Moira Macdonald

Moore lets us see, through her quietly shining performance, that Gloria believes in love, in the way an old song can make you feel a little younger, and in the power of dressing up and hitting a dance floor by yourself, moving as if in a trance, letting the music take you to a better place.

In other words: yes, it’s fun.

There’s a lovely sense, throughout the film, of how real life sometimes interrupts things, the way a child’s prattling disrupts the pretty wedding ceremony, or how even in the midst of grief breakfast must be made.

Greta is a disappointment from Jordan, who’s made far better movies (“The Crying Game,” “The End of the Affair” and, more recently, the elegant vampire film “Byzantium”), but Huppert seizes hold of the film and chills it, in a way that’s both shiver-inducing and bracing.

Take “Billy Elliot,” trade the refined world of ballet for the “soap opera in spandex” of professional wrestling, swap the preteen boy for a young woman, throw in The Rock — because every movie is better with The Rock, right? — and you’ve got Fighting With My Family, a shaggily likable underdog tale.

Isn’t It Romantic both spoofs rom-com conventions and embraces them; it’s a tricky balance, but it doesn’t fall off the wire.

If tense man-against-nature arm-wrestling is your jam (think Robert Redford in “All Is Lost,” but with snow and Mads Mikkelsen) this film makes for a compelling hour and a half; you know where it’s going, but you never quite believe it’ll actually get there.

It’s a bunch of plastic blocks that have an adventure, and it’s basically insane; not quite as pleasantly so as the first movie (the element of astonished surprise isn’t there), but hey, that’s a high bar. Everything is … oh, damn it, there I go again.

What we have here is mostly a straight-up, mildly raunchy rom-com, where everyone learns lessons and gets a happy ending. But Shankman gives it all an agreeable bounce, and Henson (better known for dramatic roles, in “Hidden Figures,” “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” and TV’s “Empire”) zestfully dives into the comedy.

Rodriguez does just enough to keep things mildly interesting.

Its primary tone is wistful; a slow, reluctant goodbye, not just to an act but to an era. By its end, all you want is to see that dance, just one more time.

Let’s just say that things aren’t always what they seem, and that there is not enough popcorn in the world to make this particular twist go down.

Cold War seduces its viewer, in its brief running time. You might find, in the quiet of its poignant ending, that it has left its mark on your heart.

The Aspern Papers, brief as it is, needed more of a lightness of touch; if you weigh down melodrama too much, it dies.

While the structure occasionally feels a bit awkward, On the Basis of Sex has the kind of crowd-pleasing story that skims over any minor shortcomings; by its end, you’re ready to cheer.

If Beale Street Could Talk is a film about injustice, about patience and anger, beauty and despair — but, ultimately, it’s about love.

The film’s light, sardonic approach is a tricky match with its subject matter: 9/11; power-crazed, empty-souled politicians; dark ambitions. It’s entertaining, sure, but a lot of us might not feel like laughing.

It isn’t “Working Girl” — Second Act is more earnest and less funny — but it’s a pleasant enough diversion, helped along immensely by Lopez’s warm screen presence and by a first-rate Sassy Best Friend performance by Leah Remini.

Most of all, you see Roberts, who takes hold of this movie like a lamppost in the winter darkness. That huge Julia Roberts smile turns up here, but it’s haunting.

Mary Poppins Returns, made with palpable love for its predecessor, is glorious and gorgeous, and I adored it.

You find yourself focusing on the details of Alexandra Byrne’s flowing costumes, or on the wince-inducing meticulousness of Robbie’s post-pox makeup, rather than caught up in the story. Except when Ronan’s face catches the light; there, Mary Queen of Scots finds its fire.

Just as it lulls you, it also devastates.

Alfonso Cuarón’s Roma is a wondrously pure example of one of the great gifts that cinema can give us: to drop us into a time, a place and a life; immersing us in the sounds and the sights and the emotions, large and small, experienced by someone we’re not.

Does “Anna” deliver on its billing? Well, it does for a while. For its first half, the movie’s blend of earnest teen crooning and dismembered blood-geyser heads is pretty entertaining.

The real fun here is in the three central performances, each of which threatens to steal the film (giving “The Favourite,” appropriately, its own balance-of-power issues).

Jason Reitman’s The Front Runner is so crowded with characters and overlapping conversations and crammed-full rooms that it’s easy to miss the quiet at its center: the enigma that is Gary Hart.

The likable tale of a real-life friendship, Green Book lets us spend two hours in the company of two electric actors.

A conventional but thoroughly entertaining film.

“Turn off your brain, and let your heart do da talking,” advised Rocky, and he was right. This franchise just might go on forever, and my heart kind of hopes that it does.

While it’s often great fun to look at, “Crimes of Grindelwald” fails at what should be Rowling’s great strength: storytelling. Three more to go, and an infusion of magic is desperately needed.

Widows is smart, soulful and surprising in every frame, weaving statements on race, gender, crime and grief into a tick-tock (and tip-top) heist plot.

