Mike Scott

For 91 minutes of its briskly paced 94-minute running time, the film works as a tightly wound bit of pins-and-needles storytelling. Then, Anderson lets it all unravel in a three-minute stretch of cheap writing that not only betrays the characters he worked so hard to develop, but that also thumbs its nose at any audience members with a brain.

Rather than "Greased Lightning," we get a holding pattern -- which is better than a crash-landing, but still ...

Unfortunately, director Jake Szymanski's bad-boy farce from there quickly becomes a textbook example of the law of diminishing returns.

They're fascinating characters, to be sure, with back stories ripe for development. But Whedon doesn't commit here, and the results are shrug-worthy.

There are plenty of entertaining moments to latch onto beneath the sci-fi tropes -- and maybe even a few that will inspire a new generation of storytellers.

There's no point mincing words: My Sister's Keeper is a difficult film to watch. That's not to say it isn't well-assembled, well-cast or well-acted.

Anonymous starts admirably quickly, but Emmerich repeatedly forgets to look over his shoulder to see if his audience is keeping track of which stringy-haired Calvin Klein model is which.

Despite the derivative nature and low production values of Super, there are laughs in the at-times ragged script.

If nothing else, True Story is the kind of movie that will spark spirited discussion among moviegoers prone to digging and searching for the truth -- whatever that might be.

The hard, cold truth is that the hard, cold For Colored Girls is just plain difficult to fall in love with, regardless of the amount of passion Perry poured into it or how much meaning he's freighted it with.

Hit and Run achieves its chief goal: to put the pedal to the metal for some good, goofy fun, squealing the tires as often as possible along the way.

I've got a fourth verb to add to the comma-challenged title of Julia Roberts' how-to-be-happy travelogue, Eat Pray Love. How about "edit"?

Fuqua's storytelling here isn't as expert and efficient as McCall is when he's forced into action, but it's good enough. Bottom line: He and The Equalizer 2 still deliver on their promise of a badass Denzel doing badass things for all the right reasons.

What we end up with is a film that contains many fine moments -- the young Bolden's discovery of rhythm, an imagined discussion on musical improvisation between Bolden and clarinetist George Baquet, a look at racial politics of the day -- but those moments don't quite coalesce into a consistently satisfying whole.

Even though it's a strictly no-frills, straight-forwardly shot affair, it feels overdue.

A predictable but painless pastiche of high school drama clichés that will give its intended tween audience a lot to squeal about -- and leave their parents reminiscing quietly about how good films from '80s icon John Hughes were.

As a collective thing, though, those moments add up to a messy, all-over-the-map movie that toys with big, existential thoughts, but it doesn't have a coherent enough story with which to drive them home.

While Nourizadeh's just-for-fun head trip is no more ambitious than its long-haired pothead of a main character, it delivers on its sole goal: to entertain and to surprise.

A humor-laced, richly produced adventure benefiting greatly from the charisma and rapport of its lead actors, it's built in the mold of the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, which was also based on a theme park attraction.

It is a reasonably clever, fairly high-concept 'toon that boasts a satisfying emotional component.

No, it's not a perfect movie, given how dangerously close it comes to running out of quality third-act punchlines before you're liable to have run out of Sno-caps and Raisinettes. Also, some of the biggest names in the supporting cast -- John Lithgow and Dan Aykroyd, specifically -- are all but wasted.

The Lottery Ticket doesn't hit the comedy jackpot, but it doesn't roll snake eyes, either. In my book, that's a winner.

Without the fantastic performances from Gandolfini, Stewart and Leo, it wouldn't hold together nearly as well as it does.

A sleight-of-hand heist film that feels like a cross between David Blaine and "Ocean's Eleven," with a little Robin Hood thrown in, it's a ripping bit of fun. If, that is, you let it be.

A surprisingly entertaining movie on its own, a strap-yourself-in, suspend-your-disbelief summer popcorn adventure.

A film that is neither great nor horrible. Favreau does enough things right in Cowboys & Aliens to churn out a mostly enjoyable bit of mindless summertime action, just not enough to come close to rivaling his 2008 crowd-pleaser "Iron Man."

It's neither a good movie nor a bad movie. It's just a movie.

It's more than a little ironic, then, that the one thing missing from director Craig Robinson's often-amusing, frequently episodic film is just that: a resonant emotional core.

