Chris Nashawaty

Hoult brings a quiet, romantic intensity to the young Tolkien (pronounced ‘Tolkeen’, who knew?), Lily Collins does a lot with a little as his first love Edith, and the Hobbit horde will gobble up all of the easter-egg references peppered throughout the movie.

While Hudson's and costar Mary J. Blige's soulful, stirring musical numbers are absolute dynamite, the rest of the film's story is larded with enough soap opera twists and heavy-handed schmaltz that you'll feel like you're being bludgeoned with a hymnal.

No one can argue that Mary Magdalene isn’t a well-intentioned film. It’s just that while Mara convinces you that Mary deserves a more contemporary reappraisal, she also lays bare the fact that she deserves a better movie in which to accomplish it.

Before anyone reading this starts complaining that I just don’t get what movies like Godzilla: King of the Monsters are all about, that I’m the sort of killjoy who should just relax, let me say that it would be a lot easier to take it less seriously if the people who made the movie cared enough to take it more seriously.

Is Morgan hardwired for violence, or is “she” just a synthetic naïf with a bloody glitch? Taylor-Joy and the rest of the ace cast make you care about the answer to that question. The script? Less so.

Howard’s film, for all of its storytelling skill, technical polish, and rousing high-seas sequences, never quite casts the spell it should. It’s too polite to give us a real feeling of life or death. Its sense of danger is watered down.

Narratively preposterous and probably an hour too long, it’s the year’s first big howler. It could have been DeHaan’s "Shutter Island," but instead it’s just Gore Verbinski’s latest self-indulgent mess following "The Lone Ranger."

Like its predecessor it’s an unremarkable placeholder until the next "Mission: Impossible" flick comes along.

It’s a shame the rest of the soap-opera story doesn’t measure up to its stunts.

There’s never any doubt that this will end badly for the lovers. But just in case, Jessica Lange as the fire-breathing mother-in-law seals the deal.

While the fish-out-of-water caper is stuffed with whiplash turns and colorfully eccentric lowlife characters, it never adds up to much. It’s so busy you might think there’s more to it than they’re really is.

It’s undercooked even by the filmmaker’s own late-career standards. Yes, Coney Island has never looked more gorgeously golden-hued (thanks to cinematographer Vittorio Storaro), but Allen has seldom been less sharp.

Rourke, whose face has become an inexpressive waxwork in recent years, doesn’t do much with what’s already a pretty undercooked role.

If I Stay never bothers to go after authenticity when there's a cliché hovering nearby. That may not be enough of a drawback to prevent teenage audiences from lapping up the movie with a spoon, but they certainly deserve better.

It seems to have been made by people who couldn't decide if their film was a horror flick, a whodunit, or a "Hellboy" knockoff.

It is ridiculous, cheesy popcorn fun. And Statham, God bless him, knows exactly what kind of guilty pleasure he’s signed on for — Sharknado with a bigger budget and a much bigger monster.

Whatever the case, you’re better off rewatching the fake Linda Blair movie.

The best thing about it is its star, P.J. Boudousqué, who locates a sense of terror and betrayal that the script lacks.

First, the good news. Justice League is better than its joylessly somber dress rehearsal, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. Now the “but”…you knew there was a “but” coming, right? But it also marks a pretty steep comedown from the giddy highs of Wonder Woman.

Surprisingly tasty serving of delirious junk food.

When a sunset romance does come along, you can’t help but root for it. Which is why it gives me no joy to report that The Leisure Seeker is pretty disappointing.

It never makes up its mind whether it wants to be a what-hath-science-wrought disaster movie like those old John Sayles cheapie classics Piranha and Alligator, or just a big, dumb, and loud tongue-in-cheek action comedy. It’s a movie that’s afraid to pick a lane.

Most movies like Power Rangers get the first-half Y.A. character stuff wrong and the second-half smashy-smashy action stuff right. This one does just the reverse.

I don't know if A Million Ways to Die in the West will turn any of the MacFarlane haters into fans. But for those of us who have remained on the fence until now, his raunchy, rat-a-tat parody is proof that beneath all of the bratty immaturity lays the head and heart of an outrageous quick-draw satirist.

Mandy Lane does eventually build to a whiplash twist ending, but it's too little, too late — much like the film itself. Here's a case where the backstory is more interesting than the movie.

If the first Kingsman, at its best, felt like a dry martini of a joke, then this one is more Jack and Mountain Dew — unsubtle, unrefreshing, and unnecessary.

