Marc Mohan

Langella is solid as always, but his haunted, bitter character is pretty two-dimensional, and having to share all his scenes with Bentley doesn’t allow for much interplay.

With barely a hint of trippy visuals, it captures the highs and lows of one mind-expanding surfside day.

As storytelling, it's extremely effective.

The movie's fast pace, and the three gleeful central performances, keep I'm So Excited! mostly painless. But the rest of it has a whiff of the sort of desperation that can make an exclamation point in a title seem like a good idea.

The movie's a solid fish-out-of-water thriller that just happens to be populated by a few folks with adamantium skeletons or poison saliva on their résumés.

Bening and Dillon both play roles they could act in their sleep, though it's still moderately fun to watch them do so.

Co-directors Nat Faxon and Jim Rash, who won an Oscar for writing "The Descendants," are smart enough to mostly stay out the way and let this talented crew bring their script to life.

Idris Elba exudes the requisite militaristic authority as Raleigh's commanding officer, and Rinko Kikuchi is his determined partner in mecha mayhem.

Miller, who's still trying to find her way as an actress, isn't bad, and the Iranian-born Farahani is convincing, but their characters are blandly angelic, in stark contrast to the vast majority of men they encounter.

20 Feet From Stardom spends time as well with Claudia Lennear, Táta Vega and Lisa Fischer. None of the three ever found much success as a solo artist, but you probably can't listen to a classic-rock radio station for a half-hour without hearing one of them backing up Joe Cocker, David Bowie, Tina Turner or the Rolling Stones.

A Band Called Death is more effective as a chronicle of the intensely close relationship between three musically ambitious brothers than as proto-punk archaeology.

It's just a shame that the search for the missing formula ends up feeling so formulaic.

The ferociously misguided new rendition of The Lone Ranger has no legitimate reason to exist.

The central figure in The Attack is the very picture of a tolerant, integrated future for the Mideast. When a horrific blast kills 17 people and sends dozens of wounded to his hospital, he's elbow-deep trying to save the victims, even the one who refuses help from an Arab.

For most of its running time, How to Make Money Selling Drugs is a cheeky, moderately interesting look behind the curtain of the trade in contraband substances, from the corner dealer to the cartel-topping drug lord.

Disco scholars convincingly analyze lyrics and fashions as presenting bold expressions of sexuality and democratic hedonism, while Kastner doesn't skimp on the vintage clips, which range from unintentionally hilarious to surprisingly impressive.

It's probably not a good idea to examine the political content of a film in which the leader of the free world proves that the pen is mightier than the sword by stabbing someone in the neck with one.

It's a pleasant, engaging version of probably the closest thing to a sitcom the Bard ever penned.

The Bling Ring still feels more like a magazine article overstretched into a feature length film.

World War Z manages to be scary without descending to in-your-face gore -- it wants to frighten its audience, not disgust them.

The East never goes as deep undercover as it should.

Man of Steel has too many characters and too much plot, resulting in a movie that feels overstuffed and overlong.

With less intelligence behind it, this could have easily been one of those films that seem like they were more fun to make than to watch. Instead, it's a thoroughly good time at the movies, from humble beginning to cosmic, surprise-cameo-featuring end.

When a film like Stories We Tell comes along, you're reminded how powerful and universal even the most intimate and individual lives can be when captured with intelligence and perspective.

For most of its running time, it's a riveting rendition of a stranger-than-fiction tale.

The plot is simplicity itself, and Jaden's quirk-free character and bland performance don't add anything. It's actually a little sad that M. Night Shyamalan has descended to this sort of vanity-project work-for-hire, but at least he didn't insist on some absurd twist ending.

Although the filmmakers reportedly worked with David Copperfield and other renowned real-life illusionists and tried to minimize the use of CGI, you're still left wondering how much of the magic is merely the kind Hollywood spits out by the terabyte.

It's visually appealing, but embodies the movie's (and Frances') problem: wanting to be taken seriously without putting in the real work required to prove you're actually serious.

The documentary's soundtrack is composed entirely of Source Family music, and some of it's not half bad.

By combining formulaic screenwriting and downbeat art house clichés, the ending puts a significant damper on what had been a fascinating character study.

Aselton is clearly trying to broaden her reach as both actress and director beyond the rumpled indie comedy of "The Freebie," her directing debut, and the concept is there, but a movie like this needs a much more polished execution that Black Rock gets.

A watchable, even suspenseful portrait of a woman who spends most of the film smoking cigarettes, sitting at typewriters or sparring at dinner parties.

Not only compelling and complex, but educational.

Since the revelation of Wall Street's culpability for the 2008 economic crisis, though, the arc of Changez's transformation feels almost clichéd, despite Ahmed's earnest, effective performance.

