The new Netflix comedy “Roommates” wastes no time before immersing audiences in campus co-habitation drama. We see a girl running through the quad before helplessly looking up to see her angry roommate throwing her underwear and used sanitary products out the window. A screaming match ensues, and we’re immediately left to wonder how they got here and how the feud will be resolved.

Except they’re not the eponymous roommates we’re supposed to care about. Chandler Levack‘s new film is structured like a Russian nesting doll of roommate stories, as the two girls are confronted by a guidance counselor who decides to tell them another story of freshman year roommates who didn’t get along at first. Aside from the occasional “How I Met Your Mother”-style reaction cutaway, that’s the last we see of those initial foes.

The real story is about Devon (Sadie Sandler), a soon-to-be freshman who is going through the universal experience of hoping that everything clicks for her in college after failing to find the right friends in middle school and high school. She’s cautiously optimistic when Celeste (Chloe East) agrees to be her roommate after a chance meeting at orientation, hoping the party-loving free spirit will help her come out of her shell and separate her from the nerdy image she maintained in high school.

But Devon quickly has to learn the lesson that hits so many of us sitcom and rom-com enthusiasts hard in early adulthood: the notion that opposites attract is utter nonsense, and trying to merge your day-to-day life with someone dramatically different is far more trouble than it’s worth. The two girls instantly clash, and Celeste remains a consistent thorn in Devon’s side as she tries to navigate all the familiar story beats of freshman year (parties, boys, missed homework assignments, Thanksgiving, et al).

Levack, a promising indie filmmaker with credits like “I Like Movies” and “Mile End Kicks” to her name, does serviceable work on what is clearly a director-for-hire job. There’s only so much visual wiggle room when you’re working with the all-too-familiar Netflix comedy aesthetic, but she gets distinct and compelling performances out of her two leads, executing the “Odd Couple” schtick without devolving into caricature. Jimmie Fowlie and Ceara O’Sullivan’s script relies on formulaic coming-of-age beats before drifting unexpectedly into absurdism in the third act. The film would have been stronger and more consistent by embracing that weirder tone from the beginning, but we’ll take what we can get.

While “Roommates” boasts plenty of familiar faces in supporting roles of varying consequence — Nick Kroll runs through all of the cliched “liberal dad” tropes, while Natasha Lyonne shows up as Devon’s endlessly supportive mom in a role that makes little use of her myriad talents — it’s primarily a star vehicle for its two leads. The film was produced through Adam Sandler’s Happy Madison production label, and it’s fair to assume that it exists to showcase Sadie’s talents as a performer. (Fittingly, parts of the film deal with the idea that being a nepo baby isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.) The young actress demonstrates a wide range of comedic and light drama chops, suggesting that she might be just as successful at playing approachable everywoman types as her father is.

While the comedy is hit-or-miss, “Roommates” does its best work when it shows how daunting teenage friendships can feel. Anyone who has ever defined themselves by an arbitrary social order designed by the cruelest and stupidest people on the planet (which is to say, anyone who has been a college freshman), should be able to relate to some of Devon’s struggles, and the film treats her problems with an admirable amount of empathy.

The film won’t be remembered as a campus classic, or even in the upper half of college movies, but it’s also not hard to see a world where somebody watches it at exactly the right time in their lives and proceeds to cherish it forever. “Roommates” has a real chance at being a formative experience for someone, which is more than a lot of movies can say. But those of us who have already been sufficiently formed? We can find better things to stream this weekend.

Grade: C+

“Roommates” is now streaming on Netflix.

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The tagline for “Lee Cronin’s The Mummy” is “Some things are meant to stay buried.” That also applies to the misguided “Lee Cronin’s The Mummy,” which should definitely stay deep underground for eternity.

Let’s face it, Mummy has always been the lamest of the classic, old-school monsters, a grunting, slow-moving and poorly bandaged zombie. Dracula has a bite, after all, and Frankenstein’s monster has superhuman strength. What’s Mummy going to do? Lumber us to death?

Cronin evidently believes there’s still life in this old Egyptian cursed dude, despite being portrayed as the dim-witted straight guy in old Abbott and Costello movies or appearing as high priest Imhotep in the Brendan Fraser franchise.

So Cronin has resurrected The Mummy but grafted it onto the body of a demon possession movie. His Mummy is actually not a man at all, but a teenage girl who is controlled by an ancient demon and grunts a lot.

“Lee Cronin’s The Mummy” — the title alone is a flex, like he gets his name on this thing like Guillermo del Toro, John Carpenter or Tyler Perry? — is overly long, constantly ping-pongs between Cairo and Albuquerque, New Mexico, and after a sedate first half, plows into a gross-out bloodfest at the end that doesn’t match the rest of the film.

Cronin, behind the surprise 2023 horror hit “Evil Dead Rise,” is weirdly obsessed by toes and teeth, and while he gets kudos for having an Arabic-speaking main actor (a superb May Calamawy) and portraying real-feeling Middle Eastern characters, there’s a feeling that no one wanted to edit his weirder impulses, like some light, inter-family cannibalism.

It starts with the abduction of a Cairo-based family’s young daughter, who resurfaces eight years later in a 3,000-year-old sarcophagus, catatonic and showing symptoms of severe trauma. The sarcophagus literally has dropped out of the sky as part of a plane crash.

“She just needs our care and support and time,” the dad (Jack Reynor, remaining good despite the slog) says until his daughter starts moving like a feral creature, doing horror-movie bone cracking poses, projectile vomiting, creeping behind walls and eating bugs. You know, like most teenagers.

