Johnny Oleksinski

The second “Chicken Run” grabs you by the giblets anyway, thanks to its terrific returning voice cast of big-personality Brits, such as bubbly Jane Horrocks and Imelda Staunton (who, in the 23 intervening years, has gone from the coop to Buckingham Palace), and earnestly funny writing. Netflix, to its credit, has not laid an egg.

The duo’s journey is gripping, but long stretches elsewhere in the film drag and it feels much longer than two hours.

What was once a sophisticated, edgy, witty, sexy drama series has become “The Love Boat” Season 10. Though these wax figures’ love is even less exciting and neeeeew than that old show.

While the film is best for fans of the cloth, non-Catholics, too, will gain insight into one of the most prominent leaders in the world.

It’s an impressive first effort from Kravitz that, like the island and the women, immediately has us in its grip.

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

Knock at the Cabin, the “Sixth Sense” director’s latest anvil, is less “Old” and more Old Testament. No fun here! Yeah, there’s much more competent filmmaking and acting on display, however it’s all wasted on a strained and ponderous story with stratospheric delusions of grandeur.

Dreamgirls director Bill Condon’s off-putting movie is a visual and narrative mess: polished where it should be gritty and ugly where it must be glamorous. Bland, almost always.

Their clashing on the court has steam heat. For well over 10 minutes, the electrifying finals match is re-created realistically and with unexpected suspense, even though we’ve known the result for 38 years.

Lane and Costner are swell, but the film jolts to life the second we walk into Blanche’s dimly lit kitchen, occupied by even dimmer men. The villainous Manville acts like a rooster, clucking, crowing and, worst of all, pecking. A sickening scene in a motel won’t have you taking the kids to South Dakota anytime soon.

As Callas so devastatingly starts to lose it, “Maria” satisfyingly stirs our insides in the mysterious way an opera does.

Director Philip Martin’s film is not poorly made per se, but its efforts to make the behind-the-scenes scramble to get the Duke of York on TV exciting are for naught.

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.

While “Murder On The Orient Express” and “Death On The Nile” were hack-job excuses to force as many disparate and ghastly celebrities onscreen as possible, “Haunting” is an actual, surefooted film with strong performances and a luxurious-yet-frightful tone.

After two lousy sequels, here’s a pitch for Warner Bros.: “The Matrix Retirement.”

Music is totally unwatchable.

It is one that sweeps you up, though, in its beautifully detailed vision of an analog New York where stars eat at greasy spoons below 14th and future music legends pass the hat in basement clubs. Scrounging for their next meal.

“Solo,” sadly, should be frozen forever in carbonite.

The blend of coming-of-age and coming-together in director Fernando Grostein Andrade’s film is a poignant one, regardless. The lessons Abe learns about life through Chico and his inventive cooking are made all the more beautiful by how tasty and colorful the food looks. And with Schnapp’s work in the title role, I found myself believing that a 12-year-old Brooklyn boy just might be able to solve the world’s thorniest conflict with an appetizer.

Carell’s niche right now isn’t awkward anchormen, but parents going through hell. He makes a believable dad to the equally moving Chalamet, who writhes, screams and cries, but never showboats. The perfect pair is better than this movie.

This belabored movie, which is much more serious than its predecessor and takes nearly an hour to take off, feels like it lasts a Day-O.

The undeniably sweet film, based on the wonderful West End musical, fixes some of the (much better) show’s flaws, but loses its humor and energy while it wallows in sadness.

Watching The Photograph is like looking through a friend’s old photo album — it’s not as exciting as your friend thinks it is.

Everything uniquely special and hilarious about the 1984 fish-out-of-water hit is gone, replaced by commodity streaming mush that looks like every other ho-hum action-comedy right now.

Those flight sequences — first suspenseful, then euphoric — take you back to the classic “Dumbo” as much as they do to classic Burton.

The script by Matt Lieberman and Zak Penn is hysterical, but director Shawn Levy must’ve sold his soul to the devil to secure this cast.

Not so good is Lily-Rose Depp as French princess Catherine. Say what you will about francophile Johnny Depp — he’s never boring. But his daughter, with her vacant expression, lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.

Taps into our worst fears of what could happen during a quiet holiday with heart-thumping realism.