When Moana premiered back in 2016, it made an instant seismic splash and became a true contemporary Disney classic. Its gorgeous visuals, unavoidably catchy tunes, and captivating heroine proved to be a winning combination. Despite this success, many are going into the franchise’s second installment, Moana 2, with notable trepidation. Most of this wariness stems from this sequel being originally developed as a Disney+ series before it was announced at the beginning of this year that the material from the show would be reworked into a feature.

The fact that the follow-up to such a hit project would be bound entirely to streaming was cause for concern in and of itself. After all, this practice has become the modern equivalent of the straight-to-VHS sequels from the late 90s and early 00s. That’s not to say that a couple of those films weren’t my most rewound tapes as a child, but they were undoubtedly more hit or miss. Moana 2 is one of those few exceptions where it doesn’t quite soar to the heights achieved by the first story but still stands tall in its own right.

Since her previous adventure, which saw her restore the heart of Te Fiti and consequently revive the natural vitality of her Island, Moana has rightfully become hailed as a hero and is seen as somewhat of a celebrity by her people. She continues to embark on solo excursions attempting to find islands inhabited by other humans, but tends to keep them brief as she has yet another new title back home, big sister. Her three-year-old sister Simea relishes in the rays of Moana’s attention and, like all the other young girls in their community, aspires to be her when they grow up.

When the spirit of her people’s last great Wayfinder bestows the duty of reuniting the people of the ocean onto Moana, she initially hesitates. With three years of additional wisdom and a heightened understanding of what is at stake, she now finds the prospect of leaving far more difficult. Life on the island of Motunui is pretty perfect and she could remain complacent, but ultimately knows she would be malcontented living that way. Considering the length of her impending excursion, she puts together a crew of three eccentric individuals; Moni, Loto, and Kele, each who has a specific craft or skill. With the late addition of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s Maui, the crew must learn to work together as a team to preserve their safety and complete their mission.

Moana 2 possesses the vast majority of elements that would be desired of this film; between grand action set pieces, comedic chemistry between characters, and callbacks that continue to expand on the mythology and lore of these islanders, there is much to be amused by. On a more profound level, this story remains true to the essence of the first journey we embarked on with Moana in highlighting that there is always more to uncover about our cultures and that our livelihood is physically and spiritually funnelled into us by our ancestors.

It’s no surprise that Auli’i Cravalho is once again the clear standout, who is utterly compelling and endlessly endearing as she reprises the role of this beloved princess who jump-started her entire career. Even though the musical aspect will likely be what disappoints audiences the most, Cravalho’s vocals are undeniably goosebump-raising. The lack of Lin Manuel Miranda’s infectious melodious touch can be felt, with only one song, titled ‘Beyond’, being nearly as catchy as the soundtrack from the first film.

There is no denying that sequels are tricky and this one has a handful of flaws, but it also replicates the deep passion and care that makes the world of Moana so remarkable. The delicately crafted visual spectacle and deeply authentic representation deserve the same big screen rollout as its predecessor. Following Inside Out 2 becoming the highest-grossing film of 2024 so far, it is a relief to see Disney encouraging families to share a theatrical experience rather than sentencing Moana to a lifetime of being watched exclusively through an iPad screen.

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On a sweltering lakeside day in the summer of 1992, it’s clear that Anthony (Paul Kircher) is not quite like other kids his age. While the rest of them bask in the warm rays of sun donned in bikinis and trunks, he sits timidly in a heavy biker jacket. Despite his incapacitating gawkiness his desire to fit in is inescapable. After stealing a canoe with his gregarious cousin (Louis Memmi), he meets Steph (Angelina Woreth) on a rickety wooden pontoon, who exudes an archetypal girl-next-door radiance. No matter how many times this story pivots and changes direction, all roads lead back to the connection between Anthony and Steph, as an offhand invite to a house party sets in motion a tempestuous journey set over the next six years.

Back home in an unnamed northeastern French deindustrialized town, a tense interaction with his violent father Patrick (Gilles Lellouche) drives Anthony to borrow his motorbike to get to the party. As he sneakily wheels the bike out of the garage, his mother (Ludivine Sagnier) catches him, and despite her initial hesitation, she ultimately encourages him to go, knowing that Anthony’s rebellious phase is a rite of passage. At the party, the hustle and bustle of teens dancing and drinking is abruptly halted by the entrance of Hacine (Sayyid El Alami), a young Moroccan immigrant who is consistently rejected by the xenophobic community that he inhabits while experiencing a certain harshness from the relative he’s staying with. An altercation between Anthony and Hacine leads to the theft of Patrick’s treasured motorbike, causing an irreparable rift within the already deteriorating family and cementing a dark teen rivalry.

