Inkoo Kang

[A] tediously naturalistic and fairly pointless no-budget indie about the compromises of middle-aged femininity.

[A] numbingly inert series of dirty-cop clichés that abruptly builds to an ephemerally poignant climax.

Salva manages a few inspired scenes... But the lasting image Dark House offers is of the screenwriters hurling everything they can think of at the wall.

[An] eager-to-please but creaky and shambling movie.

Bolivar is eye-rollingly romanticized as a wonderful lover and an even better fighter in Alberto Arvelo's lushly produced, dully reverential The Liberator.

Ironically, then, a designer renowned for his brilliantly precise lines and proportions — enough to make a dress out of a Mondrian painting — is paid tribute by a work with disappointingly sloppy structure. Saint Laurent might glitter like the real thing, but a careful look at the construction shows it’s really just a knockoff.

Its core dance styles are a wonderfully frenetic fusion of tap and hip-hop and a truly novel blend of Japanese taiko drumming and K-pop girl-group choreography. Whenever actor Derek Hough and BoA stop leaping and twirling, though, Make Your Move is an underwritten mess.

Alternately claustrophobic and epic compositions can’t make up for the myriad story lines (including one frustrating red herring) and pacing issues that periodically lose sight of the stakes at hand.

Phoenix’s transformation from a scotch-soaked pile of tweed into a homicidally self-righteous ubermensch is fun to watch, but Allen too frequently loses sight of the story he’s telling.

The mystery is solidly structured, but the answers it gradually yields are silly at best and lazy and offensive at worst.

Silicon Valley is built on various inequalities, and, frustratingly, CodeGirl isn’t interested enough in delving into those issues — or the girls determined to overcome them.

At best, The Green Inferno is a reliable shock and disgust-delivery system. At worst — and it certainly veers toward the worst — it’s a racially reprehensible work that exploits one of the world’s most powerless peoples. And no number of movie-geek references to “Cannibal Holocaust” is going to change that.

Chen's grand opus about the perils of the Internet already feels obsolete.

First-time Spanish director Jorge Dorado aims for Hitchcock and misses by a mile with Anna.

Unfortunately, it's just when Jessabelle looks like it might transcend its haunted-house trappings that the Southern Gothic clichés rear their tortured, screaming heads.

The inherent cinematic potential of one of nature's cutest animals rescues the film from being a total waste of time.

The writer-director never finds a coherent point of view (or a way out of Strindberg’s three-wall play structure), and Miss Julie ends up merely a whirlwind of moods without a center, as changeable and as random as a TV flipping channels.

LaBeouf and Wood don't clang, but they don't quite click, either. That's not enough for the film to persuade us of its message, that love is worth any sacrifice.

Desiccated by its pretensions, it's freeze-dried melodrama.

The self-serious meditations on fate and responsibility — as well as the uneven but ever-charged flare-ups between Izzy and whoever she’s talking to — recall exercises in an acting class. By the end, we understand her motivations and recent biography, but precious little about who she is as a person.

While the narrative spins in place, Kyle Killen's script throws out one uninspired gambit after another to extend the film to feature length, eventually climaxing with dual endings, both contrived.

Any one-man crusade is likely to fail, but a rom-com character's war against sincerity is doomed from the start.

A rapidly wearying comedy that mistakes crudeness with humor.

A movie so lifeless you’d have more fun guessing the Netflix niche group that the production is supposed to satisfy.

The apocalypse is no fun for anyone, but the dreariest possible scenario probably entails being stuck in a house without a functioning toilet and with nine of the dullest people left alive.

The fatal flaw of "John Doe" is its focus on ideas, rather than people.

Beyond this general outline, plot and character development are afterthoughts, or maybe never-thoughts.

The bloodletting is blandly demure and the identity of the malefactor telegraphed too early.