It won't stick to your ribs in the way, say, a shank will -- but it probably won't leave you looking for a way to escape the theater, either.

It keeps things light and entertaining. And for $8 admission, that's never a bad investment.

It feels very much like part of a big-screen franchise. Couple it with such films as "Donnie Darko" and "Nightcrawler," and you've got a series that collectively could be titled "Inside Jake Gyllenhaal's Head."

For all of its faults, ends up being relentlessly watchable as well, a summertime popcorn spectacle plopped down in the middle of the fall movie season.

Yes, it is derivative, but in a year in which films from the 1980s are getting needless remakes seemingly every other week, this one stands out as a rare one that works. That's a good "Thing."

In the half-baked American Reunion, though, they might have accomplished what no previous chapter has: They might have just killed it.

Gray Man is colorful, lively and admirably self-aware of its place in today’s cinemaverse.

Not only did Hughes shoot a handful of prominent scene-setting exteriors in the Big Apple itself, but he does an exceptional job of camouflaging his New Orleans scenes.

Not only does the largely disposable Terminator Salvation fail to advance the franchise's overarching rise-of-the-machines storyline (a better title: "Terminator Stagnation") but, worse, it never manages to distinguish itself from any other reasonably budgeted action film.

Thoroughly, and disappointingly, pedestrian.

A documentary that is equal parts sweet science, brutal art and masterful filmmaking.

As an unapologetic genre exercise, it's also fairly harmless, painless stuff. Thanks largely to the work of its cast, which does more with Tracy Oliver and director Tina Gordon's decidedly uneven, underdeveloped script than anybody has a right to hope for, Little ends up being mostly enjoyable in its own lightweight, empty-calorie and entirely unexpected way.

Audiences won’t likely find it Pixar-profound, but it’s not direct-to-DVD forgettable, either — or “My-Little-Pony”-cloying. Plus, it’s got horses. And, if you’re younger than 13, that counts for something.

Its smattering of enjoyable moments aside, this is one of those horror films that will beg to be remade -- just smarter -- once this initial outing fades into the memories of moviegoers.

Like the character at its center, Wein's film suffers from a certain sense of inertia, which is where Gerwig comes in.

There's little refreshing or charming about it.

The actors never stray too far from their comfort zones, resulting in a sporadically funny but mostly bland crime comedy that only occasionally feels fresher or more memorable than that cold pizza you scarfed for breakfast Monday morning.

Like the original, it is a moody, atmospheric film, one boasting significantly more depth than your typical blow-'em-up.

There are things about it that will catch the eye, that will pique your interest. Just don't make the mistake of expecting a big payoff.

You won't feel like a hostage watching it. But don't be surprised if you feel a little as if you're doing homework.

Most normal people will not see this as a "pleasant" film -- I hope that's the case, anyway -- but it certain makes you feel something.

Director Daniel Barnz's soft-play indie drama is a compassionate but emotionally raw film, one that traffics in such thoughtful ideas as personal redemption and emotional resurrection.

Does his film fishtail around narratively? Does it feel overly episodic? Does it lack any sort of stick-to-the-ribs substance? In order: Yes, probably and for sure. But it is also a fun and enjoyable summertime diversion, and sometimes that’s all the message a movie needs.

While Nattiv’s film is a heartfelt tribute, it feels like a mere Polaroid snapshot of a woman who deserves a full panoramic portrait.

Ritchie is simply trying to buy a good movie here -- and forgetting that a little brainpower is also required to complete the job.

It's a film that benefits greatly from Clarkson's well-seasoned chops, given that the first act of October Gale -- while illuminating with regard to her character -- boasts precious little dialog.

It's a fun one to talk about -- if only for the opportunity to shake your head in amused disbelief at what you just saw.

At some point, Lee as a storyteller must step in to move things along, to dig the rudder deep into the narrative waters and steer this ship. The destination is almost irrelevant - just steer it somewhere.

There's really nothing definitive about Emperor. Or memorable, for that matter.

It's done with affection, so it's hard to begrudge Hill for indulging in a postcard cliché or two. After all, it - like Hill's movie as a whole - certainly beats a bullet to the head.

A movie that wants to be a crowd-pleasing romantic comedy at times and a weighty drama at others. It ends up being an imperfect blend of both.