Leurs Enfants Après Eux (And Their Children After Them) is directed by twin brothers Ludovic and Zoran Boukherma who also adapted the screenplay from Nicolas Mathieu’s 2018 novel of the same name (which won the esteemed French literary award, the Prix Goncourt, just months after its release). As a viewing experience, the Boukherma Brothers’ fourth film has plenty to offer, as each magnificent needle drop thrusts you further into the sphere of the early 90s, be it The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Pixies or Bruce Springsteen. The slick and refined cinematography fused with a vibrantly saturated colour grade is pleasing, yet never too ostentatious to draw the attention away from its main focus on the teenage leads.

The script stretches out across a 146-minute runtime and employs plenty of melodrama, but this tends to track with the often arduous years of adolescence, where everything in life feels far more dramatised. On occasion, the narrative feels repetitive, yet the Boukhermas embellish these moments as the story progresses with variables that culminate in the slow but steady growth of the characters at its core. Yet, considering the length of the film, Leurs Enfants Après Eux would have been enhanced by further exploration of themes it establishes early on notably the racism and islamophobia faced by Arab immigrants in France, which remains pertinent to this day and contributes to Hacine’s combative nature.

This is a true showcase of the young cinema talent France has. Paul Kircher crafts an elaborate portrait of a troubled young man who desperately wants to find his place in society but can’t seem to stop falling back into his mischievous ways, and possesses a formidable ability to evoke a wide range of emotions, from frustration to empathy and everything in between. Sayyid El Alami is similarly captivating during his time on screen as Hacine, acting as both a parallel and foil to Kircher’s Anthony, forming a dynamic rivalry.

Leurs Enfants Après Eux boils down to a truly tenacious coming-of-age flick, unwavering in its commitment to giving the characters at hand the time and patience to develop at their own pace, taking them and the audience on a wayward adventure where breezy laughter can quickly turn into uneasiness. It’s all about the journey rather than the destination, and as Anthony and Steph finally ride off on Anthony’s own motorbike, it feels as though for the first time the world is theirs for the taking.

In my teenage years, I grew irritated with the romance genre of cinema. Amidst the tumultuous nature of those infamously problematic years navigating crushes and new relationships, being fed picture-perfect ideals of love morphed from feelings of rose-coloured optimism into sour betrayal. That’s not to say that these onscreen relationships were idealistic from the start, yet they always seemed to end in glorious bliss. It seemed as though no one dared to explore the dreaded moment where you could feel the honeymoon stage begin to slip from your grasp. No relationship can be smooth sailing at all times. Emmanuel Mouret’s Trois Amies takes this sentiment to a new level in a melodramatic story all about the often unseen imperfection of love and romance.

At the core of this story is a trio of friends, secondary school teachers Joan and Alice as well as Rebecca who is an artist and works at a gallery of sorts. On a sunny afternoon, Alice proposes that they all go on a triple date with their partners, but only one of them objects. Caught up in a fling with a mysterious married man who they all jokingly refer to as Mister X, Rebecca opts to keep his identity and the details of their relationship under the radar as much as possible. When she leaves the other two to go meet him, Joan confides in Alice, admitting to having fallen out of love with her partner Victor, who also teaches at the same school. Expecting scathing judgment, Joan is shocked when Alice reveals that while she is very fond of her husband Eric, she’s unsure if she has ever been ‘in love’ with him, at least not to the extent of his adoration for her. Little does she know that her husband is the man she playfully calls Mister X.

That same evening, Victor presses Joan on her ongoing lack of enthusiasm towards him, resulting in her coming clean about her recent loss of feelings. Though he is shocked, he insists that he is willing to be patient for the sake of their relationship and their nearly eight-year-old daughter, Nina. Despite his initial reaction, Joan’s confession begins eating away at Victor’s forbearance. Before walking away from the relationship he begs his wife to reconsider and find it in her to need him as much as he needs her, but to no avail. A night of fatal drinking takes Victor away from Joan more permanently than she had anticipated.

