Marc Mohan

Life Partners may be a dispensable sitcom of a movie, but it's charming and cannily made.

As an action spectacular, Exodus is on par with Scott's other forays into ancient times, "Gladiator" and "Kingdom of Heaven." But as a believable human drama, much less a worthy exploration of Judaism's origins, it falls flat.

It's hard to say what's more fascinating: The engaging explication of various paintings by the remarkably articulate docents, the behind-the-scenes looks at the preservation and restoration processes, or the boardroom discussions about the appropriateness of marketing efforts. Actually, that third one probably isn't the most fascinating, but I still wanted more of it.

Despite all the camaraderie, natural beauty and exotic weather, though, you couldn't pay me enough to live there, especially not when there's a movie like this to show me what I'm missing.

The only danger with a movie like this is the inevitably disappointing return to more humdrum reality once it ends.

This movie about a great woman and a great man ends up merely good.

Ignorance is bliss, maybe. If you don't know (and the film doesn't tell you, though the press notes do) that Diplomacy plays fast and loose with the known facts, it's a thrilling, even moving drama. But learning the truth gives an unpleasant aftertaste to a movie that's otherwise a solid piece of work.

It's similar to 2011's "The Loneliest Planet," which examined a similar dynamic between a couple backpacking in the Caucasus Mountains. But Force Majeure (which, as a legal term, refers to unforeseeable events or "acts of God") is sharper and smarter, combining precision-strike storytelling, directorial art, and impressive, often invisible visual effects, including that avalanche scene.

Laggies doesn't reinvent the wheel, but it puts an engaging spin on the old canard about high school being the best years of our lives.

The fascinating tale of master forger Mark Landis is especially bizarre, mostly because it doesn't involve the commission of a crime.

The thrilling cinematic joyride that, among other improbable feats, puts Michael Keaton, as Thomson, smack in the middle of the Oscar race for best actor.

Because Whiplash is two characters in search of a plot, it ramps up the happenstance and improbability as it stumbles toward a final showdown between teacher and student that would be emotionally satisfying if it had the ring of truth.

Binoche is her usual dependable self, bringing passion and fury to a familiar, but still compelling, character.

There are some attempts at a comic-bookish, film noir vibe, including a hotel where all the crooks and killers stay, forbidden by house rules from "doing business"on the premises. And everywhere Keanu turns, he bumps into a character from HBO.

At over two hours, it might test the patience of some younger viewers (and some impatient older ones as well), but for anyone willing to take the time, it's an utter treat.

The movie wobbles as it approaches the home stretch, but, thanks to its leading man, manages to stick the landing.

David Ayer's film is a gory, muddy, downbeat tale of war's hellishness and the fraternal bond between those stuck in the middle of it. It's also, like "Ryan," full of tense, grippingly staged action scenes that capture moments of pure adrenaline, and it's the tension between those two impulses that makes "Fury" fascinating and ultimately flawed.

There's potential here, as well as in Junn's touching relationship with a fellow resident at the home, for real intensity, but Khaou insists on sticking with a glacial pace and lip-trembling emotional repression when a little bit of melodrama might have gone a long way.

Pride should leave audiences smiling and inspired. But it would have been a much more groundbreaking film if it had been released 30 years ago.

The lunacy to which The Equalizer descends is especially disappointing because the movie starts out with some promise.

Wiig, following the big-screen breakthrough of "Bridesmaids," has dipped her toes into dramatic waters, but for Hader, The Skeleton Twins is a revelation.

The movie is well-crafted and finely acted (including by the non-actors László and András Gyémánt as the creepy, affectless twins), but it never comes up with a new way to communicate its sadly familiar themes.

Fonda gets some of the movie's best moments as the sexually frank, silicone-enhanced mom who got rich off a best-selling memoir that exposed her children's intimate habits.

The actual video footage of some of the incidents recreated in the film, which play with the end credits, makes it clear that sometimes reality can be as hokey as fiction.

The resulting documentary is a fascinating meditation on the different ways nature can be experienced, as well as a fatalistic take on the process of our planet's seemingly inevitable change in climate.

The period details are unconvincing, the cinematography is flat, and the performances are surprisingly one note considering the talent involved.

Everyone on screen looks like they'd rather be anywhere else than under the control of novice director Dustin Marcellino, whose first (and hopefully last) feature this is.

It's not a five star film, but it's no Motel 6 either.

As is, it's a pleasant but unremarkable retelling of a story as old as the Dead Sea itself.

A second helping of a satisfying dish.

Makes good, unobtrusive use of its European locations, and has a couple of well-orchestrated urban chase scenes. But, even in these days of renewed U.S.-Russian tensions, its Cold War demeanor feels anachronistic, and its simple cynicism comes off as recycled and cheap.

Israeli director Ari Forman, whose 2009 "Waltz with Bashir" earned a Best Foreign Film Oscar nomination, is a master at exploiting diverse animated styles, and draws a brave starring performance from a performer who, in her mid-40s, seems to be just hitting her stride.

