Elizabeth Weitzman

In a small theater, it’s easy to feel like you’re a part of the romance unfolding before you. But in the grander scheme of an impersonal cineplex, it’s an uphill climb.

Half amusing and half appalling, Matthew Vaughn’s shameless spy caper Kingsman: The Secret Service is ultimately done in by its own hypocrisy.

Credit goes to director Sam Taylor-Johnson and her screenwriter, Kelly Marcel, who've stripped the first book of its biggest flaws, while still honoring its essence. And lead Dakota Johnson makes for an ideal heroine, though — as doubters feared — her chemistry with costar Jamie Dornan doesn't always sizzle.

Both LeBlanc and Larter glide through the synthetic setup like pros, but they have no connection because their characters barely resemble human beings.

The spirit of the series remains true: cheerfully random jokes, blink-and-you’ll-miss-them references and, above all, a silly, stubbornly sentimental streak that only the crabbiest cynic could dismiss.

Cage, adopting an accent that could best be defined as Just British Enough to Sound Serious, adds some welcome weirdness to this otherwise generic production. He doesn’t fit in at all, but then again, who’d want him to?

True, the Boys are thoughtful and eloquent, and the whole package is engaging enough to hold even a newcomer’s attention, but the end result is an incomplete story of a forgotten band hoping to celebrate — or should I say sell-abrate — an anniversary no one else remembered.

Statham brings so little energy that the fight scenes are hardly more vivid than the gambling ones. His one-liners have no heart; his cynicism is no longer sharp.

Johnny Depp has done so much for us. Let us now return the favor and pretend Mortdecai, a disastrously misjudged career low, never existed.

Without Ewan McGregor in the lead, this flashy but aggressively superficial Aussie thriller would likely disappear without a trace.

With all the talent on tap — including screenwriter Buck Henry, who worked with Michal Zebede to adapt Philip Roth’s 2009 novel — you’d think we’d get something better than this outdated indulgence.

For her debut drama, Song One, filmmaker Kate Barker-Froyland snares Anne Hathaway. It’s a stroke of luck. Hathaway’s doe-eyed sincerity provides just enough weight to keep this sweet but slight romance from floating away.

The danger in writing, directing, producing and casting yourself in the same movie is that there’s no one to pull you back from the cliff. Simon Helberg (“The Big Bang Theory”) did co-direct this grating vanity affair with his wife, Jocelyn Towne, but neither seems to realize how misguided it is at every step.

The title may suggest acts of indecency, but if there’s anything this mild dramedy could use, it’s a little more raciness.

Here’s hoping Bruce Willis bought something special with whatever cash he earned from this pointless, brutally ugly rehash of 1973’s “Westworld.”

These are the best moments, when Stewart and a wisely understated Gugino are free to enact their own wistful, beautifully intuitive pas de deux.

Cute, mostly well-mannered and just a bit off-center.

A palpable sense of environment and strong performances from Noah Wyle and musician Steve Earle can’t balance the extensive flaws in this unconvincing Appalachian melodrama.

The best movies are ever-shifting, intelligent and open-hearted enough to expand alongside an audience. American Sniper, Clint Eastwood’s harrowing meditation on war, is built on this foundation of uncommon compassion.

Understatement is one of Mark Wahlberg’s greatest assets. But that admirable trait winds up working against him in The Gambler, Rupert Wyatt’s otherwise intriguing dramatic thriller.

Burton structures the film, right up to the fascinating finale, as both a damning tale of male privilege and a moving story of a woman’s liberation. The actors reflect these themes accordingly. Adams is touchingly restrained and Waltz is monstrously charismatic.

Loyal fans of the Sondheim original may feel a bit let down themselves. There’s much to love here. But working with original “Woods” writer and Sondheim collaborator James Lapine, Marshall tones down the crucial dark shading in some places and has trouble with pacing in others.

A heartfelt, bittersweet and often amusing portrait of early middle-age.

Spall is best known for his supporting performances (Winston Churchill in “The King’s Speech,” Peter Pettigrew in the “Harry Potter” films). But he’s among the highest class of character actor, able to make a role of any size his own. Leigh has given Spall the gift of a lifetime in J.M.W. Turner.

For all the talent involved, the overall effect is surprisingly flat. Foxx appears disconnected, Byrne is wasted and a painfully hammy Diaz seems to be in another movie altogether.

The heart of the film is the touching relationship between two lonely souls. The lovely, feisty chemistry between Rowlands and Jackson will keep even the most cynical viewers on their toes.

They’ve turned Thomas Pynchon’s work into a slapstick noir homage that doesn’t just reward but demands multiple viewings.

Surely an Oscar-nominated filmmaker like Atom Egoyan (“The Sweet Hereafter”) can do better than this nasty and unconvincing thriller.

Shallow and frustratingly misguided drama.

It's no surprise that first-time director Scott Cohen is a nature photographer by trade: he's made one of the most gorgeous movies you'll see this year.

Sam Esmail’s fractured romance is beautifully shot and creatively structured, but he never gives us a single reason to root for his mismatched couple.

