The Adults (Dustin Guy Defa, 2023). This barbed dramedy settles in with three siblings who muddle through a strained reunion when Eric (Michael Cera) treks to the hometown where his two sisters, Rachel (Hannah Gross) and Maggie (Sophia Lillis), still live. His return has been a rare occurrence since the death of their mother a few years earlier, which means long-brewing resentments blend with unprocessed grief among the trio. Adding to the challenge is that they all deal with stressful situations by pathologically lapsing into funny voices and other performance-based frivolity, a vestige of playful, almost vaudevillian showmanship they employed when growing up together. Writer-director Dustin Guy Defa brings a fitting light touch to the material, emphasizing the strong performances of the cast over big incidents to drive the narrative. Some of the plot’s mile markers can be seen a little too clearly from a distance, especially those related to Eric’s compulsive gambling, but The Adults is mostly a smart, rewarding indie. Lillis is especially good in her scenes, in part because being the baby of the family means she still brings a youthful twinkle of joy to the song and dance shenanigans.

The Cheap Detective (Robert Moore, 1978). Writer Neil Simon and director Robert Moore were clearly tickled by Peter Falk’s spoofing pass at Humphrey Bogart’s rumpled private eye performances in their 1976 comedy, Murder by Death. Two years later, they built an entire film around the schtick, casting Falk as Lou Peckinpaugh, who shuffles through a twisty plot that allows for spunky references to Casablanca, To Have and Have Not, The Maltese Falcon, and Bogart’s overall screen persona. Simon delivers expertly constructed gags that are given extra zing by a cast of ringers that includes Madeline Kahn, Dom DeLuise, Ann-Margret, and John Houseman. With One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest still visible in her rearview mirror, Louise Fletcher shows she deserved better than Nurse Ratched–mired typecasting with a sharp-eyed riff on Ingrid Bergman. And Eileen Brennan is marvelously effective as a more shopworn Lauren Bacall. Understandably, though, The Cheap Detective belongs to Falk, whose comic instincts are impeccable throughout. Moore’s directing is pedestrian, missing the opportunity to evoke bygone film noirs as winningly as the writer and actors.

Thief (Michael Mann, 1981). Frank (James Caan) runs a car dealership and owns a bar, but those businesses are merely respectable fronts for his main moneymaking gig as an expert thief. Michael Mann’s feature directorial debut (he also wrote the screenplay, adapting it from a memoir by Frank Hohimer) is locked in on the fevered masculinity that was the hallmark of his entire career. I suspect enjoyment of the film is almost entirely determined by an individual viewer’s tolerance for such speedometer-pegging aggression. I mostly find it to be tedious. Mann sometimes elevates material with stylish visuals and sharp editing, but those qualities are still in their nascent state in Thief. Caan is perfectly cast; few other actors of the era were better suited to conveying shrewd intelligence and barely contained rage simultaneously. His performance sadly serves a movie that is bombastic and hollow.