Moira Macdonald

If Brooks could have mustered up a screenplay half as good as “Broadcast News,” this movie would have been a delight; instead, it disappears into agreeable blandness and earnest platitudes. It’s not at all unpleasant spending two hours with Ella and her family and colleagues, but it leaves you feeling a little nostalgic for what it could have been.

Should you be looking for narrative cohesion, look elsewhere. “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” is bananas, in its high-end way — bananas wrapped in gorgeous Colleen Atwood costumes, and performed by actors who are clearly having a ball.

The movie gets lost in its focus on flash and speed, and forgets about the man — and the fine, quiet actor — at its center.

Perhaps Downsizing needed to be downsized a bit; as it is, it’s an intriguing concept that slips away.

Of all the stories in all the world to remake on the big screen, why “Snow White”?

There are pleasures to be found in Renfield, particularly a stylish black-and-white sequence early on, and in Hoult’s wistfully debonair portrayal of a well-meaning chap trapped in a job he never applied for. But even with its brief running time, the movie runs out of steam too quickly, and Awkwafina’s character in particular seems like a first draft

The Killer is both disappointing and satisfying, with pleasure and competence to be had.

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.”

Lights Out is an effective, tidy little chiller; basically the same sneak-up-in-the-dark scare over and over. But hey, as we’ve learned through decades of horror movies, that stuff works.

As a summer disaster movie, Twisters works well enough, though other than Powell it lacks the enjoyable goofiness of its predecessor.

Fackham Hall is a pleasantly silly diversion for “Downton Abbey” fans with a tolerance for raunchy sight gags and bad puns.

Great acting is a con game, of the highest order, and it’s a pleasure to be Moore’s mark.

As always, it’s a pleasure to watch Branagh’s Poirot as he watches, never missing a thing; may he return, with a more worthy corpse next time around.

Rockwell and Kendrick, both of whom can really sell this film’s brand of laid-back quirk, keep things lively.

You leave the film knowing that you’ve met a hero, but that this remarkable man deserved more.

But Martin — who at age 10 came up with and pitched the idea for this movie (she’s now 14) — carries this movie on her small, resolute shoulders.

Kong: Skull Island won’t win any points for the brilliance of its writing (or for the way it reduces a terrific actor like Larson to a personality-free camera-clicker) — but oh, that ape

There’s actually quite a bit to enjoy here, not least of which is Black and Rudd’s funny chemistry, some amusing sight gags involving that enormous CGI snake (who has a diva’s sense of timing), the term “snake funeral” and a rather sweet message about following your dreams. It’s all very, very silly.

The movie murmurs, when it — and others — should be shouting.

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.

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

Megan Griffiths’ latest, I’ll Show You Mine, is impeccably filmed and thoughtfully written, but it doesn’t quite justify its running time.

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.

There’s room for improvement in the “Fantastic Beasts” universe; perhaps we’ll see it in the next installment or two. Meanwhile — even if you, like me, are a bit Pottered out and wish Rowling would devote herself instead to her marvelous Cormoran Strike detective-novel series (magic comes in many forms) — it’s still a pleasure to revisit the author’s world.

Todd Haynes’ Wonderstruck is one of those films that I wanted to like far more than I actually did.

A character, even when he’s played by Woody Harrelson, is not a movie.

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 action, aside from the cloudy 3D, looks impressive (particularly the destruction of the Sydney Opera House), and X-Men: Apocalypse moves along tidily, but you watch thinking that all this used to be a lot more fun.

A Different Man spins out of control in its final act, but still leaves you pondering its questions.

You sense that this woman has spent a lifetime not saying things, and that all she wants is to quietly be allowed to fade away.

That Unforgettable is watchable, at least before it disintegrates into generic violence near the end, is due to the touches of wit in the directing, and to the two lead performances.

We can’t travel these days, so it’s fun to wallow in the scenery and its vivid colors. Want a great movie? Go watch the original Rebecca instead, but you probably knew that already.

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

There’s exactly one good jump-scare, which probably would have caused me to drop my popcorn if I hadn’t finished it already; otherwise it’s fairly uninspired. But something about Quaid’s delivery had me giggling throughout — or, at least, until things got rather too dark in the final minutes.

