Marc Mohan

Chow's specialty is over-the-top slapstick action in the Hong Kong style, and the new film doesn't disappoint on either count.

From the evidence presented here, this film's three screenwriters have not only never taken a commercial flight, they've never met any actual human beings. The details of air travel and human behavior are equally foreign to the film.

If Like Father, Like Son had set up a genuine conflict here, this could have been a fascinating, even gut-wrenching, melodrama. Instead, writer-director Hirokazu Kore-eda stacks the deck by making Ryota such a highfalutin jerk and Yudai such an exemplar of cozy, loving family life.

Despite the fact that its pace turns somnolent at times, and some of its themes feel somewhat clichéd nearly a half-century on, this revival offers a fantastic entry-point opportunity to one of cinema's singular figures.

A volatile film. But it's not a specifically political one. With only superficial alteration, it could be set in Cold War Berlin, or colonial Boston, or any time and place where the dynamics of power conspire to create an atmosphere of paranoia and mistrust.

The only thing Stratton, a former television actor making his first feature, has going for him is the casting of Jessica Lange.

The result is both a captivating history lesson and a tense intellectual thriller that dares to ask big questions about creativity and technology.

Overall, The Pretty One suffers from excessive, unfocused quirk and a predictable sitcom resolution.

Aggressively loud, terminally mediocre.

The story of the rescue of these priceless artifacts is absolutely worthy of as much attention as Hollywood can provide. But by the final, self-congratulatory, groan-inducing scene, it's more than clear that this telling of it is a monumental mess.

The film's final scene, which manages to recontextualize everything we've seen so far with a brilliant simplicity that, if further proof were needed, establishes Farhadi as one of the best storytellers in cinema today.

Apart from its sociological interest, though, Nathan's film offers the pleasure of some really impressive stunt driving.

While it's nice to see Reitman try to branch out from the hip, acerbic humor of "Juno" and "Young Adult," his clumsiness with this more earnest material is an unpleasant surprise.

While it's an effective memoriam for the well-meaning Germans whose lives were ruined by Hitler's mad dream, the refusal of Generation War to focus on any other sort of German makes it both dramatically and historically suspect.

It's the sort of movie that would have starred Valerie Bertinelli or Kristy McNichol back in the 1980s, tricked out with PG-13 grittiness and religious wholesomeness. It's the sort of story that ignores unpleasant social implications in favor of programmed sentiment.

Fiennes and screenwriter Abi Morgan deserve credit for crafting something more nuanced than a mere scandal-airing demonization.

As the relationship between Theodore and Samantha evolves, it hews too closely to the expected arc of a romantic drama. In a desire to show how such a pairing could produce the same joys, sorrows, jealousies and insecurities as a human-to-human one, the movie edges close to parody, which it doesn't want to be.

The surprisingly thoughtful third act both introduces complexity to its portrayal of the Afghan people, and subtly reminds us that, despite Luttrell's astonishing constitution and self-surgery skills, as well as the ultimate sacrifices made by his comrades in arms, it was all for naught.

British-born director Justin Chadwick might not seem the most logical choice to bring Mandela’s life to the screen, but he handles the historical sweep and the intimate moments with equal steadiness.

The movie is beautifully shot, and some of the scenes have a real exuberance, but it's also a blatantly manipulative piece of smarm.

At a full three hours, the movie flirts with wearing out its welcome about two-thirds through, but recovers to end up an exhausting, operatic black comedy that leaves you wanting more.

There’s plenty of fun to be had, but in the long term, American Hustle may be remembered more for its superficial pleasures than the depth of its impact. Kind of like the 1970s.

As flawless as any film this year and rock-solid confirmation that Joel and Ethan Coen are the greatest filmmakers working in America (and perhaps anywhere else) today.

Sayles has always had a gift for female characters, and Go for Sisters features a couple of good ones.

Purists may still quail at the little bit of anthropomorphism going on, but it seems a small price to pay to broaden the audience for a family film that seeks to do more than just entertain.

Overall, though, the combination of Gondry’s whimsicality and Chomsky’s stoicism creates fascinating oil-and-water patterns that reveal more the longer they’re contemplated.

Some of the dwarves have nice individual moments, namely Balin (Ken Stott), Bofur (James Nesbitt), and Kili (Aidan Turner), and Gandalf gets to throw some potent magic around at Dol Guldur. But other than that (and the dragon itself), The Desolation of Smaug turns to be more of too much of a good thing.

Director Sini Anderson compiles interviews with Hanna and her husband, Beastie Boy Adam Horovitz, as well as archival footage, into an admiring portrait of a sometimes combative figure.

Bettie Page Reveals All earns its title from more than the uncensored images it includes.

It’s possible the movie’s actually too unflinching; there are moments where your nose is dangerously close to being rubbed in this pile of emotional trauma. Then again, when you come from the same country as the Dardennes brothers, you’ve got to pull out all the stops to compete in the misery department.

Like last year’s vaguely similar “Killing Them Softly,” “Furnace” reeks of '70s-inspired, downbeat, politically conscious genre filmmaking. And its cast is composed of hard-working, seemingly omnipresent actors who understand what Cooper’s after.

Flat and uninteresting, both visually and dramatically, this is a waste of two appealing actors.