It's an oddly inert film that suffers from its lack of focus on the stories that stand as Tolkien's chief literary contributions.

If it weren't for the casting of Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds in the lead roles, the film probably would have gone straight to DVD.

And while Simien’s “Haunted Mansion” might not entirely bury the memory of its predecessor, it sure throws a few shovels full of dirt on its grave.

You can color me unimpressed.

The fact that there are so many good comic bits here allowed Kasdan to assemble a great comic cast.

As clearly calculated and self-consciously cutesy as it is, it's also tender and meaningful stuff -- and far more watchable than other recent attempts to capture the existential angst of adolescence. ("The Art of Getting By.")

The result is a well-executed but stubbornly formulaic crime thriller that telegraphs most of its major surprises long before they ever happen. It's not a bad movie, mind you. It's just one that will strike viewers as exceedingly familiar, and as generic as that say-nothing title.

Half-written, halfhearted and half-witted, it is characterized by the film’s marketing team as an homage to the best of 1980s cinema. Instead, it plays like an empty-calorie parody of the worst of the era, a rudderless cinematic pastiche that passes off random 1980s references as punchlines and which — in spite of its “Frankenstein” concept — never quite comes alive.

At worst, though, the film's faintly sleazy bait-and-switch tactic robs the film of its biggest asset -- its sense of fun.

It is powerful, it is affecting and it -- that is, Hiddleston's eerily accurate performance, from start to finish -- is easily the best thing about director Marc Abraham's Shreveport-shot biopic of the country music legend.

The chief problem with such gimmick films -- including Maniac -- is that storytelling so often takes a back seat to the gimmick du jour, resulting movie that can be interesting from a technical perspective but not nearly as compelling as one would want.

It features predictable humor and an underdeveloped story.

Unfortunately, like the Poison song says -- and, in many ways, like the decade itself -- it ain't nothin' but a good time.

This is a movie that confuses teary with sweet. Mopey with sad. Discomfort with humor. And, worst of all, it confuses weird with odd.

An uneven story that tries too hard to be meaningful and not hard enough to be funny.

Even when he isn't at the top of his game -- and in Wonder Wheel, he certainly isn't -- Allen's films still tend to have something intriguing to offer.

Here's a movie that is far from perfect, far from seamless and far from unassailable. But it manages to be a fun diversion anyway -- and one that will likely leave audiences hungry for more.

That's not to say it's a bad film, necessarily. It's just not as good as it could have -- and should have -- been.

All along, though, I was struck by an even stronger feeling, that I was sitting in on somebody else's therapy session. That's not a comfortable feeling -- and that makes Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close considerably less rewarding than it should be.

As fun as it is at times -- particularly early on -- the longer The Sorcerer's Apprentice goes on, the more the magic wears off.

Unfortunately, there’s just too much missing from the film to make it feel like a complete, coherent vision.

How do you know when a romantic comedy just isn't working? Key indicators are that your audience doesn't get goose bumps in the inevitable third-act reunion. They don't get misty-eyed. In short, they don't really care.

Aja's film ends up being an fairly satisfying Halloween diversion, using those magical horns to overcome its flaws and transform itself into a decidedly dark, but weirdly sweet, ride.

This is a tragedy, not a comedy.

As it turns out, though, the most troubling part of the film for me wasn't the rape scene, or the siege scene or the Southern stereotypes. Rather, it was the audience's reaction to Marsden's chilling spasms of bloody violence as he defends his home. Rather than breaking out in hives, many in the audience broke out in laughter.

There's a chance Black or White just might offend some, but it's more likely to get them thinking and talking. In this day and age, and given recent headlines, it's hard to ask much more from a movie.

Boudousque is young yet, and so he has room to grow as an actor, but he's got nothing but upside to him at this point. It'll be fun to watch his career grow from here.

Ends up being a pleasantly surprising blast from the past, a delightful and amusing touchstone to Allen's comedic prime.

It's a nice, feel-good story with an appealing cast and strong production values.

Lee keeps things afloat with an appealing air of levity, including a fun but restrained use of split-screen, an homage to the 1970 doc, as well as cameos by that movie's Port-O-San guy and its peace-sign-flashing nuns.

