R. Kurt Osenlund

Dianna Agron, suddenly inspired to let go, proves the perfect on-the-prowl foil to Paz de la Huerta's free spirit.

Writer-director Paul Weitz's proudly boisterous star vehicle for Lily Tomlin has about as many ambitions as it does delusions.

Magic Mike XXL isn't so much a lesser movie than Magic Mike as it is a looser one.

The film uses its male-on-male boundary-leaping to give the shopworn man-boy narrative a refresh.

On one hand, the film is surely a celebration of a land's distinct creatures and the people who live among them, but on the other, it's a culture's biting auto-critique.

Jamie Dornan somehow manages to render his sculpted beauty moot, which throws a major wrench in the gears for a film dependent on eroticism.

This PG-rated romp is, refreshingly, less notable for its happily-ever-afters than its oh-no-they-didn'ts.

The film's chief misstep is taking its title too literally, and ultimately depicting Louie as an indestructible, and thus largely inhuman, superhero.

It places regurgitated ideas into the mouths of gifted actors, then drops them amid a kooky story that plays like an elaborate distraction from what little the film actually has to say.

David Frankel crams his story with predictable developments, yet he matches his subject in spirit, pushing something into the spotlight that, however unlikely, elicits irresistible glee.

No matter how much Bertrand Bonello varies his split screens, triptychs, and geometric screen divisions, he forgets that one of the most fashionable virtues is knowing when to leave.

Of Bennett Miller's many directorial feats, his canniest is his depiction of the precariousness of bonds, and how those bonds can shift, drastically yet almost imperceptibly.

The film boldly raises the unanswerable question of whether it's better for an artist to safely isolate his work or tweak it a bit so as to share it with the world.

James Franco's general aesthetic is ugly and ambling, not so much because of its brownish-gray monochrome, but because it registers like the jerky result of a college kid wielding a DV cam.

Like the movie itself, every character is a beautiful swirl of contradictions.

We may have all wanted to know the story behind those famed horns, but the mystery was far preferable to having Maleficent de-fanged and de-clawed in the process.

The latest collaboration between director Jaume Collet-Serra and star Liam Neeson is made with far more care and visual detail than you might expect.

Shockingly, the violent release of smoke, fire, and meteoric debris is positioned more as a climactic afterthought than as the main attraction.

Shana Feste's film seems blissfully unaware that great fights require truly substantial conflicts.

All told, there's an ageless warmth to The LEGO Movie akin to that of the LEGO brand itself.

Its obsession with male genitalia, or, more specifically, penis receptacles, is emblematic of its overall aura of male entitlement and its consideration of women as prizes to be lanced.

In keeping his actors on his sober-yet-buoyant plane, Kenneth Branagh presents a convincing romance that doesn't stall the film's brisk clip.

The film gradually reveals a lot of unsavory motives, which ultimately deflate the buoyant virtues on which the film had blithely coasted.

A once-precious franchise's weakest installment, which forgets these adventures' magic was never conjured by bells and whistles.

What this movie finally boils down to is a deceptively simple tale of two brothers, and of being one's brother's keeper, and of seeking justice on the crudest of fronts.

The film's empowering themes of feminine strengths and bonds eventually flourish in novel fashion.

Books themselves become the story's key symbol, representing the past and future, loss and possibility, of a place that's ground zero for some of history's darkest days.

Superhero movies aren't going anywhere, nor is their standard, on-to-the-next-fight structure, so it's heartening to see a gem that grandly and amusingly fills in the blanks.

A choppy, feature-length progression of crude, predictable gags, the film plays like a variety show, and yet its main attraction is barely funny enough to warrant his own brief sketch.

The film is guilty of some of the same quick judgment it clearly doesn't endorse, exploiting Julian Assange's unmistakable appearance to help give itself a boogeyman.

Not even when the doomed Juliet reaches for Romeo's dagger do you feel a single vicarious pain in your gut.

In the film, Alexander Payne's overview of America is extraordinarily, multifariously profound.

The near-imperceptible finesse of Abby's characterization reflects writer-director Stacie Passon's effortless, interesting mix of richness and economy.

It works too hard to keep matters on an even, we're-all-more-alike-than-different keel, which is just one part of its chief problem of forcefully conveying information and intent.

Both keenly calculated and flowing with offbeat, naturalistic detail, Hanif Kureishi's jewel of a script reflects his sensibilities as a playwright.

Beautiful, poetic, and hard-hitting without the use of excessive force and deeply layered with evolving and regional nuances of feminine experience

It doesn't play like reality, but like boilerplate filmic fantasy, and its novel setting and inception struggles seem positioned as a beard--or veil, if you will--to mask its mediocrity.

