The personal is certainly political in Daniele Luchetti’s densely narrated My Brother Is an Only Child. The inverse is also true, of course. The two dynamics are so mutually reciprocal in this film that it’s practically impossible to disentangle them from each other, although by the end, Luchetti seems to be privileging one over the other.

The family that sat next to me was excited to be here—sort of. Mom and Dad were. They looked to be of an age to have seen the original Raiders of the Lost Ark as Star Wars-worshipping kids; maybe they saw the last movie in the series, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade for a first date 19 years ago. And I don’t doubt they were happy to be able to get a group of a half-dozen or so into this preview screening for free, thus keeping the cost of the evening out in the two-figure range. (Well, assuming they didn’t have to drive too far to the theater.)

When young Mauro’s parents hurriedly and mysteriously deposit him outside his grandfather’s Sao Paulo, Brazil apartment in 1970, they tell him they’ll return in time for the World Cup soccer matches. Mauro (Michel Joelsas), who seems to be around 10, is a soccer zealot, but this promise doesn’t really assuage his resentment and disorientation. And things quickly get worse. His grandparent turns out to be unavailable; his funeral is scheduled for that afternoon. The angry, confused lad gradually allows himself to be assisted by members of the working-class Jewish neighborhood, especially Schlomo (Germano Haiut), an elderly observant bachelor who overcomes his reluctance to take any responsibility for this sullen, disrespectful boy. The relationship between the two is conveyed in a largely unsentimentalized fashion by director Cao Hamburger. Mauro’s outlook and personality will be changed by this association and his increasing involvement with the other neighbors. He’ll also be sharply impacted by the harsher facts of 1970s Brazilian life, primarily the sometimes brutal (US-supported) military dictatorship, which is never directly referred to, but which is the major mover in Mauro’s changing circumstances. Hamburger somehow managed to work both methodically and fluidly. He presents scenes of a durable network of human interactions, while only suggesting the repression and mostly unspecified peril around it. His film has a quiet, attractively human quality, even near the end when it becomes a little less reticent about the political environment in which it takes place.

See that “w” in the title? It’s there for a reason. Son of Rambow is not—I repeat, not—a sequel to the Sylvester Stallone series of violent action movies. I emphasize this not so much to cajole the audience who would enjoy this sort of gentle entertainment as to warn away those looking for violent action, on the grounds that the latter in their disappointment would be likely (as they did at the preview I attended) to spoil things for the former. Set in the early 1980s, this charming British comedy concerns two schoolboys who, inspired by viewing a pirated videotape of First Blood, decide to make their own version of it. They have no resources other than access to a video camera that one of their brothers is using to record movies playing in the local cinema. The boys initially seem to have nothing in common: New-in-town Will (Bill Milner) is a slight boy being raised by his single mother in a Quaker-like religious sect that forbids its members from watching television or movies (and nothing makes it harder for a shy child to fit in than not being able to share in the junk culture of his peers). Lee (Will Poulter) seems to be the school bully, though his rowdiness masks an uncertain life in which he is only minimally supervised by his older brother. They plan to enter their movie in a BBC contest for young filmmakers, but that’s only an excuse: These kids have no interest in continuity, cinematography, lighting, etc, etc., but they have plenty of imagination when it comes to ways to mimic action movie clichés with no money.

When a performer turns to directing and makes a film with him- or herself as the star, it’s often seen as a vanity project. You be hard pressed to level that accusation against Helen Hunt, who directs and stars in Then She Found Me. (She also co-wrote the script, adapted from a novel by Elinor Lipma, and such are the Byzantine rules of the Writer’s Guild that her name is presented twice under the credit for the film’s writer.) Playing April Epner, a 39-1/2-year-old woman suffering more stress than any one person should have to endure at one time, the 44-year-old actress goes out of her way to look the part. April looks drawn, haggard, and underweight, all of which work to make her character seem vulnerable. When an actor like Robert DeNiro does this kind of thing, he’s applauded for his dedication to his craft. But when an actress does it, she’s derided for looking bad, as if there were a law requiring Botox and facelifts for anyone over 27.