Bill Condon returns fans' love and gives them exactly what they have shown they want. That is: uneven storytelling, maudlin dialog and decidedly one-note performances, even from the big names in the cast.

Best of all, here there be fun.

This is the kind of film that feels like a dream - but not in the good way. Rather, it resembles a dream in that it is made up of disjointed, loosely connected bits of surrealist craziness - ideas that might have seemed interesting in the twilight hours but that don't come close to standing up to the light of day.

But artistically interesting only takes a film so far. What it needs are laughs- - or at least a compelling narrative. It's got neither -- with the result being a film that arrives as dead as a certain parrot from a certain skit. One of the funny ones.

There's a germ of a good story there, and Intruders isn't without the occasional tense moment. But unfortunately Hollowface is as undeveloped as the other characters in Intruders, which is the film's biggest flaw of all.

To put it in Austen terms: They will not have the pleasure of understanding what Steers is trying to do here.

Sure, it's an interesting scene as he (Stone) chews the fat with Raul Castro, and coca leaves with Bolivia's Evo Morales. But his South of the Border can't be taken seriously, muchacho -- and if you think it can, well, I've got a primo cigar factory in Havana to sell you.

There's meaning, great meaning, in Susser's wonderfully oddball little film.

I love a good, brainless action flick as much as the next alpha male, but this time I had a whole lot of trouble laughing along.

If nothing else, Cherry proves Holland has a lot more to give us when his web-slinging days are over.

Is all of that to say that Oz the Great and Powerful comes even close to matching the timeless, iconic stature of 1939's "The Wizard of Oz"? No, of course not. That's not just a once-in-a-lifetime cultural phenomenon, but a once-in-many-liftimes one.

This is a movie that -- in addition to being exceedingly well-cast and surprisingly well-shot -- is gleefully inappropriate and indulgently crass at every turn.

The bottom line is that, while Kidnap isn't without its hiccups, it's another fun bit of Berry badassery -- and certainly better than the film's rocky history to this point might suggest.

Where's a wooden stake when you need one?

As a modest bit of feel-good entertainment, Vaughn and Delivery Man mostly deliver the goods.

A cast of American actors -- including Matthew Modine, Whoopi Goldberg and Wallace Shawn -- were hired to provide recognizable voices for the English version of the film. They fulfill that requirement, too: Their voices are, indeed, recognizable -- though little more.

This is a movie that, to its detriment, takes itself very, very seriously for most of its running time.

Built on an interesting idea -- but which, unlike Strug, can't quite stick the landing.

He was a charismatic leader and the greatest salesman the industry ever saw. He also was a very vocal spokesman for the graying counterculture -- crediting his high-tech success to Zen Buddhism, Dylan songs and acid trips.

A message movie that struggles mightily to make an impact but never comes close to capturing the gritty realism on which any blues singer builds his career.

For all of the faults one can find with Kiet’s film, she’s also exactly the kind of hero many American women probably need right now.

By the time All I See Is You works its way toward what should be an emotionally charged conclusion, most reasonable audiences will have likely already checked out. All they'll see is their wristwatches, as they count down to when the whole misjudged exercise is over.

While the improvised interplay of the talented cast -- especially between Hart and Haddish -- help keep things moving along, watching Night School ends up largely being an exercise in waiting for something genuinely inspired to happen. It never does.

There's a lot of eye candy in what ends up being a slick, breathless and at-times enjoyable sci-fi update. Unfortunately, it's what Wiseman forgets to do that makes the biggest difference in his film -- and which keeps it from becoming much more than a glossy missed opportunity.

There's no sense of pacing here, as would be the case in a single feature-length narrative in which a wise filmmaker would vary the intensity level. Instead, what we get is a ceaseless visual and emotional assault. That makes for an exhausting movie-going experience. This is by no means a feel-good film. This is a feel-bad film -- and at times a feel-icky film.

Anthony Hopkins still does elegant menace better than anyone.

The ending of Dear John feels manufactured and patently false. Seyfried tries to sell it, but you can tell that she's having a hard time believing the words coming out of her mouth.

Trades breathless romance for a fun "Ripley's Believe it or Not"-flavored weirdness.

But even if moviegoers' eyes will roll from time to time, Aftermath is so nicely acted, and so handsomely shot, that those eyes won't likely look away.