Hampered by both an unimaginative script and ordinary direction, but it’s a serious Oscar contender. Why? Because Julianne Moore is in the lead.

You may admire Witherspoon’s solid performance, but you won’t forget you’re watching a star.

This seemingly ordinary biographical documentary about the retiring animation master unfolds, at a deceptively gentle pace, into a work of immense beauty.

Ultimately, though, director Morten Tyldum’s conventional approach doesn’t do full justice to his tragically unconventional hero.

A sassy script and good-natured voice work from Benedict Cumberbatch and John Malkovich should keep kids and grownups entertained over the holidays.

The participants make a strong case, although the most emotionally powerful moments involve the workers themselves.

Does Hollywood have so little to offer women that well-regarded actresses feel obliged to accept demeaning indies like this flatly unfunny, morally vacant comedy?

The concept itself is bafflingly empty. We’re never given any reason to respect Teddy or his work — which is built on tired, self-help clichés — so we hardly believe in his rapturous fans.

The atonal script is credited to first-timer Michael Brown, but there’s still no explaining Shapeero’s lump-of-coal debut.

The screenplay, adapted from Glendon Swarthout’s 1988 novel, lacks its heroine’s rigid spine. The story buckles in the latter half. As a result, we wind up watching two very different movies. The first forges ahead with Cuddy’s fiery righteousness. The second takes a much safer route, in which her pioneering spirit is sorely missed.

When writer and director are one and the same, there’s always a risk that the project will suffer from a lack of perspective. Indeed, in helming her blackly comic indie Miss Meadows, Karen Leigh Hopkins fails to fulfill the potential of her own script.

This unusually intelligent crowd-pleaser is welcome proof that quality filmmaking needn’t be limited by subject, audience or budget.

Big Hero 6 was executive produced by Pixar guru John Lasseter. You can see the influence in the high quality, from the appealing 3D animation to the unusually sharp story and script (a cooperative effort credited to seven people).

John Leguizamo can do so much better than this weak rom-com, in which men are morons and women are either neurotic or nasty.

It’s a pleasure to see Russo back on screen (she’s married to Gilroy). But Nina’s eager complicity is far too easy and every social critique flashes as bright as the neon guiding Lou around back-alley L.A.

Alexandre Aja’s supernatural thriller Horns isn’t an entirely successful movie. But with a committed Daniel Radcliffe in the lead, it’s a consistently intriguing one.

A compelling account of an ordinary guy who transformed himself through extraordinary circumstance.

Cryer makes a likable sad-sack and Will Sasso provides balance as his narcissistic best friend. But both guys deserve better. As do we.

Stonehearst Asylum, Brad Anderson’s adaptation of an Edgar Allan Poe story, is undeniably preposterous. But if you accept the grandly Gothic insanity here, there’s a lot of fun to be had.

The unavoidable obstacle is that the perpetually elegant Knightley does not belong. Not at a prom, not furtively partying in a parent’s basement and not, alas, in this movie.

Having carried the mediocre smash “Divergent,” Shailene Woodley now uplifts another underwhelming teen thriller. This one’s as tiny as that one was huge.

So is he a martyred patriot or a misguided traitor? And is it possible he’s both? Poitras comes down firmly on one side, and she makes a strong case. But the movie would have been stronger still if she’d acknowledged the alternative view.

There have been times when the right team has been able to transcend the gooey schmaltz of Sparks’ stories. This effort, however, sinks like a rock thrown into a sun-dappled lake shaded by magnolia trees sparkling under a sky of shooting stars.

It’s undeniably thrilling to watch Gonzalez Iñárritu and Keaton aiming so high. Whenever they’re brave enough to leap into the unknown, Birdman soars.

OK, haters: Here’s the movie meant to silence your complaints about Kristen Stewart’s acting range. And it might, if you can sit through all of it.

Schwartzman and Pryce are compelling in their self-regard. But it’s no coincidence that the lovely, empathetic Moss is who we root for.

The performances range wildly from high (Banderas) to low (Birgitte Hjort Sørensen as Jacq’s pregnant wife) to you-must-be-kidding (Melanie Griffith as both a scientific genius and a prostitute android).

As for Jackson, he strolls through the nonsensical story so casually, one suspects his mind is on other things — like what he’ll do with his paycheck. He has probably already moved on. We’ll happily do the same.

Teller delivers a career-making performance as Andrew Neyman, a 19-year-old jazz drummer who wants to be great. Like Buddy Rich great.

The sort of movie that’s not good enough to embrace, but not quite bad enough to dismiss.

The mystery is pretty low-key and the resolution somewhat disappointing. But Amalric is mesmerizing and the film’s taut, chilly tone leaves us unnerved.

Vanessa Lapa constructed this straightforward biopic about SS leader Heinrich Himmler from a recently found trove of his personal letters and photographs. Her streamlined approach seems appropriate for the subject, which boils down to the banality of evil.

For parents looking to get their preschoolers out of the house, The Hero of Color City will be good enough.

We never do find out what really went on behind the scenes of “Community.” But the delightful success of a charismatic loner like Crittenden could be considered one of Harmon’s greatest accomplishments.