The movie's biggest flaw, from a local perspective, is its unconvincing use of Vancouver, B.C., to represent Portland, Oregon.

William Shatner, it must be said, comes off as an insufferable, pompous jerk. Maybe he's jealous. After all, at age 75, Takei is an openly gay Asian American with an overwhelming social media fan base, making him the one who has really gone where no man has gone before.

First-time director Jeff Baena struggles with framing, editing, tone and casting, leading to an unimpressive entry in the ever-burgeoning zombie comedy genre.

Katz, who has been saddled with the deadly label "mumblecore" in the past, and Stephens ("Pilgrim Song") combine sensibilities of dry wit and warm earnestness in precise proportions. It's also further proof, if it were needed, that smart, funny, entertaining films are always around, even in the dog days of summer. You just have to know where to look.

The actions of both these vilified parties are so seemingly irrational that you're left feeling there must be some explanation, one that director Todd Douglas Miller either couldn't or wouldn't ferret out.

He's an engaging, profane interview subject, and a complex guy, self-described as both a "pervert" and a "romantic," sexually omnivorous, a Goldwater Republican before being drafted and sent to Vietnam, a McCarthyite peacenik afterward.

Tries to pretend that its premise isn't timeworn, and thanks to charming lead performances, it almost succeeds. But not quite.

A good test of a movie like this is whether it would be more or less stimulating to hang out with people you really know for 82 minutes. If Happy Christmas is the time better spent, it might be time to find a new crowd.

If the film had been trimmed to 45 minutes of crazed storm-chasing and storm-fleeing, it might've been worth a matinee ticket. But as is, it's the sort of lazy late-summer idiocy you'd be wise to huddle beneath an overpass to avoid.

Canadian director Richie Mehta ("Amal") based Siddharth on his own random encounter with a father searching for his missing son, and the film never feels less than utterly real in its depiction of both everyday Indian life and the hopelessness that comes so naturally in this sort of tragic situation.

Stage magicians often depend on sleight of hand to succeed at their art, but Woody Allen's new movie, Magic in the Moonlight, is just plain slight.

A perfectly irreverent counterpoint to movies that take their superheroes a bit too seriously.

Eventually the chemistry between Collette and Church wins out, and Lucky Them makes for a diverting, if forgettable, romantic comedy.

Thought-provoking, making this a solid date movie science geeks and philosophy freaks alike.

What Johansson does in Lucy won't win her any prizes, but it establishes her ability to carry a movie that has some ideas, however half-baked, and has nothing to do with her obvious sex appeal.

As usual in Le Carre's world (and the real one), a measured, rational approach faces an uphill battle against the philistines who really run the show. That predictably weary attitude is both the best — as embodied in Hoffman's performance — and worst — in its weary predictability — things about A Most Wanted Man.

It's not as if empathetic peeks into the lives of America's poor white boys aren't valuable, and Hellion has nothing if not empathy for every one of its characters. But without a more original story or a distinctive visual presence, it's hard for it to rise above a crowded field.

Christensen, who played the James Bond villain Mr. White in "Casino Royale" and "Quantum of Solace," cuts a striking, white-haired figure as Segerstedt, whose principled tirades against Hitler ultimately earn him the enmity of his prime minster and even his king.

Behind the on-field shenanigans and eccentric personalities, there's a meatier story about the corporatization of sports and the disappearance of the barnstorming attitude Bing Russell took as a virtual religion.

If Rod Serling had hired Robert Altman to direct a "Twilight Zone" episode, it might have turned out something like this.

Grating attempt at comedy, the latest failed attempt to capitalize on McCarthy's considerable charm.

Anyone who shares Ebert's love of movies and who followed his career will be exceptionally moved by Life Itself, but anyone who appreciates a well-lived life should be touched as well.

Once the quartet makes it big, things get predictable really fast. Eastwood seems to forget that audiences made The Jersey Boys a touring sensation because they love the songs, not because they want to see yet another "Behind the Music"-style tale of fame and fortune not being all they're cracked up to be.

Politics aside, Obvious Child hinges on Slate's performance, which is endearing and real.

Like its 2010 predecessor, it's one of the most gorgeous computer-animated kids' films you'll come across, and one of the few that uses 3-D smartly and effectively.

The movie's centerpiece and peak is the operation itself, which Reichardt depicts with the pulse-pounding patience of a classic heist sequence like that in "Rififi."

Liman stages the chaotic action scenes, including several iterations of the beach assault, with clarity, precision, and wit. This is his best movie since 2002's "The Bourne Identity."

A moderately enchanting, sometimes thought-provoking corrective to the flaws in the story that inspired it.

While Shepard just does his grim, weathered, Sam Shepard shtick, and Hall seems oddly miscast as the tense, prickly Dale, Johnson's easy, gritty charm is a much-needed buffer between their colliding obsessions.