While the first “Grinch” I will always adore It’s possible that there’s still room for one more. Hearing the Who’s sing their songs to the skies — It’s still movie magic, whatever the size.

It’s Hedges who owns the film, who lets us see Jared’s pain and confusion on his tightly clenched face — and who, in a gentle epilogue, gives us a lovely, wordless demonstration of freedom.

Pike shows us both the strength and the quietly growing fear, as Marie becomes a jittery shadow, her voice getting thicker, more desperate.

You don’t really watch Suspiria, you endure it.

An enjoyably nutty more-is-more family holiday extravaganza.

Except for its songs, Bohemian Rhapsody too quickly becomes forgettable; something the real-life man at its center, who died of AIDS-related illness in 1991 at the age of 45, never was. Watch the real footage; you’ll see.

Diego Garcia’s cinematography plays a key role, showing us lavender sunsets, endless plains and fire spreading down a hill like melting butter. Amid this beauty, Dano’s direction is restrained, letting us focus on the pain in Mulligan’s darting eyes.

The movie lets Israel have the last laugh, deliciously so.

Florid but warmhearted — much like the man at its center — The Happy Prince is a haunting portrait of the aftermath of betrayal; of how the master of comedy became a tragedy.

In between all of these delights is an awful lot of filler

Political satire is one of the trickiest of genres; this one, running out of steam and nerve, ultimately becomes a too-familiar example of another genre: the 93-minute movie that feels way, way too long.

Its honesty and power makes it feel large; you live among these characters in their weary trailer park, aching for them.

What Bradley Cooper’s beguiling A Star Is Born is very, very good at is showing us how a song can transform a person, or a moment, and how that transformation just might make us fall in love with the person singing it, for a moment or for longer.

Here, the focus is on Knightley, who delivers some of her best work.

Happy anniversary, Little Women, but I think I prefer you back in the 19th century; dreamy professors aside.

There’s no happy ending to this story, but it’s a pleasure to spend just a bit of time with Radner again.

Every dog in this sweetly earnest movie seems to have a strong sense of responsibility.

One of the great pleasures of moviegoing is seeing an actor perfectly cast, in a role that takes all of the performer’s trademarks and quirks and transforms them into something we haven’t seen before. Such a performance is at the center of Paul Feig’s sly thriller/comedy A Simple Favor, and the actor is Anna Kendrick.

Close owns this movie, from beginning to end; it’s a performance of such intelligence and subtlety that only when the movie is long over do you start wondering about whether the plot holds up.

A charming, moving and over-too-soon portrait of a country, and of what it means to have a longer than expected life.

As rom-coms go, it’s pretty much everything you want, even if it’s not quite distinctive enough to linger.

The Little Stranger is a haunted-house movie, but not one with cheap scares. In fact there are few scares at all — it’s mostly just an atmosphere of lingering, musty dread — and horror-movie fans should be warned that it’s all quite subtle. But it’s haunting, in its quiet way.

“Scotty” the documentary, entertaining as it is, leaves its hero’s surface mostly unscratched; his life seems a story still not fully written.

Is it as good as the book? No. Did it make me happy? Oh yes, and how nice to be reminded what a gift a joyful rom-com can be.

It’s all good, goofy fun; make it an air-conditioned double feature with “Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again” and you might just have the very definition of “summer movies.”

BlacKkKlansman manages that tricky balance of being both entertaining (some of the performances are quite comedic, particularly Paul Walker Hauser as a mouth-breathing Klansman) and devastating.

As sweet as honey but without the stickiness, Christopher Robin is a gentle delight — for children, and for former children.

Mission: Impossible — Fallout is definitely everything we expected, and more. You might need to go lie down afterward, in a good way.

Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again doesn’t pretend to be anything more than what it is: sweet, silly, sun-splashed absurdity, with a thumping disco beat. The world is a mess these days; some of us might just need this movie.

The film is over quickly, before I’d seen quite enough of Westwood’s fanciful clothing, or heard quite enough of her voice.

Skyscraper, which lacks the lunkheaded charm of “Rampage,” isn’t the ideal vehicle — its special effects are murky (I saw it in 2D; it’s probably even muddier in 3D), and a bit of wit wouldn’t have been unwelcome. Nobody in this film has a personality; they’re just evil, stoic, mildly badass (particularly Neve Campbell, as Will’s resourceful wife) or The Rock.

Burnham, in his debut film, makes some funny observations about growing up in the tech era.... But mostly, with glorious support from Fisher’s symphony of awkward poignancy, he makes all of us remember what it’s like to be 13.

Isabelle is complicated, in a way that movie women often aren’t; Binoche makes her an intriguing puzzle to solve.

It’s hard to watch young Whitney, knowing what lies ahead, but it seems important to do as the film does: take a moment, and just listen to her sing.