A movie that wears its heart on its sleeve.

This isn't the kind of film that will leave audiences in awe of clever writing. Rather, it will leave them thinking how much Fuqua wanted to make a movie version of "The Wire."

Rather than a moving story of sisterly love, we get little more than a grandly appointed disappointment.

Once the real story hits its stride, it's easy to get lost in Sanctum.

Howard's film, particularly early on, ends up being too fast, too dense and too smart for its own good. Keeping moviegoers guessing is one thing. Keeping them confused is quite another.

Still, built as it is around big, dazzling action sequences and a terrific cast — which in addition to the charismatic Mackie includes Harrison Ford and Tim Blake Nelson — “Brave New World” still manages to scratch the “Avengers” itch.

An imperfectly executed but still perfectly enjoyable film.

It's an uneven but fairly enjoyable ride, one that benefits from Statham's cool, capable presence.

While it shows fleeting moments of promise, there's precious little great about The Great Wall. Instead, it should be called "The Ridiculous Wall."

Breezy but forgettable.

As his character’s cognitive abilities decline, Neeson’s repeated on-a-dime transition from killing machine to stuttering, doddering pawpaw — and then back again — feels eye-rollingly, almost offensively contrived.

If you currently own a G.I. Joe toy or if you've dressed like a ninja at least twice since Halloween, you're going to find a lot to "hooah" about in "G.I. Joe: Retaliation."

It's no "Das Boot," but Battleship is a boatload of popcorny fun.

Still, while it wouldn't be correct to characterize Home Again as a formula film, it's generic enough that it somehow feels formulaic. Consequently, "Home Again" never distinguishes itself as anything but a predictable and thoroughly ordinary film, just with lots of fancy window dressing.

Without a doubt, stupid, but it's willfully stupid, built in the comic style of "The Hangover" and "Due Date." Better yet, it also is genuinely funny, which is the point.

Stand Up Guys becomes something not only enjoyable but memorable and emotionally layered at the same time.

Here's a film that tries to strike a "Beverly Hills Cop" balance between crime drama and screwball comedy -- but that balance, it should be noted, isn't an easy one to strike.

While Crisis can fairly be criticized as emotionally cold, with its heavy and humorless story generating more sympathy for its characters than empathy, there’s no denying its timeliness, offering a compelling look at what will certainly be remembered as one of the most underplayed tragedies of our time.

A solidly intense creepout. Granted, it doesn't do anything to rewrite the horror rulebook in any significant way. This won't be remembered as a horror classic by any stretch. "The Exorcist" it is not.

While it's not really about football, it's not about sterling filmmaking, either.

Tyldum's "Twlight Zone"-tinged action-romance is a mass-appeal crowd-pleaser, the kind of made-for-the-holidays movie that holds a little something for everyone. Even better, being neither a sequel nor a remake, it's got something few sci-fi films do nowadays: originality.

A slick and sweet film all on its own, a harmless bit of fun that fills the Easter-movie void.

Some summer movies are big, woofing mastiffs. (Think "Battleship.") Others are naughty, nipping lapdogs. ("The Dictator.") Here, what we get is a calm, quiet basset hound. And, for the most part, it's a good dog.

There’s more than enough deranged originality there — and Christmas spirit, when all is said and done — that it gets the job done, in a cheap thrills, guilty pleasure kind of way.

Amid it all, Snead does a nice job of laying out the history of video games. If nothing else, there's a lot of information here. But there's also a lot of information on the Wikipedia entry for "video games." All in all, I'd rather be playing "Madden 15."

Few people will be surprised by how it all unfolds or by how it all ends. This is a movie about lightweight entertainment and heavyweight fighters, not a movie about surprises.

When it comes down to it, there's one overriding factor that lessens the impact of the film's numerous stumbles, and that's this: It's just plain entertaining to see all these warped characters, and all these well-cast actors, bouncing off of one another, interacting with one another, and creating a barely controlled chaos.

The surrealist and decidedly bizarre humor of Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim is, to put it mildly, an acquired taste -- and there's no guarantee you'll ever actually acquire it.

The end result is still not a very good film, but it is one that boasts some enjoyable moments -- but only if you find yourself with two hours to kill.

What Leonie is missing, however -- in its script, in its performances, really in everything about it -- is any hint of sparkle, any sort of compelling hook on which to hang its hat.

