Jason Zinoman

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.