If you enjoyed 2013’s Pacific Rim but secretly wished it was more like a vapid Transformers sequel, then you’ll love Pacific Rim Uprising. Everyone else can give this heavy-metal howler a hard pass.

The movie is more or less all premise. The rest is just an occasionally suspenseful, occasionally gory sci-fi riff on any number of earthbound creepy-kid thrillers.

The only saving grace is Chris Pratt as Vaughn's deadpan best friend.

Despite all of the film’s retro-future eye candy, it never quite sweeps you out of your seat and transports you someplace new. It’s a squeaky salvage job that could have used a fresh dose of oil to make it hum.

I get that this mano a supermano story line is a sacred text among comic-book aficionados, but Dawn of Justice doesn’t do the tale any favors. It’s overstuffed, confusing, and seriously crippled by Eisenberg’s over-the-top performance.

All of which leaves you wondering: Why cast such talented, interesting, and edgy performers if you're only going to ask them play it safe?

San Andreas shows that sometimes the fake stuff can get the job done beautifully. I don’t want to make any claims that San Andreas is a great film. It’s not. But as mindless sensory barrages go, its fakery taps into something real: It shows us just how impotent we all are to control our planet. Unless, of course, you happen to be The Rock.

"Virgin" is also one of the few Reagan-era romps that could put a lump in your throat, as loser Gary (Lawrence Monoson) watches his skeevy best friend (Steve Antin) steal his dream girl. Thank-fully, the Cars keep things fizzy by shaking it up on the soundtrack.

Now a miscast Claire Foy adopts the hacker vigilante’s black leather and badass avenging-angel attitude for The Girl in the Spider’s Web — a disappointingly safe, by-the-numbers action-thriller.

Its intentions are noble. Its gaze is harshly realistic. But it’s also overly melodramatic. Bettany has the makings of better director than screenwriter.

Sadly, director James Kent’s sappy and utterly unconvincing new film The Aftermath shows that even the most foolproof ideas wither in the face of turgid, overripe melodrama.

It’s a movie that desperately wants to be timely and relevant, warning us about the Brave New World threats we all face when it comes to privacy, surveillance, and freedom. But it’s so cartoony and ham-fisted it sabotages its own argument.

The whole thing feels like the pilot episode of a third-rate comic-book vigilante TV show.

Yes, it’s easy to be impressed by the world that Shyamalan has created and now fleshed out, but it would be nice if we were also moved to feel something too. In the end, Glass is more half empty than half full.

Watching it all unfold and slowly go off the rails, you can't help but wonder what Pfister's mentor, Nolan, might have done with the same material. My guess is he would have sent the script back for a Page One rewrite for starters.

Just when you think you know where Burnt is headed, there’s an underhanded twist about halfway in. And it’s almost enough to set the movie right.

Naturally, if you’re putting it before youngsters’ innocent eyes for the first time, you’ll want to stick close by in order to play grief counselor when Bambi’s mother ”meets” a hunter in the woods.

As horror comedies go, this one sadly winds up somewhere between Scary Movie 4 and 5.

It happens more often than it should: A cast of sterling actors is assembled for a movie that doesn’t come close to equaling the sum of its parts.

Hart's exasperated dervish shtick has moments of real live-wire anarchy, including one priceless gag at a firing range. Will it be enough to make Hart a household name? Maybe. But both he and his fans deserve better.

Moretz, who is 16 now, can't manufacture the same that's-so-wrong jolt she managed the first time around. Back then, it was hilariously taboo to see a little girl spout arias of profanity. Now, she's just another teenager swearing. Like the rest of the film, what was once shocking now just elicits a shrug.

Passengers is not very good. In fact, it’s pretty bad.

Isn’t aggressively terrible or outrageously offensive. It’s just harmless, pointless, and meh. You’d think with 17 years at their disposal these guys would be able to come up with some jokes that weren’t so half-baked and dumb. Alas, this is low-hanging fruit all the way.

Aside from a few cheap but effective shocks and jumps, there's nothing here that horror fans haven't seen in better recent films like "The Conjuring." Not to mention all of those wonderful Hammer films from the '50s and '60s.

It feels like Smigel and Sandler just shot the first draft of their script without fine-tuning or polishing any of the jokes.

Slight even by the wafer-thin standards of the wedding rom-com genre, writer-director Jeffrey Blitz’s Table 19 offers a couple of mild chuckles, six actors who’ve all been far better elsewhere, and a mercifully brief running time.

It's the small, tossed-off moments — Bateman's deadpan mugging, Day's frenzied cluelessness, and Sudeikis' smarmy one-liners — that land the best.

