Brian Lowry

A brutal and bloody (for a while, anyway) showcase for Hugh Jackman hidden beneath a shaggy beard, with not much more to recommend it.

The joke-a-minute formula is very hit-miss.

Masters of the Universe demonstrates how a few missteps can transform an aspiring blockbuster with appealing elements into a streaming-bound 98-pound weakling.

It has the feel of a filmed play—transparently intended to land Allison Janney a 16th Emmy nomination and potentially an eighth win.

Despite an abundance of action, “Jack Ryan: Ghost War” never comes to life.

Given the frequent weeping captured from her die-hard, singing-along fans, 4DX would really be the killer app, approximating the spray of their abundant tears of joy.

Loyalists should be there for the premiere, but after that, one suspects it’s game over.

A 90-some-odd-minute adrenaline rush that gets stretched out a bit beyond its weight even with its modest running time.

"Michael" conveys the feeling of a slickly produced licensed product.

The basic premise could have been called “Lee Cronin’s The Exorcist,” although that probably wouldn’t have cleared legal.

Unlike its protagonist, there’s a refreshing lack of guile or pretense here about what this modest but breezy movie is and wants to be.

Frankly, I’d begin with having future me warn the present-day version to skip this.

The movie rises and falls on Monroe and Withers’ workmanlike performances, leaving it to the heart-tugging subject matter, mostly, to carry it across the finish line.

The stitched-together concept proves too bizarre and disjointed to catch lightning in a bottle.

Deftly serves old wine in an equally old bottle.

Fennell ratchets up the volume to 11, with more emphasis on smoldering and sexuality than literature, at the risk of bastardizing Bronte’s tale beyond recognition.

Whatever the A.I. judge’s verdict, this human one says to wait for streaming.

Landing on Netflix, it’s not terrible, but by the time the credits roll it’s pretty clear why it landed directly on Netflix.

The latest installment is insanely weird, gruesomely violent, and features incredibly hammy roles for Ralph Fiennes and “Sinners’” Jack O’Connell.

A 197-minute epic that piles on breathless rescues and battles in a manner whose ultimate goal seems to be exhaustion as an artistic choice, if not outright “Kneel before Zod” submission.

James L. Brooks has no creative mountains left to climb, but watching the ill-conceived “Ella McCay” it’s hard not to wish he had quit while he was ahead.

Think of “Jay Kelly” as a taller and better-looking version of Woody Allen’s “Stardust Memories."

While it’s worth watching, what clearly aspires to be the definitive telling of the story ultimately isn’t.

It feels ready-made fodder for streaming’s “You might like” tier.

In what amounts to damnation with the faintest of praise, Tron: Ares is slightly less incoherent than its most recent predecessor (granted, not a particularly high bar), while taking advantage of the passage of time to improve on the visuals, since “Legacy’s” de-aging process involving original star Jeff Bridges served as a lifeless distraction.

A vehicle with roughly the weight of a stiff breeze.

“Axel F” only turns up the heat to a low simmer, but as breezy escapism goes, those armed with the proper attitude might find themselves doing the neutron dance, or a version of it, all over again.

A tired, disjointed medley of madcap visual gags, the animated film yields roughly as many legitimate laughs as can be counted on a Minion’s three-digit hand.