So deadly serious and yet so goofily unbound that, in some scenes, incest truly seems like it's on the scandalous menu.

Though always speeding forward in some gear of ridiculousness, the film is a lot more fun when it's completely nonsensical, before its baddie's motives and harebrained plot are funnel-fed to the viewer.

The movie blasts by for a while as an odd and busy slice of highly watchable garbage.

There's tremendous dramatic value to the aching and sometimes devastating scenes that home in on these kids' private torments.

Steered by a lead actor and director, Joshua Michael Stern, who are both way out of their respective leagues, Jobs is excruciating, failing to entertain and all but pissing on its subject's grave.

The film feels second-rate in every sense, from the quality of its animation to its C-list voice cast.

I'll tell you what's insane: the probability that folks will go easy on this dreck because it's aimed at younger viewers, who are being distressingly trained to expect little from their art.

Viewer/character solidarity only holds up for so long, and the film falls hard into twisty, nonsense territory, skipping over its stronger themes in the process.

This may be the year's best superhero movie because, for a sufficient amount of time, it doesn't feel like a superhero movie at all.

As a film about social issues, and simply being yourself, it's commendably progressive, going so far as serving as a kind of coming-out story.

The movie, of course, barrels toward climax upon climax, and while possibly better photographed, the crashes, bangs, and booms are no less numbing than anything else you've seen in this summer of garbage blockbusters.

Roland Emmerich makes love of country into a thing of unabashed hokum, which bleeds through every nook of this overstuffed jumble and leaves no character untouched.

Part end-of-life romance, part grossly manipulative mush, the film tries to stare grief and mortality in the face while practically shitting rainbows.

Sofia Coppola seems curiously unmotivated to bring full analysis or provocation to her themes, leaving the film feeling like a disappointingly toothless satire.

An angry indie that favors hollow ridicule over credibility.

This epic waste of $190 million plunders the grab bag of overused plotlines, failing to put its own stamp on much of anything.

Melissa McCarthy is riveting in simply-penned moments of remorse and confession, adding tearful depth to her ace timing and formidable physical comedy.

As a film that largely works as a subdued twist on the familiar drama about crime and family, LUV needed more intimacy and focus.

Mothers and sons deserve an amiable comedy they can share, but this one proves to be faulty long before the requisite freeway breakdown.

Characters are better employed; emotions are, for once, palpable; and the selfishness of Bella, author Stephenie Meyer's avatar, is finally somewhat squelched.

The script is teeming with informed jargon about the business of supermarket pricing, and with actors like Posey as its vessel, the dialogue rings with an unlikely blend of fascination and farce.

Steven Spielberg's film may further the heroism so associated with its subject, and favor a liberal viewpoint that leers down at the Confederates, but it's no bleeding-heart glamorization.

It pairs modern attitude with John Hughesian tropes, and it's odd enough, in spurts, to boast originality.

One of its strengths is a knowledge of when to unfurl information, particularly for the strongest emotional effect.

Liberal Arts provides a peek into what makes Josh Radnor tick, and what he cares about outside his mainstream-targeted sitcom.

Succeeds as a satirical fantasy about writerly self-involvement, but it's worth celebrating as a testament to self-made greatness, particularly in regard to the efforts of writer/star Zoe Kazan.

This frothy 3D concert doc often plays like a Perry ad campaign, assuring viewers that their "Teenage Dream" diva is a good, fun-loving person, and that, by God, she's doing fine.

Its dolly- and crane-operated polish points toward an acquiescence to Tinseltown mores, which until now Baron Cohen hovered cheekily above.

The Hunger Games is more notable for the holes it doesn't fall into than the great heights it reaches.

With the foul-mouthed dramedy Friends with Kids, writer/producer/director/star Jennifer Westfeldt is juggling so much, it's a wonder there aren't more jokes about balls.

If Robert De Niro knew what was good for him, he'd certainly distance himself from this director and find a new path.

Nearly a year has passed since the release of Catherine Hardwicke's Red Riding Hood, and Amanda Seyfried is still crying wolf.

This Means War seems so concerned with being the best product, it doesn't even know how to be good trash.

One for the Money is like The Bounty Hunter by Andy Tennant, if you dipped it in self-tanner and strapped some Four Loko on it.

The wonder and terror of Meryl Streep's performance in The Iron Lady is her formidable ability to nail the disheartening talents of not just Margaret Thatcher, but so many conservative politicians like her, who have a tremendous knack for changing minds and beckoning cheers while underlining their own rigid ignorance.

Outside of Felicity Jones's work, the film, directed and co-written by Drake Doremus, usually feels like it's soullessly connecting dots, a far cry from the Before Sunrise-style substance its Yank-meets-Euro chattiness might suggest.