Elizabeth Weitzman

Nathan’s neurotic self-indulgence strains our patience.

As slickly entertaining as you’d expect a Disney-produced inspirational sports movie to be. But it’s so lacking in sincerity and creativity that “inspirational” never rounds the corner to “inspiring.”

It’s nice to see these characters again. But there’s an uncomfortable strain of bitterness running through the nostalgia. Klapisch is, for example, much kinder to his good-natured leading man than any of the ladies, who are by turns cruel, flaky and dishonest.

Instead of falling into exaggerated exploitation, Coppola always stays true to the essence of adolescence — that sense of waiting, reacting and then waiting some more.

This stilted crime drama from Atom Egoyan feels misguided from the start. He’s attempting to fictionalize a true story that has already been told better, several times over.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with faith-based entertainment. The problem comes when, as with any heavily slanted perspective, the faith takes precedence over the entertainment.

Despite the film’s worthy goals, there are some empty calories. Katie Couric’s narration and Soechtig’s uninspired style make it feel more like a TV special than a feature documentary.

If Meghan's misadventures were funny, or creatively told, or even just mildly entertaining, perhaps Brill ("Little Nicky") could get away with such lazy filmmaking. Instead he wastes all of his resources, including two top-flight comic actors, shamelessly.

It’s a shame to see both actor and director play things so safe. Not only is much of the choreography reminiscent of their better films, but they rely too much on digital effects. Instead, we should be awed solely by the sight of a first-rate fighter.

Michael (Hansen) fakes his death and announces it online, solely so he can see who shows up at his funeral. His plans only grow more dimwitted from there.

Somehow, though, director Huck Botko and writer Jeff Tetreault have turned their dopey tribute to testosterone into a surprisingly amusing rom-com.

All we’re left with is the sight of older men hiring a gorgeous young woman to take her clothes off and fulfill their desires. If nothing else, Ozon does leave us wondering whether he intended such an uncomfortable parallel between life and art.

First-time feature director Omid Nooshin deftly downplays his budgetary limitations. He creates a sense of tension on the confining set and draws as much as possible out of a strong cast, led by Scott.

So instead of the rom-com, we now have the “non-com.” The cardboard characters and predictable rhythms remain. But this time, we get all the comic cliches with none of the romance.

You can always tell when filmmakers get their ideas from watching other movies. First-time writer David Congalton must be a Christopher Guest fan, because his derivative mockumentary feels like the work of someone who’s seen “Waiting for Guffman” and “Best in Show” too many times.

A romantic triangle featuring Rebecca Hall, Alan Rickman and “Game of Thrones” costar Richard Madden has no business being this dull.

His (Surnow) unfocused script swerves all over the road, but Christopher Meloni and Dean Norris repeatedly get things back on track.

It’s cheesy fun for sure, but fun nonetheless.

Admirable without being fully engaging. It’s too intelligent to dismiss, but not emotional enough to inspire lasting passion.

This is a movie about the transcendent bond between partners who can communicate without speaking a word, so it’s only fitting that the gorgeous cinematography perfectly captures the movie’s emotional depths.

Most impressive: the striking vibrancy of the animation. This is the rare movie that earns the extra cost of 3-D glasses.

Haven’t Cleveland fans suffered enough? Not only have they never won a Super Bowl, but now the Browns serve as the center of Ivan Reitman’s painfully creaky sports drama.

Director John Stockwell (“Blue Crush”) knows how to make the best possible use of his star while adding a strong supporting cast, some pretty scenery and a taut mystery. Stockwell understands most of all that we don’t need Carano to talk; we need her to kick ass.

How anyone could make such an uninvolving movie out of such a fascinating subject remains its own inexplicable mystery.

Apocalyptic visions are no longer enough to shock us. By this point, if you want to imagine the end of the world, you really need to say something new about it.

So clear your calendar. There’s no better time to get to know a character so obnoxiously stubborn that not even his own creator can shake him.

When you name your movie Dom Hemingway and then require the titular antihero to repeatedly declare, “I am Dom Hemingway!” the filmmakers must be very confident that there is something special about their character. Too bad there isn’t.

Jessica Goldberg’s sluggish directorial debut feels like a leftover from the 1990s, when dank indie dramas littered film-festival lineups.