Writer-director David Ayer (End of Watch) skillfully sets up the film, introducing each of the crazies with caffeinated comic-book energy. But their mission...is a bit of a bust. The stakes should feel higher.

If Marwencol made your heart go out to Mark, Welcome to Marwen does something quite different. It makes you want to back away from him slowly.

It happens. Really talented directors sometimes step into the batter’s box, take a gigantic swing, and whiff.

Its lack of both originality and any real memorable moments feels shameless and lazy. Adding insult, the movie ends on a cliffhanger, guaranteeing that Insidious: Chapter 3 will soon be coming to a theater near you.

Stanley Tucci, Hope Davis, Anne Heche, and Sofia Vergara all pop up in glorified cameos and give the movie more fizz than their roles require. Which begs the question: Why would they sign on for such thankless, bite-size roles?

Gere, an actor capable of great nuance, hams it up so mightily you’d think the film was sponsored by Boar’s Head.

It’s never pushed far enough. Instead, Dark Places just becomes an overstuffed, low-simmer potboiler with too many improbable detours and overly convenient twists.

Sean Penn doesn’t make movies very often these days. So when he does, you go in with certain expectations. Sadly, it’s best to leave them at the concession stand if you’re planning on enjoying The Gunman.

The Runner is a well-meaning character study with an admirably cynical ending, but it’s too cold to ever fully draw you in.

It’s cartoonish, fast-paced, a bit cheesy, and ridiculously dumb fun.

It’s both a bit confusing and a bit confused. Fortunately, it’s also loaded with some of the crunchiest action scenes since the John Wick movies thanks to Indonesian martial-arts maestro Iko Uwais.

Entourage, the show and the movie, is about five insanely lucky knuckleheads who have each other’s backs in a town that’s more likely to stab you there.

The story isn’t just confusing, it’s a betrayal to anyone who’s invested brain cells in the Terminatorverse over the past 31 years.

The Green Inferno is less a riff on spaghetti splatter flicks like Cannibal Holocaust than a desperate-to-shock pastiche of guts and gore served with a wink to audiences with strong stomachs. You know who you are.

No one involved in Resurrection seems like they can be bothered to break a sweat. It’s a movie made by folks who know they can do better but couldn’t be bothered.

The Vatican Tapes is basically “Exorcism’s Greatest Hits” played by a schlocky cover band.

The three main narratives cut back and forth between New York, Paris, and Rome, which is the best thing the movie has going for it: picturesque locations. Unfortunately, by the time we're done taking in the sights and Haggis finally coughs up his third-act puzzle-box twist, it comes off as a big metaphysical So What.

The problem isn't so much what the film is saying but its shrill, alarmist tone. You don't have to be a sociological genius to look at all of us walking down the street like zombies, obliviously staring at our smartphones, and know that something's wrong.

While it’s nice to see Cusack and costar Samuel L. Jackson downplay rather than go big, Cell has a been-there-done-that quality that winds up feeling a bit disappointing.

Honestly, I’ve seen more narratively ambitious Mad Libs.

It wants to be trashy, pulpy fun that toys with your mind and your expectations. Sadly, it just ends up insulting both.

In Mad Men mastermind Matthew Weiner's big-screen directorial debut, the aggressively unfunny Are You Here, all of the dark humor and delicate character shadings we're used to seeing on his TV series are conspicuously absent. He's swapped nuance for blunt-edged numskullery.

The heist in Heist is pretty pedestrian, and the film turns into Die Hard-on-a-bus with a couple of so-so twists and serviceable spasms of action. If that’s what you’re looking for, rent Speed instead.

True Memoirs is harmless, disposable junk food that has just enough laughs to make you feel like you didn’t get scammed.

Even the stunts – the whole raison d’etre of a movie like this – seem tame and staged. It cheaps out on the good stuff. And for a movie with so little going for it besides the threat of danger, there’s no excuse for Action Point to play it this safe.

It’s well made but drearily familiar.

Kin is a movie about a child with an all-powerful firearm that makes him feel important and special and powerful. On a one-to-ten scale of moral fecklessness, this ranks about a thousand.

It’s the movie equivalent of a cake that’s all frosting.

The one thing Mute has going for it is Jones’ vividly imaginative sense of world-building. Like Ridley Scott with "Blade Runner," he fills every corner of the screen with something cool to look at.

