Roger Moore

Say this for the action comedy The Killer’s Game. This eye-popping, gory cartoon of a movie should give stuntman/stun-coordinator turned-director J.J. Perry a helluva sizzle reel.

How to Make Millions Before Grandma Dies is a sweet, sad and sentimental Thai end-of-life melodrama titled and set-up like a greedy-family farce.

Parker makes the “loop” of repetition eye-rollingly funny, forlorn and wistful, even hopeful in a “Maybe this time we’ll get it” way.

The milieu may be familiar, and the third act revelations and actions are both predictable and somewhat clumsily handled. But Sennott wraps herself completely around this character, giving us vulnerability behind the cocky facade, worry and responsibility in a profession not known for producing the stable and well-adjusted.

Saulnier’s made a slow-burn thriller that surprises and keeps us guessing and waiting, mostly for that moment when somebody draws “First Blood,” and even then he trips up expectations, and deliciously so.

A World War I overreach, pretty much start to finish.

The performances are daft enough to land, and the audacity of it all counts for something.

When it all does go wrong — slowly, tediously and incredulously — little of what we’ve seen before is allowed to make a lick of sense.

Co-writers/directors Sam and Max Eggers go for symbolic nightmares and simple toilet-accidents for shocks and wicked sneers that only Belinda sees to set us up for something more fraught, fundamental and final than their movie delivers.

The laughs — from sight gags, on-the-nose-casting (Burn Gorman as a priest named “Damien”), quirky Keaton, Ryder and O’Hara line-readings and the contributions of newcomers Justin Theroux, Monica Bellucci and Willem Dafoe — are hard to come by.

What [Weitz] doesn’t produce are frights, suspense and the rising sense of dread such a film has to have to work.

A thriller with simple primal plot undone by a leaky script and a loss of nerve.

Ramchandani delivers a dazzling third act chase, on foot, through L.A.’s sweatshop district, a nervy, hand-held sprint that finally gets this static story up on its feet.

While one doffs one’s (not coonskin) hat at anyone trying to make a frontier thriller on an indie budget, this “Ballad” borders on abominable.

If we don’t fall in love with it, we kind of grin and fall in “like” before all is (un)said and done.

Silver’s given us a wry, wise and whimsical movie who cutting edges are somewhat removed from the lead characters, whose wit involves both leaning into Jewish stereotypes, and upending them.

For a guy who jumped straight into putting his name before the title of his films, Lee Daniels is still too ham-fisted and clumsy to make these down-market melodramas come off. And he’s got no clue about building suspense and delivering shocks.

It’s a Gibson showcase and a Liotta curtain call worth seeing, shortcomings be damned.

Quaid’s impersonation is solid, and makes one wish he’d been given the chance to take on a more nuanced version of the title character.

One Fast Move is several scenes of solid if unspectacular motorcycle racing and stunt driving footage in search of a plot.

The baseball is sloppy and the sentiments border on maudlin in You Gotta Believe, the latest “true story” Texas sports dramedy from director Ty Roberts and writer Lane Garrison.

“Jack” is engaging, even if this account of death and dying meanders a bit and plays as more emotionally flat than you’d expect.

Experienced movie watchers will pick up attempted hints of “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” “Can’t Hardly Wait” and “Sixteen Candles” in the more graceful moments. Not that there are a lot of those.

The Other Laurens is a slow, drifting mystery thriller that takes a while to decide what it’s about, takes another while to add on complications and adds a third while to attempt to get to some sort ofint.

Kravitz delivers an exception to that rule, a thriller with bite and a point of view that makes for a bracing, bloody chaser to a year of rising feminine rage barely masked in this week’s political expressions of feminine hope and joy.

This picture never overcomes a general heartlessness that permeates even the abrupt romance that supposedly launches and drives it.

An adorable, uplifting ache of a movie, writer-director Janis Pugh’s modest marvel floats by on the glories of a well-crafted pop song and summons up “An Officer and a Gentleman” for its finale.

Bad one-liners, performers straining to find a laugh, Awkwafina making one question why stardom ever came her way, and even John Cena is at a loss about what to do to make this abortion of an action comedy show a pulse.