If nothing else, the dramatic comedy The Last Word provides one thing: It gives Shirley MacLaine a great role in which to sink her teeth. That turns out to be a gift not only to the Hollywood veteran but to audiences as well.

Maybe it would work better if the script -- which is credited to four screenwriters; never a great sign -- was actually funny.

This much is sure: Salinger would have hated this movie. But he would have hated it for the very reason that others will like it: because it takes an honest-to-goodness crack at unlocking that mystery of a man and at answering key questions the publishing world and the reading public have been asking ever since he forsook them. Nothing phony about that.

Early on in The Slammin' Salmon, a customer sends back a plate of undercooked fish. I can't imagine a better metaphor for a movie that is named after a fish and that is as half-baked as this one is.

"The Lost Village" is pure Saturday-morning stuff. And that's both a good thing and a bad thing.

The violence in Homefront is violence purely for entertainment's sake.

As ridiculous as it is, Man on a Ledge isn't a movie that requires suspension of disbelief. It requires the absolute absence of it.

The school freak, played by Mary-Kate Olsen, misses a chance to really have some fun as this story's wicked witch.

So does the film succeed, overall? On some levels. But if all you want is a guilt-free, sci-fi summer pleasure, save your money and wait another week. The crew of the Enterprise is on its way.

So what we have is a movie that will make at least two important groups happy. New Orleans boosters can cheer Green Lantern for its local roots and for the possibility that the inevitable future installments could return to town. And the purists can cheer, knowing that Campbell and crew have done Green Lantern justice.

You want a change-up? Here's a change-up: How about if Hollywood stops spoon-feeding us this uninspired pablum and comes up with a fresh idea or two?

The stakes in this latest, disappointing Harry Potter wannabe never feel as high as they should, or as important as its characters seem to think they are.

Feels like a movie that belongs in June or July, with all the other comic book fare. But I'll gladly take it now, no matter what the calendar says.

If not for the "Fast and Furious" franchise, Need for Speed probably wouldn't exist outside of the video game series that inspired it.

Director Klay Hall's embraceable, overachieving romp plays nicely as a big-screen feature.

As with its gooey, smoochy predecessors, The Lucky One is, beneath it all, a fairy-tale romance, just one with modern trappings.

New Orleans makes for a distinctive backdrop, but that's really all just window dressing, and it goes only so far in covering the fact that The Runner -- from its moody, electric-guitar-driven score to its faintly 1990s, Grisham-flavored sensibilities -- runs out of narrative inspiration before it crosses the finish line.

I'm not sure how much of The Dirt is good, old-fashioned hyperbole. Good lord, I hope a lot of it is, although I'm sure the band -- the members of which wrote the book on which the film is based in addition to serving as co-producers -- would swear everything in it is true.

The real reason Zemeckis’ Pinocchio works so well is because it doesn’t forget the emotion and humor.

It has a sweet quality, and Forest Whitaker gets a chance to show off his comic chops.

Yes, it's flashy. But it's not flashy enough. It's got its moments of humor, but it's not funny enough. And it flirts with cleverness, but -- you guessed it -- it's nowhere close to being clever enough.

In the end, Carpenter offers a reasonably nice payoff to this whole misfire.

Unfortunately, Think Like a Man Too never takes the time to elevate any of those characters to beyond mere cardboard cutouts.

It's also deeply flawed, an emotionally exhausting film with a payoff that is limited at best, and a bit self-indulgent to boot. So while Haggis has proven himself a first-rate filmmaker and storyteller, by his standards, Third Person is little more than a second-rate effort.

The world is a whole lot more complex than Shadyac seems to realize. If all we need is love, wouldn't we all still be wearing tie-dyed shirts and headbands?

It tickles both funnybones and eyeballs.

Once the opening credits end, it turns out The Nut Job"= is far more "Romper Room" than "Step Brothers."

What they're missing here is a story good enough to warrant visiting the same uncomfortably dark place and characters worth caring about. Instead, what we get is a film that boasts tons of atmosphere and flashes of Refn's visual style -- as well as an admirably unhinged performance from Kristen Scott Thomas -- but little else.

