Banks assumes the role of a Bosley rep for our heroines, other Bosley prototypes in the film include Djimon Hounsou (“King Arthur: Legend of the Sword”) and former “Star Trek: The Next Generation” head honcho Patrick Stewart as a retiree. Elena Houghlin (Scott) is the network’s whistle-blower whose hook-up with Sabina and Jane is for both protective interests and as an apprentice to earn her lawful Angel wings.

Unfortunately, Banks’ scattershot script tries to play it too cute with the so-called subplot involving the Calisto Project that plays a vital part in the world’s energy resources, in which Elena finds herself tangled up in. Additionally, the Angels must contend with some strained colorful bad guys that — for the sake of argument — come off as low-grade James Bond villains. On-board for the villainous messiness is the wealthy weasel Jonny Smith (Chris Pang, “Crazy Rich Asians”), unctuous bigshot Peter Fleming (Nat Faxon, “The Way Way Back”), and their stone-cold executioner Hodak (Jonathan Tucker, “Hostage”). The violence between all is cartoonish and amped up a bit, and this version of Angels tries to downplay the skin-tight antics through a perceived feminist angle though this overstuffed showcase only mildly succeeds on that end.

Stewart and Balinska teasingly clash from time to time and outsider Scott has a good time as the computer brainiac looking to belong to something nutty and adventurous. Thankfully, these galloping gals are not a carbon copy of the Angel wannabes from yesteryear. Nevertheless, the unimaginative titled Charlie’s Angels does not present anything uniquely new to the titillating table of creativity. This toothless, jittery jet-setting flick is more of the same serving of high-flying silliness despite its misguided sisterhood slant of patchy intrigue.

During World War II, the German blockade of Leningrad cut off the city from the outside world for three years, an act that took the lives of over one million people. While the world has largely focused on the causes and details of the siege, little attention has been paid to how survivors coped with their trauma, suffering which the Russian leadership did their best to hide. Winner of the FIPRESCI Prize and the award for Best Director in the “Un Certain Regard” category at Cannes, 27-year-old Russian director Kantemir Balagov’s (“Closeness”) Beanpole (Dylda) focuses on the relationship between two young women who have returned to Leningrad (today St. Petersburg) from the front in the immediate aftermath of the war.

Brilliantly performed by Viktoria Miroshnichenko as Iya Sergueeva, a nurse nicknamed “beanpole” because of her height and slender frame, and Vasilisa Perelygina as Iya’s mercurial friend Masha, it is an intense examination of damaged people desperately trying to find some peace and connection during a time when the world no longer values it. Russia’s official submission for Best International Feature Film at the 2020 Academy Awards, the film was inspired by Nobel Prize winning author Svetlana Alexievich’s “The Unwomanly Face of War,” a devastating chronicle of women’s experience during the war. Beanpole opens in a hospital for wounded soldiers after the war, many whose bodies are so desperately shattered that they long for death. Stepan (Konstantin Balakirev, “Angels of Revolution”), one of the most badly injured, is paralyzed below his neck and pleads to the nurses for death, but it is not possible under the law.

Iya has a supportive relationship with her superior Dr. Nikolay Ivanovich (Andrey Bykov) and works with him to secretly euthanize patients who will not recover from their wounds. Suffering from post-concussion syndrome, now known as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), Iya is subject to sudden seizures, spasms in which she cannot talk or move and is unable ask for help. Her condition tragically manifests itself in an extended sequence that is most difficult to watch. The atmosphere of decay is underscored in a scene in which the patients at the hospital play a game with Masha’s young son Pashka (Timofey Glazkov). When they ask him to bark like a dog, he only stares at them without expression. “How would he know what a dog is like,” one man says. “They’ve all been eaten.”

The focus of the film is on the relationship between Iya and Masha, one that is based both on mutual need and sexual attraction but also contains an element of exploitation. As photographed by cinematographer Kseniya Sereda, the film is shot in faded pastel colors of red, green, and ochre rather than in black and white which the material might suggest. As Balagov explains, “The green that we use is also about being alive, but the ochre symbolizes the wound. And red is also the color of rust and blood.” When Masha returns from the front where she remained to seek revenge for the death of Pashka’s father, she is intent on having another child which she believes will heal all of her internal wounds from the war.