Venom isn’t quite bad, but it’s not exactly good either. It’s noncommittally mediocre and, as a result, forgettable. It just sort of sits there, beating you numb, unsure of whether it wants to be a comic-book movie or put the whole idea of comic-book movies in its crosshairs.

With so little backstory and character depth, it’s nothing more than a pointless exercise in brutal, nasty style.

So let me just say that this latest rah-rah red-meat installment is the biggest and best surprise of the series. It has its flaws, but it's mostly a big, dumb, gruntingly monosyllabic hoot.

Get Hard is not only a bad movie but a profoundly wasted opportunity.

Zoolander No. 2 is embarrassing, lazy, and aggressively unfunny. The only good news is that at the pace the franchise is moving, we won’t get Zoolander 3 until 2030.

I’m not sure that this aimless, lukewarm take on The Mummy is how the studio dreamed that its Dark Universe would begin. But it’s just good enough to keep you curious about what comes next.

What’s missing is the pent-up anger that simmered behind Chevy Chase’s doofus grin. His Clark was always on the verge of a nuclear-family meltdown. Helms lacks Chase’s passive-aggressive edginess.

The Space Between Us attempts to take young love to literally new heights before crash-landing into an earthbound hash of schmaltzy clichés and romantic absurdities.

Make no mistake, there will be a sequel. Clary may not wind up having the same pop-culture impact as Bella and Katniss, but like it or not, this won't be the last time you hear from her.

Ultimately, Age of Extinction is an endless barrage of nonsense and noise.

Disposable and shockingly inept.

As sharp and slick as Steve Jobs is, it ends up feeling more interested in entertainment than enlightenment.

It’s soulless, incoherent, Renaissance Faire hooey. And since the latest iteration of game series that inspired it, World of Warcraft, already peaked years ago, even the timing is off.

The art-heist plot is pretty by-the-numbers, but Travolta nearly saves it with his doomed air of paternal helplessness. He makes you feel the weight of being at the mercy of forces bigger than oneself. At 61, he still possesses something rare, even in rote material like this.

As with most of his films (Madea-centric and otherwise), subtlety isn’t Perry’s strongest suit. He tends to hammer his audience over the head with canned sentimentality, lazy stereotypes, and easy uplift.

Strip the pleasure away from a guilty pleasure and what are you left with exactly? Fifty Shades Freed, the third and final cinematic installment in E.L. James’ trashy S&M trilogy, answers that question with every ludicrous plot twist, stilted line delivery, and too-laughable-to-be-hot sex scene.

Eli Roth’s Death Wish isn’t a bad movie as far as super-violent exploitation flicks go. But it is a deeply problematic one. And that problem boils down to this: It’s the absolute wrong movie at the absolute wrong time.

It's no coincidence that Winter's Tale is being released on Valentine's Day, when our resistance to schmaltz is at its weakest. But do that special someone in your life a favor and splurge on some flowers and a nice heart-shaped Russell Stover box instead.

Of course, there’s a sort of comfort in familiarity, especially around the traditions of the holidays. But Daddy’s Home 2 never manages to really catch you off guard and crack you up the way the best comedies should.

It’s a comedy that’s so witless and unfunny and shoddily made it makes "The Hangover 2" look like "The Godfather 2."

The only one having any fun in this dead-on-arrival noir is Robert De Niro.

Neither Sandler nor his listless writers (too many punchlines just sit there and collect flies) seem invested. Whether he’s saving the planet or putting the moves on Michelle Monaghan, Sandler can’t be bothered to raise his pulse above comatose. If he doesn’t care, why should anyone else?

It’s a diabetically sappy big-screen self-help seminar that should have been titled The Book of Schmaltz.

There are a few spiky moments of sick, WTF fun (a bout of rough sex that ends with a Silly String climax; the first time a puppet drops an F-bomb), but mostly it feels like a promising idea poorly executed.

This stylish-but-grating pastiche of far better crime flicks is as soft-boiled as they come.

A shoddy special-effects howler that makes a hash out of both Egyptian mythology and human logic.

The problem with the film’s buckshot “this-happened-and-then-that-happened” storyline is that Connolly keeps hurtling ahead from scene to scene trying to touch every base in Gotti’s life of crime without every letting any one moment breathe long enough for it to resonate.

If you're looking for cheap scares and have 90 minutes to kill, you could do worse than The Pyramid. But not a lot worse.

The race for the worst film of 2015 is officially on.

Everything about Vice feels like recycled goods. It's basically "Westworld" meets "Blade Runner" programmed by glitchy filmmaking replicators.

Even by the series’ already low standards, The Human Centipede Part 3 is crap.