More often than not, the relationships between characters feel artificial and uninhabited. At times the performances and direction want to be taken more seriously than is earned and makes questionable technical decisions including inconsistent narrative voice and Victor’s opaque ghost talking to his widow. These choices generate a level of corniness that can be distracting from the more charming aspect of the film. Emmanuel Mouret and Carmen Leroi’s fun and fascinating screenplay is far and away the strong point of this project.

Interestingly, despite the title of the film, friendship takes a backseat in the story. Ironically all three women are entangled in each other’s secrets and their manipulative scheming is designed to only benefit themselves. The most compelling aspect of Trois Amies is its ability to ponder the construct of love and how its meaning differs to each person – to some love is about partnership while to others it’s about all-encompassing romantic reverence. Each character goes through a journey that encompasses the loss and gain of love, as well as those solitary moments in between. As the saying goes, humans always want what they don’t have, and ironically obtaining that person or thing is the only way to find out what you truly desire.

Having premiered at Sundance and played New Directors/New Films at the top of the year, India Donaldson’s Good One is the only title at this year’s edition of Cannes, across all competitions and sidebars, to have played at another festival. Her ultra-naturalistic feature debut finds 17-year-old Sam (Lily Collias) collating her essential gear for a three-day camping trip with her father Chris (James Le Gros), his recently divorced best friend Matt (Danny McCarthy), and his teenage son Dylan, who backs out of the trip just as they intend to depart. The generational divide is discernable from the get-go, but seems relatively playful initially, highlighted through jokes about Sam looking like she would be a vegetarian and light chastising of her opinions. After an obligatory gas station pit stop, the trio park the car and set off.

Accompanied by a whimsical cacophony of ringing of wind chimes, the pang of xylophone keys, and the ambient rustling of trees, the trio ventures deep into the heart of the Catskills wilderness. Past streams flowing serenely down rocky paths and through rockpools crowded with squirming tadpoles, Matt and Chris keep themselves amused by discussing what they would choose to do should they have another chance at life, spanning from owning a bookshop to becoming a philosopher, before turning to Sam for her input. Forgetting how much life she is still yet to live, she proclaims that she “still gets to choose this one”. This is the first sign that she is wise beyond her years, and is labelled a “good one” by Matt in comparison to other kids her age, including his son, who is struggling to grapple with his parent’s divorce.

What presents itself as a compliment quickly spirals into Matt viewing Sam in a new light and it is here that the narrative reaches its boiling point, as Donaldson captures the gut-wrenching moment in each young woman’s life where you feel betrayed by those who are meant to protect you. The energies of all parties shift, but instead of these tensions exploding into confrontation, they quietly bubble over, devastatingly capturing how women are encouraged not to take these incidents too seriously, or to react “sensitively” when suggestive comments are directed towards us. Worse still – to believe that we may have played a role in their occurrence. Every woman will recognise the way Sam retreats into herself, finally mustering up the courage to say something to her father, only to be met with excuses that will forever taint their relationship.

Lily Collias is sensational in her first leading role, expertly painting a portrait of a young woman in which many will see themselves reflected. The nuance upheld in her physicality allows the audience to glimpse Sam’s subconscious and train of thought without uttering a single word. Donaldson crafts the most profound debut of the year so far all within a neatly polished runtime, something that has been hard to come by as of late. Its soothing start contrasts its tense ending, leaving all cards on the table to question the seemingly mundane with the enlightenment of retrospect.

The duality of memory is a concept that human beings have been forced to grapple with ever since our brains first functioned with even the slightest indication of cohesion. Our memories serve as a bank in which we accumulate the unique life experiences that craft us into distinctive individuals, for better or for worse. On his third visit to the Venice Film Festival within the past four years, director Michel Franco attempts to explore the latter, more vulnerable aspects of the cerebral cache rooted deep within our skulls.

We first encounter Sylvia (Jessica Chastain), an alcoholic in recovery, at an unconventionally celebrative Alcoholics Anonymous meeting on the thirteenth anniversary of her sobriety. On an average day, Sylvia’s mundane life consists of dropping her teen daughter Anna (Brooke Timber) at school, working as a carer at an adult daycare centre and hanging out with her younger sister Olivia (Merritt Wever) and her family. When the sisters attend a high school reunion, Sylvia is followed home by Saul (Peter Saarsgard). Although the two don’t speak, he remains outside of her apartment until the next morning, sleeping on a pile of tyres.