Engaging characters, an unforced pro-girl agenda and amusing songs make this at least the equal to last year’s “Brave.”

Directed as if it were an after-school special, with listless performances and musical numbers (Mary J. Blige shows up as a platinum-wigged congregant), Black Nativity is as simple and condescending as Hughes' work was complex and demanding.

Even the tiny roles in this Rockwell-meets-Breughel panorama are perfectly, although almost cruelly, cast.

Effective, fact-based melodrama that packs an unexpected emotional wallop.

So, be warned: You may not learn anything from this mild, unremarkable film, but you might be tempted to order the deluxe, four-volume “The Complete Calvin and Hobbes” after watching it. I was, and I don’t regret it a bit.

There’s nothing approaching a unique take on the story.

The result calls to mind “Lord of the Flies” and “Children of Men,” even if the film’s second half is much less compelling than its first.

It wouldn’t be surprising to hear about moviegoers demanding their money back after seeing The Dallas Buyers Club, but not because the film isn’t good. It’s actually very nearly great.

As usual, the director is a wizard at camera movement and more than willing to plunge his audience into unpleasantness.

van Dormael’s vivid visual sense and genuine curiosity about the nature of love and life, time and death, make it well worth surrendering to his imagination for a while.

Eventually the movie wants to have things both ways: to approvingly entertain mainstream audiences with the glittering spectacle of space battles and to pay lip service to the notion of conscience.

The quality that made her an ideal fan club president makes her an endearing, if unenlightening, interviewee.

The pacing is perfect, and the action, mostly filmed in a studio, is never less than utterly believable. The director’s first feature, “Margin Call,” was full of rapid-fire dialogue, and he shows off considerable range by following it up with this film.

In retrospect, and with no disrespect meant, it may have been a mistake to entrust a story this polarizing to Bill Condon, the filmmaker who most recently made “Twilight: Breaking Dawn,” and “Dreamgirls.”

The Summit does an amazing job of putting you on the mountain, making it one of the most terrifying horror films a climber or an acrophobe could ever see.

The pressure cooker atmosphere builds for almost too long, but when the resolution finally occurs, the sense of relief is that much more palpable.

C.O.G. is probably of the most interest to Sedaris fans curious to see how the humorist’s unique tone translates to film (the answer is moderately well).

If your tolerance for envelope-pushing crudeness and deadpan delirium allows it, this crass comedy might be just what the gastroenterologist ordered.

It does assemble a compelling collage from the experiences of several real-life witnesses to the event and its aftermath.

Gravity isn’t as ambitious as “2001,” but then, what is? It is, however, absolutely a worthy successor, a masterpiece of hard science fiction, and the movie to beat at this point for next year’s cinematography and visual effects Oscars.

The result is a solid film, but one that remains more interesting than intense.

There seems to be less acting going on and more being, which not only makes this an enormously affecting penultimate performance (Gandolfini’s final film, “Animal Rescue,” will be released next year), but reinforces the brilliance of the darker work for which he will no doubt remain best known.

Even more impressive is young Tequan Richmond (TV’s “Everybody Hates Chris”) as the quiet, intense Malvo, a kid so desperate for a father figure in his life that he becomes putty in the hands of a killer.

The world may not get another Ip Man film for a while after the last few years, but this one and Wong’s masterpiece should be more than sufficient.

The movie looks great, with soft-focus shots of perfectly tailored outfits masking the ugliness within.

Blumberg tries to split the difference and ends up with a movie that wants us to make us laugh and cry, but fails to do either.

It's clear that Fidell meant to craft a nonjudgmental, non-exploitative exploration of this taboo situation. And she deserves credit for avoiding both tawdry melodrama and earnest moralizing. But by refusing to judge or exploit, she ultimately ends up without much of interest to say on the topic.

The Act of Killing is exemplary as a history lesson, a character study and a powerful argument for confronting the past.

Well-crafted as it is, though, The Artist and the Model suffers from the familiarity of its plot, and especially in comparison with "La belle noiseuse," which ran over twice as long as this film but contained ten times as much insight into human nature.

Parts of “Spark” can seem like an ad for Burning Man, but the film digs deep enough into the pressures and challenges facing its organizers and attendees to be a worthy exploration of a unique phenomenon, even for those who wouldn’t be caught dead wearing just glitter and a thong in 110 degree heat.

It’s disappointing that, with such talent and seriousness of intent, the movie ultimately doesn't have much new to say. To paraphrase “The Simpsons”’ Milhouse, it started out like "Bonnie and Clyde," but instead it ended in tragedy.

Closed Circuit ultimately feels like a cynical attempt to capitalize on security-state anxieties while examining them in only the shallowest ways.

Bell does a fantastic job of telling a thoroughly feminist story without being strident or didactic.

When the movie is funny, it’s very funny.

The Canyons comes across as a desperate gambit for relevance by a group of artists who want to reinvent themselves but don't know how. Fittingly, that's the theme of the film itself.

Social critique isn't the main concern of director James Ponsoldt ("Smashed"). What he does is take us inside an unexpected, but not unrealistic, high school relationship and provide a splendid stage for two young and very promising actors.

By trying to inflate one remarkable life story into the chronicle of a generation, Daniels fills what could have been an inspirational, personal saga with a lot of hot air.