When the camera glides down a pier to settle for the first time on Gatsby's face, it's a movie-star moment of the sort we don't often get anymore, and there aren't many actors who could pull off Gatsby's mixture of confident charisma and pathetic vulnerability.

There's something in this nostalgic, lovingly photographed film about the transition from the classical art of painting to the new art of the cinema, as embodied by one of the greatest practitioners of each. The independent-minded Andrée, who would go on to marry Jean Renoir and star in several of his early films, is presented as something more than a mere muse, if something less than a full-fledged character.

To top it all off, the movie ends with one of the best covers of "I Shall Be Released" you'll hear, courtesy of gospel singer Marion Williams.

It's solidly entertaining, with Downey's roguish charm as appealing as ever.

There's a certain bravery in Brandon's full embrace of the themes of Cronenberg père, who may be returning the favor with his next film, the Hollywood satire "Maps to the Stars."

Bay seems to have been gunning for something along the lines of "Blood Simple" or "A Simple Plan," but Pain & Gain is just plain simple.

Lyrical and gorgeous, it indulges in enough trademark Malickian touches to seem almost a parody of itself.

The spirits of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer are alive and well in the Southern-fried coming-of-age tale Mud. It's got all the ingredients.

Paradise: Love, the first in a thematic trilogy, is a sad story about the difficulty individuals face when trying to establish relationships across vast cultural and economic gulfs.

As far as the company Redford keeps, I liked it better when he hung out with Paul Newman and Sydney Pollack, but those days are long gone.

The credibility of these theories ranges from faintly plausible to frankly ridiculous, but Ascher isn't interested in judging them; his movie is more about the joys of deconstruction and the special kind of obsession that movies can inspire.

Upstream Color culminates in a wordless final act that is among the most transcendent passages of pure cinema in memory.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about this story is that it would have been lost to history had not American spelunker Chris Nicola happened across mundane relics -- buttons, shoes and the like -- while exploring the cave complex in the 1990s.

There's visual poetry here, in small doses, but it doesn't take long for one's patience to run out.

Spike Lee wanted for years to make a Jackie Robinson film, and I hope he still gets his chance. Another take, maybe angrier or more polemic, could be fascinating, and the heroism of Jackie Robinson was significant enough to justify more than a few movies.

It's neither grounded enough to be genuinely horrifying nor over the top enough to be nastily fun.

Wrong never feels dangerous or truly challenging, content generally to amuse rather than amaze.

The animation is pretty and clean, reminiscent of other Studio Ghibli films like "Whisper of the Heart," but never achieves wondrous artistry.

Cianfrance is the real deal, and anyone who can persuade talented Hollywood stars to enact nonironic, intelligent, ambitious drama should be encouraged, especially when the result is something like this.

Nguyen reportedly worked on War Witch for a decade, and it shows in both the immediacy and authenticity of his tale, and the meticulous craft with which it's told.

Not content to make his point through sharp-tongued comedy, Hogan ends up beating a dead horse -- or shark, as the case may be.

Lily Tomlin gives the movie a boost as Portia's radical feminist mother, who would hate this movie.

Even if Salles' film can't possibly capture the impact of its source, it's intriguing enough to rate a place in the ever-expanding mythology of "the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live."

It's a pleasure, so soon after seeing Franco's recent bewildered performance in "Oz the Great and Powerful," to watch him tackle this menacing yet beguiling character.

Like Someone in Love meanders with intention toward a bittersweet resolution, but then pulls the rug out from under you in a cruelly ambiguous shot.

[Guterson] has crafted a near-masterpiece of understated humor and empathy, demonstrating that, despite Hollywood's usual indifference, it's possible to make authentic, funny, engaging films about characters over the age of 50 who are neither grizzled hit men nor sassy grandmas.

Once Wentworth Miller's screenplay starts to provide answers for Charlie's mysterious menace, though, expectations are left unfulfilled.

Spoofing the pernicious effects of television, especially the so-called reality genre, doesn't require pinpoint aim, and at times Luciano seems as much a target of ridicule as the superficial, oversexed entertainment served up on the tube.

West of Memphis does nothing to displace its predecessor films as masterpieces of investigative filmmaking, but complements them as a riveting capstone to an epic and tragic tale.

Most of the time, though, it's a confusing mishmash featuring a fine actor too willfully operating outside his comfort zone.

Not to be mistaken for a serious treatment of religious fervor or clerical corruption, The Monk is instead a knowingly over-the-top bit of gothic nuttiness.

It's almost too bad, then, that MacArthur and Jones take a back seat to the far less interesting Gen. Bonner Fellers in the stolid drama Emperor.

