Johnny Oleksinski

No phrase terrifies me more than “for the fans,” because in the movies that tends to mean “awful and incomprehensible.” And so it does for “Mortal Kombat II,” an onscreen bucket of slop that people will give a pass to because losers cheer whenever a character, such as they are, is impaled or sliced in half.

The Devil Wears Prada 2, the sequel to the 2006 comedy that’s not at all about Anna Wintour, is a good time, even if the high-pressure world of Vogue, er, Runway magazine is no longer the epitome of New York luxury and glamour it was back in the aughts.

The Queen biopic “Bohemian Rhapsody” had plenty of issues, but the electricity of the re-creation of the Live Aid concert was not one of them. While “Michael” shares the same producer as the Freddie Mercury flick — and a nearly identical performance from Mike Myers as a jokey music exec — it boasts none of the nostalgic thrills.

Do these stylistic and narrative departures constitute a smart shake-up of the old mummy formula, as Cronin’s movie promises to do? Eh, not really. The director mostly reshapes what a mummy actually is to suit his lackluster whims.

There is nothing to like or admire in this groaner galaxy. The movie has the unconfident, powder-sugar tone of a Disney direct-to-video release, like “The Lion King 1½,” paired with the overeager advertising of an internet pop-up.

The Drama, for all its heat, is not perfect. I wasn’t won over by its climactic series of calamities that fall in rapid succession like dominoes at the end. However, most movies are completely forgotten by the time the credits roll. This one, like it or not, lingers for days. It’ll likely wind up one of the most controversial movies of the year.

During a moment in which movies tend to be either cynically corporate or bleaker than a black hole, “Project Hail Mary” dares to be about that once-great driver of drama: friendship.

Leave her at the altar! She is “The Bride!,” one of the absolute worst movies I have had the displeasure of watching in this job.

Director Daniel Chong’s original movie is terribly funny, and often in an unfamiliar, warped way for the cerebral and mushy studio.

Noooo! Anything but another slapdash horror film with a lazy plot that hinges on artificial intelligence!

Updates are fine for some stories. Not this one, though. Moving the action to a contemporary urban setting is akin to fitting a fairy with cement boots.

This is a sexy, funny, ravishing and dark revision that keeps Heathcliff’s frightening obsessiveness, emotional toxicity and sadism intact while ably contorting the tale into a decadent, modern, yet still distinctly gothic, romance.

Only an actress as caution-to-the-wind as Colman could connect so profoundly with a patio chair. Skarsgard’s sensitivity also helps.

Wladyka keeps the film lively with a sparkler aesthetic and a flair for musical storytelling.

Familiar though it is, the skillfully made movie finds vigor in the been-there-done-that.

Issues millions of people face everyday are addressed cleverly and poignantly, and never without a hint of humor. Wilde isn’t really interested in sentimentality, either, and her movie hits harder for it.

Carousel is one of those tundra, dimly lit living-room movies that snobs defend as closer to “real life.”

In short: Too Many Cooks plus too many minutes.

If you like Charli xcx’s songs and find her to be a unique and uncompromising presence in the often airbrushed world of pop, you’ll appreciate moments of “The Moment.” But that’s it. This is not a fully formed movie. At best, it’s a moderately intriguing pitch.

It’s got something for everybody — toplessness, threesomes, dildos, ball gags, S&M and, of course, art-world satire.

Fiennes is magnificent, and a scene involving him and Iron Maiden’s song “Number of the Beast” will go down as one of the most buzzed-about sequences of 2026. Were it written for a grisly horror movie, Alex Garland’s climax would fit snuggly into a Shakespearean comedy.

The inferior second part, short but not nearly short enough, proves just how ill-prepared its creators were for the original’s success.

This movie’s got as many cliches as Madison’s got cheese curds. But script aside, Jackman and Hudson onstage are effervescent and, speaking as someone who’s never mounted a motorcycle, the songs rock.

Whenever there’s a lull here, a big laugh soon comes along with the force of a boa constrictor that conceals the flaws.

Truly every line of this gussied-up pile of trash is worthy of a yelled-out crowd response. It’s one schlocky horror picture show.

No. 3, with a reported price tag of more than $400 million, is the most visually glorious of the trio, adding fresh and imaginative beings and environments that further flesh out one of the all-time great fantasy locales.

In the pantheon of James L. Brooks films, “Ella McCay” is far from as good as it gets.

It’s cinematic Mountain Dew. You’ll be wired for the entire 2½ hours.