Ultimately, her run and Roseanne for President! meet the same fate: not quite entertaining enough to qualify as comedy, nor quite thoughtful enough to take seriously.

You wish Perkins would have shown up with his red pencil during the screenwriting stage, when he might have done some good.

None of this has any real reason for being; even the tiniest bit of drama that Vardalos’ screenplay scares up...gets wrapped up by the hour mark. But Vardalos has created a community of characters and players so likable, it seems almost mean to criticize.

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.

Passengers turns out to be a very strange journey indeed; here’s hoping these two team up again, in something more worthy of them.

If “golden retriever voiced by Kevin Costner” rings any alarm bells for you, steer clear.

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

The Mummy starts off light and very quickly goes dark — fading rapidly, along with our hopes that this latest monster mash might possibly be any good.

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.

Danny Strong’s film, which stars Nicholas Hoult as Salinger...isn’t terrible; it’s just one of those period films that never catches a spark — you find yourself admiring the elegantly lit rooms and the meticulous 1940s costumes, rather than becoming immersed in the drama.

Ultimately, it’s a wild experiment that mostly falls flat.

Ultimately, Haunted Mansion feels like the ghost of a movie — just a fleeting shadow, one you can barely remember in the morning.

A mostly agreeable but empty-headed mess. It’s sort of the movie equivalent of Derek Zoolander himself.

The film feels long and slow, and the subject matter familiar. We never quite get caught up in it, despite the appealing cast; a thriller directed at a snail's pace simply isn't very thrilling.

The plot’s a mess, the run time is overlong and ultimately the movie feels like a slew of good actors trapped in a gorgeous place, wearing beautiful clothes and gazing at the impossibly blue water.

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

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.

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.

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.

Unfortunately, the filmmakers — busily splashing the film in crayon-colored light, vaguely sinister pop music and jittery camerawork — forgot to give Vee and Handsome Stranger (his name’s Ian) much personality.

The Goldfinch feels like a series of often-elegant moments, in service to a story that never quite comes into focus.

Snatched is one of those movies that feels like a rough draft of itself. A few more rewrites, a few more laughs, a little (well, a lot) more attention, and maybe it would have been an amusing summer comedy.

It’s not terrible, but it’s an elegantly filmed stumble.

Ultimately, despite Nanjiani’s best efforts, it’s a disposable fast-car summer movie, neither terrible or good, for those biding their time before the next “Fast & Furious” installment.

Ultimately, the film’s unwillingness to go deeper makes it fall flat.

You’ve seen this cheery, slapdash blend of raunch, cocktails and summer dresses before.

All of this is sporadically funny and cheerfully tasteless in its low-budget way, but it’s also unevenly acted, a bit overlong and never quite as daring as it seems to want to be.

Motherless Brooklyn is lovely to look at — the cast, in addition to their acting talents, all look great in ’50s styles — and I enjoyed the noir-y jazz of the dialogue. (“Everybody looks like everybody to me,” a bartender tells Lionel, who’s looking for someone in the shadows of a club.) But it’s easily half an hour longer than it needs to be, and it’s full of moments that don’t go anywhere.

The film doesn’t have much to say about its central questions, and its ending feels inevitable but also unearned.

The blend of Johnson’s laid-back hero-dudeness and Hart’s whippet-fast comic timing should have been good fun. But somebody, alas, had an idea, though not a good one: Make Johnson the comedian and Hart the straight man.

Someday, someone will pair up Johansson and Tatum in a better movie. In the meantime, watch this one with low expectations, and dream.

There are several ways you can watch Elle, only one of which is mildly enjoyable.

The Greatest Showman isn’t interested in tiny stories or character or nuance; it’s about being the biggest. In doing so, it becomes strangely small; like a magician’s rabbit, it quickly disappears.

Like Bernadette, the movie’s lost; you’ll need to read the book to truly find her.

Its central characters never find much chemistry — Clarke’s Kate is a one-note character, which is one note more than Golding’s character gets — and I left Last Christmas with many, many questions, none of which I can share here without giving away too much. The elf costume, though? Just right.

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.

There are moments now and then that register, particularly early in the movie when we meet the regulars on the musical-impersonator circuit.

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.

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.

Unfortunately, King Arthur is somewhat less compelling than the "Lord of the Rings" movies; there's serious intent here, but an often thudding execution.