As is, the slapstick humor and mild repartee won't please many with a mindset above that of a 10-year-old, while the level of (admittedly fantastical) violence might be a bit much for the pre-teen set.

For a film that consists largely of a series of talking-head interviews, The Gatekeepers is a riveting a documentary.

The film looks old-fashioned, too, with cinematography and special effects so reminiscent of old-school, live-action Disney flicks such as "Something Wicked This Way Comes" that you wonder if it was an aesthetic choice or a budgetary concession. Either way, it doesn't work.

Shortland, whose only previous feature was 2004's coming-of-age drama "Somersault," creates a visceral, immersive environment and draws a very impressive performance from newcomer Saskia Rosendahl.

The black-and-white cinematography and silent-film feel are haunting and nostalgic, and Aurora's story encapsulates a broader, bittersweet truth about the perils of tinted memory.

By the time the satisfying conclusion rolls around, though, it proves to be much more about the ability of a world-class director to induce such willing suspension of disbelief that even the loopiest narrative developments seem like the most natural thing in the world.

It's a forgettable series of bullet points barely strung together by charismatic performances.

It's often said that actors with distinctive vocal styles could compellingly read the phone book -- in this case, it would absolutely be a more entertaining hour-and-a-half.

While what's on screen is unsparing and clinically presented, the underlying, almost invisible humanity and artistry of the film inspire rather than depress.

Despite all this hokum, Quartet is amusing and heartwarming.

The style and subject matter recall the films of the Dardenne brothers, ("The Kid With a Bike") and while Sister never reaches the heights of their best work, it earns the comparison.

The visual design of Mama is effective, at least in small, quick doses. But those are about all the positives for this example of why a solid audition reel doesn't necessarily mean you're ready to churn out a feature.

Viewers looking for a propagandistic take will be disappointed, but even those who doubt the overall framework and existence of the so-called War on Terror should appreciate this thrilling tale of the hunt for the world's most wanted man.

Very few will remember it in a few months, which is probably just fine with the folks who made it.

The last time Jane Fonda acted in a French-language film, it was Jean-Luc Godard's radical 1972 effort "Tout Va Bien." It's fitting, then, that she fluently plays Jeanne, one of five aging leftists in this slight, but never frivolous, tale.

An extraordinarily gut-wrenching, intense story of survival against all odds.

The rhetorically stacked deck, and some unconvincing third-act plot twists, get in the way of this movie's efforts to reach the cinematic promised land of true greatness.

Django doesn't have the razor-sharp chronological complexity of "Pulp Fiction," but it's ably paced. A very funny scene involving a proto-Ku Klux Klan lynch mob and their poorly made hoods nevertheless seems a bit out of place, but there's plenty of well-timed suspense.

The cinematic technique of director Tom Hooper tries to replicate the appeal which has drawn millions to stage performances, but comes up more than a little short. This version of Les Misérables simply doesn't sing.

There are laughs to be found, as unfiltered improvisations on subjects such as Viagra, home electronics, pot cookies and the end of "Lost" come fast and furious.

Unfortunately, the movie isn't a real success, as director Roger Michell ("Notting Hill") is both too ambitious in the story he tries to tell and not ambitious enough in the way he tells it.

A decent-enough treat for fans of this particular Gallic genre.

If there's one thing missing, it's a sense of purposeful, immediate outrage. You can't help but wonder why this film wasn't made 20 years ago, when it could have saved these men some time behind bars.

There's fun to be had in the re-creation of indelible screen moments, including several with Scarlett Johansson as Janet Leigh and James D'Arcy as Anthony Perkins.

The movie's conceit grows a bit stale even with a short running time, and ultimately the whole thing feels more like an acting workshop than a full-fledged human story.

The line between fearlessness and idiocy can be a thin one, especially in this sport, and the doc never gets too far under Way's skin. But when he soars -- on a skateboard! -- above the massive structure that kept invading armies at bay for centuries, it's pretty darn cool.

It's a fine idea, but Dominik beats that drum without cease, making his passionately furious message come across anything but softly.

It proves the power of a good story, both to entertain us and to allow us to process unpleasant truths.

A funny, believable film about the ability of even the damaged and imperfect to earn a little happiness.

Whatever the interpretation, Stoppard and Wright have demonstrated that Anna's saga has lost none of its power.

Convincing performances from Hemingway and the charmingly crabby Johnson and an unhurried pace ensure that Baker's film achieves its modest goals.

Unfortunately, it just doesn't come together. The animation ranges from crude approximations of Terry Gilliam's cutout style to borderline puerility, and the entire enterprise strives far too desperately for the sort of irreverence that Chapman could conjure with a cock of his pipe-clenching head.