He teams up with our Cairo-based cop to unravel the mystery of what happened to his eldest daughter, who starts messing with her family — levitating some, hypnotizing others to slam their heads into wood beams, all with a creepy, sing-song voice. It’s The Mummy as influencer.

“We can’t fix her if we don’t know what happened to her,” says dad, who goes so far as consulting with an expert on the cursive writing system used for Ancient Egypt.

Cronin leans into all the horror cliches — storms, dollhouses, flickering lights, muttered spells, whacked-out cults, bathtubs filled with rotting water, skittering insects and random coyotes — to establish a staid and eerie foundation, only to go over-the-top gorefest at the end, which prompted laughter at a recent showing.

The Egyptian-U.S. detective story grafted onto this monster movie is a nice touch but gets lost, and there’s perhaps the weirdest use of The Band’s classic song “The Weight.” (Cronin also uses a Bruce Springsteen song).

In publicity material for the movie, Cronin reveals that he made his movie after realizing there hasn’t been a truly terrifying version made of “The Mummy.” He’s right. Even after his own offering.

“Lee Cronin’s The Mummy,” a Warner Bros. Pictures release that is in theaters Friday, is rated R by the Motion Picture Association for strong disturbing violent content, gore, language and brief drug use. Running time: 133 minutes. Half a star out of four.

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In the 2018 film The Tale, director Jennifer Fox explores a childhood trauma by casting actors as herself at different ages, including as a grownup filmmaker. It’s a fascinating, unnerving bit of meta filmmaking, studying memory’s limits with almost reportorial curiosity. The Canadian filmmaker Sophy Romvari does something similar with the new movie Blue Heron, a semi-autobiographical piece whose structure loops in on itself, melding fact and fiction into a doleful portrait of a family tragedy. It has a softer touch than Fox’s film, though, and in that way perhaps obscures too much.

The film opens sometime in the late 1990s. A family of five — three brothers, one sister, their Hungarian immigrant parents — move to a new home near the British Columbia coast. This seems like a harmonious enough occasion; the house has light and space, and life appears to settle into a cozy rhythm. Young Sasha (Eylul Guven) is the only daughter, perhaps a bit lost in the rambunctious storm of her brothers, but she quickly finds friends in the neighborhood, embarking on a summer of little adventures and discoveries. 

Before too long, though, we detect a disturbance. Sasha’s eldest brother, Jeremy (Edik Beddoes), has entered into a serious brooding-teen phase — or, perhaps, something worse. He’s aloof and stubborn, seemingly deaf to his parents as they try to coax him back into the family fold. He walks away from a family trip to the beach and barely reacts to his mother’s anger and panic when she finally finds him loitering at a gas station hours later. Other increasingly erratic, reckless behavior ensues, and we peer in on the parents as they have fraught, hushed conversations about what to do with their troubled boy. 

Romvari drifts between perspectives; sometimes we are only privy to what Sasha overhears, in other moments we hover closely around mom (Iringó Réti) and dad (Ádám Tompa) as their marriage strains. He, some kind of artist and photographer, has a tendency to check out, only present for the rare moments when Jeremy is in a sunnier, friendlier mood. That parenting schism is maybe complicated by the fact that Jeremy is the child of the mother’s first marriage; caring as his adopted father can be, there is a certain distance between the men. 

But such contributing factors to Jeremy’s malaise are only lightly prodded at in Blue Heron, which is mostly interested in creating a delicate sense of mood and place, particularly the hazily recalled ramble of childhood. Romvari deftly synthesizes that kind of quotidian flow, days bleeding into one another as something significant foments at the margins of the everyday. The film on occasion calls to mind Alfonso Cuarón’s Roma, which did a similarly convincing job of conjuring up the tones and textures of a life remembered in piecemeal, with both fondness and ache.

Blue Heron takes on a more robust intent about halfway through, as Romvari shifts into the present day, when Sasha is grown up (played by Amy Zimmer) and is doing a kind of investigation into her brother’s gradual estrangement from the family. Sasha, like Romvari, is a filmmaker, and is working on a project that involves interviewing social workers who have just reviewed her brother’s case, now decades old. Romvari weaves some documentary into the picture; these social workers, including one who worked directly with her family, are real people. Their voices add a crucial objectivity to Romvari’s recollections; here are the plain facts of the matter: unadorned and, in their way, dispassionate.

If Blue Heron is at all critical of a system that failed Jeremy, it is only subtly so. The film mostly exists as an exercise in further tilling personal earth that Romvari previously traversed in her short films. At times, especially toward the end of this fleet 90 minutes, I wanted something a bit more dramatically engaging. Romvari chooses to tell us what became of Jeremy (in very light detail) rather than show us in any real way. It’s not hard to understand why that decision might have been made, sensitive as the topic is to the filmmaker. But the turn to something like plainspoken didacticism makes Blue Heron feel slighter than it perhaps should. We lilt through Sasha’s past and are then simply given a faint outline of what happened next. The steadily accumulated emotional weight of the film dissipates rather quickly as it reaches its abrupt ending. 

Still, Blue Heron is an affecting, promising debut feature. Romvari smartly uses the stunning natural landscape of the area surrounding Vancouver to lend her film some cinematic heft. Her music choices, mournful and dreamy, also add a sense of significance. Retí’s is the standout performance, cogently mapping a mother’s tenacity buckling under a mounting feeling of helplessness at watching her child disappear into a mystery. One wishes we could be reunited with her later on in the story, but Romvari keeps the mother fixed in the past. Which may be a sad indication of what these sorry events did to each member of her family. But Ramvari doesn’t give us any specifics about that; perhaps some of the story is just for her.