Right off the bat, things start falling apart for Wiesen's film. While Highmore is more than capable of playing smart and tender, he has yet to figure out how to believably portray so much as a shred of the danger or rebelliousness required for this role.

Gritty to the point of sleazy, the noir-tinged Bayou Caviar shows flashes of visual flair, and Gooding -- who wrote the screenplay in addition to directing and starring -- demonstrates he’s still got the sort of screen presence and million-dollar smile that made him a star some 27 years ago. Beyond that, however, Bayou Caviar is a thoroughly nasty and messily plotted affair, a straight-to-VOD crime drama that slips and slides around in its own ooze for at least 20 minutes too long.

To be fair, though, even if all three actors had brought their A game, the half-baked story behind When We First Met is so formulaic and so uninspired that it would still be a forgettable film.

There are entertaining moments along the way, and some likeable characters.

It is fluffy, yes, but it also is ugly and annoying and something you neither want nor need.

This unintentionally fractured ends up one big mess. It's a pretty mess, mind you -- which is fitting in a way, given the sordid affair that birthed it -- but a mess all the same.

Niccol and Meyer -- who co-produces this, her first post-"Twilight" film -- choose to trade away any shred of the ripe social subtext that has made other body-snatcher films so rich. In its place: the kind of supernatural, star-crossed romance that generates so much swooning from Team "Twilight."

Most of the time, however, Post Grad just coasts along, flat as a mortar board, and as forgettable as a ... oh, I forgot already.

The result is exactly what you would expect from a concept whose odometer has been running for so long: uneven laughs, sparked largely by spurts of shock comedy but marred by a general sense of familiarity.

Clearly, Brevig's past as a visual effects maestro had him focusing more on the look of Yogi Bear than on crafting anything resembling a clever narrative.

It's just plain less -- less than what sci-fi fans are probably hoping for, and less than what it could have been.

Even at its worst moments, it's better than "awful." But at its best, it's never comes close to "incredible."

For movie-goers who like a little cleverness with their comedy, however, one word: N-opa.

Is it funny enough to make for a wholly satisfying feature-length film? No, not really. Like so many films of Ferrell's, Get Hard feels rushed and uneven.

It's the kind of cinematic cotton candy that youngsters will gobble up. Even more importantly, it's relatively quick, painless stuff when compared to so many other pint-sized entertainments out there.

While infants and imbeciles might get caught up in whirlwind action, most viewers should brace themselves for a less-than-wondrous return to Wonderland.

That's perhaps the best word to describe Baggage Claim: contrived. And predictable, as it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out which tall, dark and handsome fellow she'll end up with.

Manages to overcome its flaws and become a charming love letter to love itself -- and a pitch-perfect V-Day date film to boot.

The core of The Mummy is built around a mostly fun, fast-moving vibe, while its malformed midsection seeks to undermine anything good it has accomplished.

Built on spasms of explosive summertime action interspersed throughout a vacant shell of an origins story, animator-turned-director Jimmy Hayward's first stab at directing a live-action film ends up feeling like one great, big missed opportunity.

Lacks any real sense of vitality. And no matter how worthwhile a film's message is, it's difficult for audiences to care if the path to the payoff so often feels like a slog.

The really annoying thing about Jack Black's Gulliver's Travels is not so much that it's a bad movie -- it is bad, but only run-of-the-mill bad, not epic-misfire bad -- but that the movie sullies a piece of literature that has endured for nearly 300 years for the sake of a cheap kiddie flick that'll be forgotten in a month.

Unfortunately, the longer this Annie goes on, the more steam it loses.

This would be a difficult film even for the charismatic Papa Smith to carry. That he spends nearly the entire movie in a chair doesn't help matters.

Fortunately, there's enough charisma in those doe eyes -- to narrowly rescue the featherweight Leap Year from becoming a full-blown case of Erin-go-blah.

With a scattered, meandering script, a stable of throwaway characters and an almost laughably drawn-out ending, it's all amounts to standard movie-of-the-week fare dressed up in Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes.

For better and for worse, it's neither better nor worse than the original "Ride Along." That's because it's essentially the same movie.

Unlike it's "Transformers" cousin, the story is appealingly straightforward, and the movie is chock-a-block with breathless action sequences.

Boyle, Sorkin and company might not have invented the iPhone or changed the way people viewed technology, but it does something the real Steve Jobs had trouble doing: It offers a genuine peek at the man behind the turtleneck, and in the process finds a way to connect with its viewers.