After finding emergency contact information in his wallet, Sylvia discovers from his brother Isaac (Josh Charles) and niece Sara (Elsie Fisher), that Saul has early-onset dementia. Evidently caught up in copious amounts of trauma from the past, Sylvia initially rejects a proposal made by Sara in which she would be paid to care for and provide company for Saul, but after discovering Saul wasn’t part of her traumatic high school experience, she has a change of heart, and the pair begin to tentatively bond.

The beauty of Memory derives from the subtext embedded in its story. Sylvia and Saul are drastically different, yet simultaneously alike. Where Sylvia is incapacitated by the memories which haunt her, Saul is free from the burden and is alleviated from remembering the distressing situations that he is unwillingly prone to. Nevertheless, they are both lonely and deprived of the luxury of happy memories. As a result, when their respective family lives begin to suffer, they find themselves leaning on each other.

Alas, the majority of this intriguing exploration is kept well beneath the film’s epidermis and is hardly visible to the naked eye. Considering that this particular plot heavily depends on the experiences that have led these core characters to converge, Franco is unable to commit to exploring these individuals on a genuine level. Consequently, this questionable sacrifice gives Chastain and Saarsgard little substance to tackle in what has the potential to be a fascinating set of character studies.

In lieu of narrative depth, we are provided with stagnant technical decisions that are equally as underdeveloped. By no means should films have to tirelessly take visual risks, but at the bare minimum, this stripped-back approach should feel engaging and deliberate. Yet Memory’s relatively restrained hundred-minute runtime is bloated with repetitive sequences focused on the characters navigating the world physically rather than emotionally, suggesting that even Franco fails to grasp the vast potential of the parable at hand.

Little White Lies is committed to championing great movies and the talented people who make them.

By becoming a member you can support our independent journalism and receive exclusive essays, prints, weekly film recommendations and more.

The duality of memory is a concept that human beings have been forced to grapple with ever since our brains first functioned with even the slightest indication of cohesion. Our memories serve as a bank in which we accumulate the unique life experiences that craft us into distinctive individuals, for better or for worse. On his third visit to the Venice Film Festival within the past four years, director Michel Franco attempts to explore the latter, more vulnerable aspects of the cerebral cache rooted deep within our skulls.

We first encounter Sylvia (Jessica Chastain), an alcoholic in recovery, at an unconventionally celebrative Alcoholics Anonymous meeting on the thirteenth anniversary of her sobriety. On an average day, Sylvia’s mundane life consists of dropping her teen daughter Anna (Brooke Timber) at school, working as a carer at an adult daycare centre and hanging out with her younger sister Olivia (Merritt Wever) and her family. When the sisters attend a high school reunion, Sylvia is followed home by Saul (Peter Saarsgard). Although the two don’t speak, he remains outside of her apartment until the next morning, sleeping on a pile of tires.

After finding emergency contact information in his wallet, Sylvia discovers from his brother Isaac (Josh Charles) and niece Sara (Elsie Fisher), that Saul has early-onset dementia. Evidently caught up in copious amounts of trauma from the past, Sylvia initially rejects a proposal made by Sara in which she would be paid to care for and provide company for Saul, but after discovering Saul wasn’t part of her traumatic high school experience, she has a change of heart, and the pair begin to tentatively bond.

The beauty of Memory derives from the subtext embedded in its story. Sylvia and Saul are drastically different, yet simultaneously alike. Where Sylvia is incapacitated by the memories which haunt her, Saul is free from the burden and is alleviated from remembering the distressing situations that he is unwillingly prone to. Nevertheless, they are both lonely and deprived of the luxury of happy memories. As a result, when their respective family lives begin to suffer, they find themselves leaning on each other.

Alas, the majority of this intriguing exploration is kept well beneath the film’s epidermis and is hardly visible to the naked eye. Considering that this particular plot heavily depends on the experiences that have led these core characters to converge, Franco is unable to commit to exploring these individuals on a genuine level. Consequently, this questionable sacrifice gives Chastain and Saarsgard little substance to tackle in what has the potential to be a fascinating set of character studies.

In lieu of narrative depth, we are provided with stagnant technical decisions that are equally as underdeveloped. By no means should films have to tirelessly take visual risks, but at the bare minimum, this stripped-back approach should feel engaging and deliberate. Yet Memory’s relatively restrained hundred-minute runtime is bloated with repetitive sequences focused on the characters navigating the world physically rather than emotionally, suggesting that even Franco fails to grasp the vast potential of the parable at hand.