Allison Shoemaker

Ghost in the Shell is a visually arresting film, even occasionally an entertaining one, but profound it ain’t. That’s no crime, but dressed up as it is in the trappings of a much smarter film, its significant shortcomings stand out every bit as much as a pair of pert breasts on a supposedly utilitarian body.

Dull at best, damaging at worst, and not worth a moment of your time.

Hidden Figures might not be as groundbreaking as the women whose story drives it, but like those women, it does what it does very well.

It’s as complex and surprising a character study as any you’ll see this year, a fact made all the more impressive when you remember that the woman in question has been turned into a collectible doll.

There’s something sad, frightening, or even disturbing around nearly every corner. Still, there’s delight in the world, and it’s hardly in short supply.

Doctor Strange lacks the bloat that’s made other recent, blockbusting superhero films fall flat. It doesn’t lean too hard on the considerable talents of its stars, nor does it waste their talents. It keeps a brisk pace, but doesn’t rush. It gets weird, but not too weird. And if all else fails, it’ll make your jaw drop from time to time.

The film’s flaws aside (those will come later), Blunt’s performance is a hell of a thing, wholly lacking in vanity and brimming with honest, ugly feeling.

It’s visually sumptuous, a heady blend of Burton’s usual broken-doll aesthetic and some seriously impressive visual effects. And most importantly, while long, it’s rarely boring. The bad: It simply doesn’t add up to much.

The most surprising thing about Bridget Jones’s Baby has nothing to do with the perennial singleton’s offspring or the tropes of romantic comedies. What’s surprising is that, despite all the contrivances and stale conventions, this movie’s not half bad, and occasionally better than that.

If Lucas and Moore do their six stars...a disservice with their muddy script, it’s nothing compared to the problems heaped upon the film by their direction.

Imagine all the best parts of E.T. (written, like this film, by the late Melissa Mathison) and all the worst parts of Hook, and you have a pretty solid picture of what it’s like to spend two hours with The BFG.

Pixar’s latest has all the sweet, ricochet-fast humor of the original, the same brilliant animation and rich color, the same winning performances (complete with a few new scene-stealers), and the same simple, staggering emotional intelligence of its predecessor.

It’s all too calculated to really have an impact, to grant audiences an honest chance for catharsis.

It’s quiet and strange and simple. It’s also unforgettable, in ways that can be easily named and in others that can’t.

Where the sequel falters is where its uneven predecessor, which is both less ambitious and undeniably funnier, excels: its ostensible villains just aren’t very interesting.

Approach 10 Cloverfield Lane on its own terms, let Trachtenberg and his top-notch cast (Mary Elizabeth Winstead, John Gallagher Jr., and a ferocious John Goodman) yank you into their world, and try not to sweat through your clothes.

It’s great when a film leaves you wanting more, but not when you weren’t given much to begin with.

Blakeson and screenwriters Susannah Grant, Akiva Goldsman, and Jeff Pinkner don’t seem to care much about telling the story. They’re just checking off the boxes.