That's not to say The Last Laugh is a flat-out terrible movie, necessarily. It's just a tame, unimaginative one -- a low-budget cinematic shrug that has nothing new to offer.

A textbook example of ye olde two-joke movie.

Nobody has an excuse for being surprised by how low Sandler and company stoop in That's My Boy.

An unapologetic B-movie, Dylan Dog: Dead of Night tries mightily to cover its flaws with a peppering of humor -- much of it supplied courtesy of Dylan's zombie sidekick, played by Sam Huntington -- and an at-times fun "Buffy the Vampire Hunter" vibe.

The resulting film, despite its occasional outbursts of action and tension, is less an action film than a psychological thriller, although even there it fumbles the ball.

The characters aren't fully formed enough to care about, the humor is baseball-bat dull, and the story - such as it is - is never treated as anything more than a half-hearted means to get the audiences from one spectacular snuffing to the next.

And so the real question isn't whether director Todd Phillips' third -- and, he insists, the final -- installment in the unabashedly crude, very R-rated comedy trilogy is funny. Of course, it is.

Functioning as more parable than sermon, it offers at least a hint of a blueprint for other faith filmmakers who want their message to reach beyond the front pew.

Clever story? Pass. Originality? Nah. A smidgen of real humor to keep parents entertained along with the kiddies? Smurf you.

This is supposed to be a movie about obsession. Instead it's just cupcake meets beefcake, with a big glass of milk on the side. And that's one Valentine's Day dinner you can easily pass up.

What we end up with is a meandering mishmash of tasteless jokes and a tendency for extended non sequitur riffs.

The Best of Me is full-on Nicholas Sparks, through and through, checking all the boxes in the by-now well-established formula. It's just not the best of Nicholas Sparks.

Little more than a glorified situation comedy. The problem is, it's all situation and no comedy.

Najafi's R-rated London Has Fallen doesn't target the genteel viewer. Rather, it aims squarely for moviegoers who like their action bloody, their fights brutal, their body count sky-high.

It feels like a desperate attempt at edginess -- and desperation is never becoming, whether in real-life romance or in a romantic comedy.

Pixels is a slice of pure, frivolous entertainment that doesn't try to overreach.

Although they've left the city behind, the girls haven't forgotten the sex. They're still as frank as ever, as outrageous as ever, as liberated as ever.

Grant and Parker's talents are wasted on a boring, made-for-TV story punctuated by a contrived, throwaway third act.

This is even worse than a repetitive rehash. These "Fockers" are just lazy, limp -- and lame.

The impressive young cast -- is mostly wasted. Teller and company, despite their proven talents, are given little of depth to do and forced to spout dialog that ranges from clunky to ridiculous.

This is an alternate-history rock 'n' roll saga. It is not Elvis, but Elvis-ish.

It so shamelessly borrows from so many other movies, and then does absolutely nothing to add to them -- nothing to raise the bar, nothing to make it more interesting, and really nothing to make it the least bit appealing.

Even when it's at its best, Walk of Shame is rarely more than merely amusing. On the other hand, when it's at its worst, it's nothing short of insulting, thanks to its willingness to engage in the kind of gross stereotyping that treads uncomfortably close to racist territory.

But Jack and Jill? Oh, Al.

Even if The Bounty Hunter is more plot-driven than your standard romantic comedy, it's never quite as funny as it should be.

I guess I can't call the movie sexist as it was largely produced, directed and written by women. So I'll settle for calling it dull, corny and amateurish instead.

Red Riding Hood needs a better agent.

Lazy and stupid and unwilling to put forth the effort needed to distinguish itself even from a mediocre Internet video, it all amounts to a forgettable, slapdash bit of comedic nothingness.

There are lulls to be had here, but there is a smattering of laughs, too -- and some pretty good ones, at that. If, that is, you'll give yourself permission to laugh at Wayans and company's lowest-common-denominator antics.

Sometimes it's stupid-funny, but mostly it's just plain stupid. And sloppy.

Rarely, however, are such stories as emotionally laden as that told in Lucy the Human Chimp, a documentary ostensibly about a science experiment but which quickly evolves into something both heartwarming and heartbreaking all at once.