Sadly, the number of abortions she had during her time at the front prevents her from having any more children and she demands that Iya bear her a child with a surrogate. Masha’s exploitation of her friend strikes a jarring note and the look on Iya’s face when she is forced to do something against her will threatens to destroy her relationship with the only person she can turn to. Using men to fill a void in her life, Masha develops a relationship with Sasha (Igor Shirokov), the son of upper-class Communist bureaucrats. Assured that he loves her, they plan to marry until a visit to his parents in their mansion outside of the city prompts Masha to confess a disturbing truth about her life. In one of the film’s most striking moments, Sasha’s mother Lyubov Petrovna (Ksenia Kutepova) clashes with Masha, telling her what she sees as the truth about Sasha’s intentions.

Beanpole is an intense, impeccably acted examination of repressed emotions and spiritual emptiness in a world in which normalcy is an outdated concept. In an astonishing scene, Masha asks a neighbor, a seamstress, (Olga Dragunova, “Closeness”) if she can twirl in a green dress the seamstress is fitting. As Masha spins faster and faster, however, the delight she experiences turns into an outpouring of grief. While Beanpole is bleak, it is made with such consummate skill that it is not depressing. With its humanism and compassion and its willingness to tackle issues such as feminism, bisexuality, and abortion, Balagov challenge to Russia’s conservative social outlook and patriarchal society gives the film a surprising political edge. It also makes clear that Balagov is one of the best young directors in film today.

Beanpole screened at the 2019 Vancouver International Film Festival.

Her screenplay is a contemplative, slippery ice puck of a revenge-fantasy story, slip-sliding everywhere in chronology and priority. The movie has some interesting, if questionable, points to make about an issue that many other films are frustratingly content with circling overhead of, namely: Does eye-for-an-eye have a place in the age of #MeToo? Where is the line drawn between moving on and fighting on, and — more urgently, at least in the movie’s purview — are they one-in-the-same?

A Vigilante starts quick with a no-nonsense opening, its bluntness dropping anchor and its succinctness hammering it in. Sadie — played by Olivia Wilde (“Love the Coopers”), looking wearier and more downright disrupted than she ever has — is punching away at a bag as if her life depended on it. Perhaps it very well does. Tools of disguise cover a nearby tabletop; colored contact lenses, wigs, makeup, and a thumping score makes it seem as if Sadie is fighting against time itself. Perhaps she is.

Then, suddenly, she’s sitting in a living room, and another woman is taking the coat from a man we assume is her husband. It’s obvious he’s been told Sadie is there for reasons opposite her real intentions, which consist of delivering demands: Sign the house to your wife, transfer a small fortune to her account, leave and don’t ever come back. “I know what you do to her and the kids,” she says. The icy resolve in her voice is enough to make clear to us what he does, too.

What she is giving him isn’t an ultimatum; it’s an order. And with a moment of brute, physical, almost-laughably-effective force, she makes that clear to him. And follows it up with a smile.

For much of the first half of the film — which skirts along at a can’t-complain-here 80ish minutes — we observe Wilde in such a capacity, acting as judge, jury and executioner of domestic violence situations unfolding around her. We’re never 100% sure what connects her to the victims she helps, if there is a secret place the vulnerable in this community go to drop secret messages and await further instructions, and we don’t know, at least at first, why she does it.

It isn’t too long, though, before histories catch up with actions, causes with effects. Clarity brightens the darker parts of this story — what emerges is something darker still, a survivalist tale that’s equal parts thriller and psychological drama.

