Jason Zinoman

The film (which feels more like a commercial than a documentary) works best as a behind the scenes hang with an odd couple.

In straddling genres, “Haunting” can get stuck in the middle. But there’s fun to be had there. What’s consistent is the elegant visuals — striking cinematography by Haris Zambarloukos — which mark this movie’s real genre as lavish old-fashioned Hollywood entertainment.

The leaden screenplay would be easier to overlook if there were more spooky sequences.

Lee Cronin, who directed Evil Dead Rise with many more colors of bodily fluid, is a meticulous creator of stunning shots. His camera doesn’t move. It dances, shifting, spinning, occasionally knocked on its side like a running back in a collision.

It’s tricky business balancing disturbing terror and jokey film criticism, and while this sequel occasionally pulls it off, the weight of obligations to the dictates of the franchise ultimately drags it down.

For an audience desperately looking for a good time, they’ll find it. More discerning fans of junk might see an opportunity missed.

The director Gerard Johnstone doesn’t go for elaborate suspense sequences or truly intense scares. He wants to please, not rattle. And while there are some hints at social commentary on how modern mothers and fathers use technology to outsource parenting, this movie is smart enough to never take itself too seriously.

This movie has plenty going for it: excellent actors (Fonacier has a knack for coiled tension), stylish camerawork by the director Lorcan Finnegan and a point to make about economic exploitation. What’s missing is any sense of surprise.

These revenge stories move methodically from the familiar to the monstrous. They lean into gore, excess and, critically, smirking humor. A commitment to its staticky, period-appropriate aesthetic is the only thing its artists take deadly seriously.

By covering so much ground, it doesn’t have room to dig too deep. But along with some very funny footage of a master of his craft, it offers a convincing argument that while Gregory became famous for his comedy, what made him such a riveting cultural figure is what he did after he left it behind.

Hammond, who describes his face as so bland that it becomes a canvas for so many others, emerges as a riveting, eccentric character: Fragile, lyrical and haunted, like a doomed figure out of Tennessee Williams.

Some shows deserve reverential treatment. And the love letter is, to use a word so associated with this show it influences the way many say it, tradition.

With the possible exception of his jokes about fatherhood, which are sharp, unsentimental and more economical than the rest of his digressive 70 minutes, Cross’s labored new special picks easy targets.

Steve Coogan and John C. Reilly deliver dynamite performances that capture the expressions and physicality of the star comedians without ever descending into caricature. They never strain for laughs but are consistently amusing.

Love, Gilda is a very affectionate reminder of her brief and brilliant career, a heartfelt love letter whose title might be more accurate without the comma.

True horror fans will forgive its shortcomings since they serve the greater good of gorgeous gore and stunningly staged scenes.

The movie is ultimately less about the players or even the engrossingly shot games than the idea of basketball as a tradition, one that imbues lives with meaning and bonds a community.

The makeup design and chase scenes are rote, and the little dramatic conflict — arguments over where to hide — traffic in the oldest clichés in the genre.

Discretion may be a virtue in the upscale hospitality business, but not in documentary film. If you are going to make a movie that hints at scandal and celebrity gossip and behind-the-scenes glamour, then it’s not too much to ask that some secrets be revealed and a glass or two of juice poured.

What distinguishes Roxanne Roxanne, a sensitively observed new movie with a dynamite performance by Chanté Adams, is that it marries a traditional hip-hop biopic, a form long dominated by male rappers, with a more idiosyncratic and deeply felt slice of life.