Despite an unnecessary reliance on blurry re-enactment scenes early in the film, Wardle makes Three Identical Strangers as spellbinding as a great psychological thriller.

Dark fare indeed, and you won’t shake it off easily.

The Gospel According to André leaves you wishing you knew a little more about this complex, elegant gentleman and his lifelong love affair with style.

Even the heavenly chorus that’s working overtime on the soundtrack can’t drown out the lack of chemistry between Howard and Pratt. And the movie too often defaults to people running around screaming — which is, to be fair, the backbone of this franchise, but it gets awfully old here.

The cast is a likable bunch, and I can see how Tag might go down nicely with a couple of beers beforehand; it’s definitely funny in spots, in a we’re-making-this-up-as-we-go-along sort of way.

Despite this rich emotional material (not to mention some gloriously shabby drawing rooms), the film feels surprisingly dull and conventional — two things its heroine most definitely was not.

Casting a dramatic film with nonactors is always a risky proposition; the fresh, natural presence of “real people” is sometimes outweighed by awkwardness when they have to deliver scripted dialogue. But Chloé Zhao’s dreamlike Western The Rider is one of those happy exceptions.

While it’s great fun to watch the Incredibles/Parrs zipping around saving the world (with help from their preternaturally cool pal Lucius/Frozone, voiced with gusto by Samuel L. Jackson), Incredibles 2 gets its heart by being a sweet family story.

The Ocean’s 8 cast makes up for any deficits in its execution (Awkwafina, in particular, can make even the most mundane line funny); these women are just great fun to hang with, and I’d happily sit still for a slew of sequels.

Fred Rogers is gone and the world is a much scarier place; this film, like a gift, briefly transports us back to the calm we felt long ago.

Disobedience unfolds quietly but passionately, with a generosity of spirit toward its three central characters.

Book Club is very silly and feather-light, but let me say this: Spending time with this quartet is way more fun than reading “Fifty Shades of Grey.”

Those who love books, picturesque English villages and getting lost in actors’ faces should be very happy

It’s bland and forgettable, and director Falcone still hasn’t figured out how not to sabotage his supporting cast (why hire the hilarious Chris Parnell if you’re not going to let him be funny?), but it’s a movie a lot like the presence of McCarthy herself — there’s an inner sweetness that shines through.

The pleasure of this movie is in Cody’s sly barbs (the rich brother-in-law’s wife has a dog named Prosecco, and a kid whose talent-show skill is Pilates) and in Theron’s soulful, lived-in performance.

Where is Kyra? is a small story — there’s much about its main character that we’ll never know — and a terribly sad one. But it’s a remarkable showcase for Pfeiffer, who’ll break your heart in every scene.

It’s filled with moments that click, but it just feels too big.

The sweet-natured rom-com I Feel Pretty has a well-meaning message, but it gets lost in the telling.

You get caught up in the way Tucci lets a round lamp fade into a glowing moon, or how Rush’s posture suggests a lifetime of bending over a canvas, or how a face on that canvas slowly emerges, from a forest of lines — and suddenly, time passes, and art happens.

Only two things need to be said about Rampage: It’s really terrible, and I enjoyed it immensely.

Outside In is about connection, and about two remarkable actors telling us a story.

A Quiet Place is brief, taut and often quite terrifying. And it creates in its audience a fascinating relationship with sound.

Pandas leaves its viewer newly educated, filled with hope, and dazzled.

Isle of Dogs is full of delightful touches, but it’s not Anderson’s best. Nice fur, though.

Lesser actors would have drowned in the muck, but these two almost sell it.

Unsane has an uncanny way of reflecting the world through Sawyer’s eyes, sometimes amplified by the medication she’s forced to take. It’s not a pretty place.

As with “Rivers and Tides,” Leaning into the Wind is a work of art in itself; beautifully and meditatively shot (by Riedelsheimer), accompanied by a faintly mysterious score that seems to be telling us secrets.

Vikander doesn’t have much to play, script-wise, but she makes a tough, appealing action star.

Thoroughbreds often feels like a very, very expensive B-movie, but it’s all reasonably watchable, thanks to the elegant cinematography and Cooke’s amusing way of playing teenage amorality.

Its message is of a young woman’s empowerment, and of how love can save a family — and if the special effects sometimes overwhelm that message (such as a glorious field of flowers that takes flight in a colorful frenzy), it rings through loud and clear by the end.

Much as I’d like to love a movie that encompasses ballet, spectacular hotel rooms, a Mary-Louise Parker drunk scene, and Rampling standing grimly in the snow like an unbreakable icicle, the movie’s focus on sexual violence against Lawrence’s character ultimately feels repellent.

The Lodgers is never particularly scary, or even logical, but it’s always gorgeous to look at; you can see where it’s going, but you might not mind watching it go there.

The movie relies rather too heavily on McAdams’ charm, sort of like a limp cheeseburger that’s saved by some really good bacon. But hey, sometimes a fast-food cheeseburger satisfies, more or less.