And its drama plays out in a world thick in visual contrast. The cinematographer, Alan McIntyre Smith (“White Rabbit”), is appropriately fixated with bringing grimy details to the fore, almost to the point of suggesting Sadie’s vigilante excursions are a figment of her imagination. The idea isn’t quite so obtuse when considering the repeated, at-first unexplained motifs of Daggar-Nickson’s story — a map of the surrounding area meticulously being shaded in by Sadie, her bunking in a motel, the drawing of mysterious origin that serves as an emotional anchor — and it’s only made more enticing by the film’s tendency to feel like it’s unfolding against the backdrop of a post-apocalyptic world. For these women, it may as well be.

What powers A Vigilante as a specimen of a movie deep-seated in anger, activism and the relationship between the two is Sadie’s routine. In helping abuse victims grab control of their lives, she wears a sheen of cold confidence that always feels like it may slip at the very last second, until we see her sobbing later in a car — emotionally bare, continually haunted by her past and how it’s reshaped her present. She seems as unsure about her actions as she is tactile in the moment of carrying them out, and it’s that tension, elevated by Wilde’s transformation, that keeps A Vigilante thoughtful and interesting for most of its first half.

It’s also these moments that make you wonder, as Daggar-Nickson might be, about Sadie’s driving motivations: Is she primarily out to help others, or does her moonlighting as a rescuer provide a Novocain to her own past? You can find your escape from the thicket of a thorny history by staying on the dimly-lit path, but Sadie prefers to slash her way out and deal with the scratches later.

Whatever the answer, she carries out her tasks out with a precision made transparent through Wilde’s almost unsettlingly calm demeanor. The actress puts on a fantastic turn as a reaper of karma, her eyes at times bulging out of their sockets as they strain to find the kind of humanity she’s desperate to believe still exists in a world completely changed after her own experiences. She’s a damaged soul that brings to mind Lisbeth Salander, sans the tattooed feathers that makes the latter a figure we’re so immediately eager to learn more about.

But Wilde is more interesting when she’s not exacting punishment, and at her best when she’s at a loss for ways to reckon with what has left her unwilling or unable to be at peace with stillness, as if the quiet itself will jump out and harm her.

The movie’s insistence on ping-ponging between different parts of the the story’s timeline hinders, almost obfuscates completely, the arc Sadie takes from victim to vigilante. Once Daggar-Nickson’s screenplay arrives at its most head-scratching part, I almost wished the details of Sadie’s past had been kept ambiguous. In what the director-writer seems to think is a boost to the story’s momentum — in reality, it halts it — A Vigilante goes out of its way to abrasively suggest that survivors of domestic violence should feel guilty that they aren’t the ones who have been buried as a result of their situations.

Survivor’s guilt is a very real thing, of course, but Sadie comes across it not of her own accord. It’s that decision that is so confounding, especially when presented as the final puzzle piece in building her up to become the kind of person doing what we see her do in the film’s opening minutes. What has felt, to this point, like a well-developed story nonetheless spliced and diced a la “Pulp Fiction” is now the study of a character who hasn’t come to be where she is by organic means.

The movie’s second half, meanwhile, made me wish so very hard that a A Vigilante had been a short film. Without spoiling, the story goes from a seemingly foundational message that not knowing how to cope with horrible experiences is not only human, but that it’s okay, to a final act that sternly and annoyingly conforms to movie standards by exclaiming it actually does know what’s best. And what’s best for Sadie doesn’t quite feel like it transcends the boundaries of the medium the way everything we’ve seen up to this point has suggested.

The eventual climax is, in a sense I suppose, empowering. But it’s empowering in ways that force us to evaluate what it means to be empowered, which might have been Daggar-Nickson’s intention all along. One of the things that nearly turns A Vigilante completely on its head, and not for the better, is in its thinking that we have to be told how to return from trauma and that doing so is an urgent matter, instead of figuring it out for ourselves, and in our own ways, and on our own time.

Sadie, robbed by her agency, eventually has the chance to have it returned to her. But we’re never quite sure if it’s in the form she really wants, or if it’s in the form the screenplay has puppeteered her into accepting. In turn, I’m not quite sure if it’s the form I wanted as a spectator to her story, either. But Daggar-Nickson should be credited for delving into a conversation movies rarely interest themselves in. C’est la cinema.