Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 (James Gunn, 2023). Writer-director James Gunn officially concludes his run with the star-spanning, misfit heroes of the Marvel Cinematic Universe as one of the few filmmakers who was able to prevent his creative sensibility from being subsumed by the studio’s overarching schemes. His heavy fingerprints are good and bad, resulting in onscreen goofiness that is eye-rolling in its inanity almost as often as it’s inspired. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 pits the title heroes against the High Evolutionary, played by Chukwudi Iwuji with a level of gonzo gusto that is downright admirable and all too rare in these stories ripped from the pages of colorful comic books. Overlong in the typical Marvel movie way, Gunn does snap the proceedings to life often enough to keep the the narrative consistently engaging, and he has just enough subversion of firmly established expectations — in the resolution of the relationship between Peter Quill (Chris Pratt) and Gamora (Zoe Saldaña), for example — to fortify the argument that the studio should get out of the way of its filmmakers more often. I’m not sure that the grim origin story for Rocket (voiced by Bradley Cooper) required quite as much real estate as it’s given (the movie is not an easy sit for viewers who are sensitive to the mistreatment of animals), but even that shortcoming is representative of letting Gunn follow his ragamuffin muse.

Days of Wine and Roses (Blake Edwards, 1962). Released just a few months before director Blake Edwards introduced moviegoers to the bumbling Inspector Clouseau, Days of Wine and Roses operates in a far different tone. Writer JP Miller adapted his own Playhouse 90 teleplay about a couple who both struggle with alcoholism. Edwards is deft and daring in his depiction of their brutal descent, especially as he guides the narrative through large time leaps without providing overt guidance about how many months or years have passed between scenes. Jack Lemmon and Lee Remick are raw and fearless in their performances as the twosome who are felled by the intertwining devotion to the bottle. They’re both impressive in the physicality of extreme inebriation, and Lemmon reaches almost Brando levels of intensity in scenes in which his character is buffeted by alcohol withdrawal. If the explanations of alcoholism as a disease as delivered by an Alcoholic Anonymous sponsor (Jack Klugman) come across as a little stiff now, that component of the storytelling also feels revolutionary for the time in which the film was made.

The Terminal Man (Mike Hodges, 1974). This science fiction thriller adapted from a novel by Michael Crichton centers on an experimental medical procedure in which surgeons implant electrodes in the brain of Harry Benson (George Segal), a specialist in artificial intelligence who is prone to violent, murderous acts while in seizure-induced blackouts. The theory is that the electrodes will anticipate and stop the seizures, thereby removing the threat Harry otherwise poses to society. Of course, the situation doesn’t quite play out that way. Director Mike Hodges brings measured storytelling to The Terminal Man, justifiably confident that the cold details of brain surgery will be more horrific than any amount of jump scares. Segal is overmatched by the demands of the role, which would have benefited greatly from someone who could more subtly and astutely signal the roiling shifts the character suffers. The rest of the cast, though, is populated by skilled characters actors making tidy meals out of the their tight screen time. Joan Hackett, Richard A. Dysart, Domald Moffatt, and Jill Clayburgh all do first-rate work.