Roger Moore

Yes, some of the shock-jokes land. But Office Romance only finds its comfort zone in Lopez’s costume changes and constant reminders of how beautiful she still is. That’s in her contract.

McKendrick handles this with skill, reassuring us at many a turn that we’re in good hands. And in every scene Deutch reassures McKendrick that in signing Netflix’s Meg Ryan, she’s cast this perfectly.

Truth be told, this is hard-going as a movie-watching experience, a “Quest for Fire” without humor or sex, a “Robin and Marian” without romance, a “Robin Hood” without “merry” men, just accomplices.

It’s great that they moved the “toy” story towards a plucky female character helping a little girl grow up with Toy Story 5. There are a couple of hard tugs at the heartstrings in the third act to give that something of a payoff. But it’s a crying shame they didn’t have more to say than that in the fifth film in the franchise that made their reputation, at least enough to justify sullying the brand in the process.

Even if the color palette and general design feels distinctly Mexican, “Frankelda’s” story is generic, unfocused and no “Book of Life”or “Coco.” It offers little for adults and even less for its alleged target audience, children.

It’s a movie where literally every scene has a punch line we see coming and every introduction sets up a relationship painted in via strokes we’ve seen a hundred times before.

It’s horrific, gruesome at times and grim going for a “wish fulfillment fantasy” tale, even one that goes oh-so-wrong. But what shakes you is how deflatingly sad it is.

The jazz and classical musical milieu with underworld grit flourishes pulled me into “Tuner.” Jazz great Herbie Hanock even has a cameo. But every few minutes, a contrived scene, a hammy flourish of performance or some other false note took me right out of it.

Spielberg brings his usual technical prowess and directorial sizzle to some impressive chases, 360 degree pans covering impressive sets and suspenseful escapes of the cliff-hanger variety. But what’s jolting about this big budget epic is how utterly conventional it all is.

This outing just bubbles over with hope for a planet overheating and losing arable land to deserts and vital rain forests to short term oligarchical cashing in. Because regenerative farming — crop and cattle pastures, pig pen etc. rotation — is catching on.

Pike and Shaw throw themselves at this even if Mortimer has almost nothing to play, even if Cohen’s funny moments are few and far between, straining for humor in a movie that probably came along five years too late to deliver.

This cast plays the hell out of this violent parable about what one endures, who one believes caused it, the need for revenge and the cost of giving those who deserve it their comeuppance.

It’s dogmatic to the point where any potential surprise is smothered out of it, starting with an opening scene narrative framing device that gives away who’s still on the lam after it all hits the fan.

“Propeller” is unfailingly sweet and never cloying.

This is trash, and one can only hope Gruffudd and Roth got to see the sights on their off-days of this working vacay to Oz.

A movie that stands up for science in an age of science-denying charlatans is a blessing. And this “true story” hews closely enough to the facts to play as history.

Capitalism’s end game is taunted and satirized in I Love Boosters, a loopy, anarchic comedy about shoplifting, fashion, media mass indoctrination and This Cultural Moment.

Barris has made a good film.

Remarkably Bright Creatures is a sweet, sentimental and gratingly-cloying tale.

If the absurdity of it all is what we take away from this distant mirror held up to our own roiled times, so much the better.

The scenery is the highlight of the movie whose title is as clunkily unromantic in Italian — “Non è un paese per single” — as it is in English.

The biggest revelation in the latest “the funny person behind the facade” documentary, Marty: Life is Short may be how beloved Short is within show business.

I laughed a few times, but this pile of cluttered, poorly organized exposition interrupted by CGI brawls isn’t going to headline screenwriter Jeremy Slater’s resume.

Nagy immerses us in this time and this world with simple images, archetypal characters and common-to-combat-film situations, another army far from home, out of its depth and uncertain of the necessity and ethics of its mission.

Fuqua’s a better director than this and Logan’s a better writer than “Michael” shows. Now that everybody’s delivered a blockbuster out of this troubled man of mystery, maybe there’ll be money to try something more serious.

The film is sweetest when the characters touch on death, the impermanence of life and the role memory plays in keeping dead loved ones alive.

Whoever is primarily to blame, Son-in-Law starts out confused and stays confusing almost to the can’t-come-soon-enough closing credits.

It’s a grand looking production and a well-cast, well-acted and high-minded film. But Hytner and Bennett have conjured up a Big Show and an Important Statement, and so cluttered the narrative that they lose track of which statements they’re serious about making.