There are plenty of very funny jokes in the movie, but near-fatal lulls whenever it tries to make MacFarlane into a romantic lead or a genuinely inspiring hero — in other words, whenever it tries to make us like him.

It's not clear that Ayoade has anything new to say about these time-worn themes, but he has fun creating the world of the film.

You can almost feel Depp restraining himself from saying "Tell me more about Hunter," again and again, but his enthusiasm and appreciation are real, and that's a pretty good reason for this movie to exist.

Hold onto your hats, True Believers! This one's got the most massive, momentous montage of Marvel's merry mutants ever mashed into one movie!

The worry regarding 2014's Godzilla was that it would seem like a retread of recent big-budget monster mashes "Cloverfield" or "Pacific Rim," or, worse yet, that it would sink to the depths of the 1998 American reboot. Happily, though, this one can stand on its own two enormous three-toed feet.

It's a fascinating instance of a filmmaker working with self-imposed rules, but never forgetting that those restrictions are only worthwhile to the extent that they serve character and story. It's a ride well worth taking.

With evocative performances, especially from the two women, and a nicely modulated sense of nostalgia, Ilo Ilo marks the emergence of a promising new cinematic voice.

Next Goal Wins isn't the most slickly made documentary, and its chronology can be confusing at times. But, despite a bit of salty language, it's an inspiring, never-say-die chronicle for all ages.

Neighbors makes "Animal House" look like "Remembrances of Things Past."

A surprisingly in-depth and confrontational examination into the obesity epidemic among Americans, especially children, over the last 30 years.

ASM 2 makes too many of the same mistakes that have brought other superhero movies low (including Sam Raimi's "Spider-Man 3"). It tries to pack in too many characters and plot lines, for one.

Even if her turn in Bright Days Ahead feels overly familiar, especially after Deneuve's recent "On My Way," Ardant is still possessed of the same Gallic poise and presence, and generally a joy to watch.

Plot takes a back seat to style and attitude, as it often does in Jarmuch's world, which can make the last half-hour of the movie drag a bit. But when that means getting to hang out with two fascinating creatures of the night, played by two fascinating performers, that's a perfectly valid trade-off.

Partridge is a smidgen less abhorrent here than in previous incarnations, but just a smidgen.

This compelling piece of historical detective work is, in fact, less about what people have done to the islands than about what living on the islands has done to people.

Hers is a sad story, but the fact that she never received recognition during her lifetime isn't part of its sadness.

The Railway Man wants to be two or three different movies wrapped up in one and ends up being a fairly mediocre version of each.

The subtle menace of the would-be geneticist of the Master Race mingles with ordinary pre-teen foreboding to create a riveting cocktail of unease.

A thoroughly mundane experience.

The star's innate vulnerability (and his ease with Dom's colorful but expansive vocabulary) makes the character more sympathetic than he has any right to be. And that, in turn, makes Shepard's film more entertaining than the Guy Ritchie ripoff it initially resembles.

When the fly trapped in the spider's web is as clueless and selfish as the sap played by Mark Webber in 13 Sins, it's hard to muster much sympathy.

The Missing Picture feels akin to last year's great documentary, "The Act of Killing."

The scenes between Gainsbourg and Skarsgard are fewer and less engaging than in the first volume, and the dichotomy between them is simpler and more obvious. And that doesn't even include an ending that is as impulsive and deranged as anything Joe comes up with during all of her taboo-breaking adventures.

There's nothing earth-shaking here, but a chance to see one of cinema's great movie stars in a tailor-made role that pleasantly subverts her icy image is always welcome.

Highly entertaining chronicle of a dream unfilmed.

Joe works better as a study of character and environment than as the thriller it tries to become in its final act.

As a hypothetical, all-access documentary about the kookiest day in draft history, it's oddly satisfying, maybe because watching the actual, bloated spectacle (scheduled this year for May 8) is so often underwhelming.

Goodbye World will remind you more of "Gilligan's Island" than "Lost."

Just as austere and demanding as you'd expect a black-and-white film about a Polish nun to be. Don't let that scare you, though.

In spite of its familiar outlines, director Rob Meyer's first feature benefits from an authentic script and performances.

A crowd-pleasing import that would leave only the most steadfast curmudgeon unmoved.

In a movie that strives to offend with every spat profanity and cruel insult, the most shocking thing about Bad Words is that it expects us to care about its main character at all.

Blood Ties not only convincingly recreates its era, it seems like it could have been made then.

Once the story proper begins, it too feels slightly out of time.

The Grand Budapest Hotel shows Anderson engaging with the world outside his meticulously composed frames like never before.

Sobol, directing his second feature, should have been able to prod this story to life, especially considering the cast he was provided. But everything proceeds in such an orderly fashion, right through the ostensibly 'twist' ending, that maintaining interest is a serious challenge.

If the behavior of the characters had been more recognizably human in its venality, and the film's perspective more ruthless, this custom-made compound might have worked.