Roger Moore

Covering the same ground in an utterly conventional, voice-over-narrated-to-death melodrama gives us a film with no thrills, little suspense and, thanks to generally bland performances, almost no emotional resonance.

Few movies about getting sober are as brilliant at conveying the allure of drowning, wallowing in alcohol, the emotional and physical liberation it seems to offer, as The Outrun. And rare is the story told within this most personal of experiences that exults in its trials, the gut check of “one day at a time” and the exultant release from the trap of addiction.

Good production values and a solid supporting cast don’t hide the fact that it’s a tepid thriller that barely works up a decent fright or two.

Humorless, shallow and grim will get you only so far.

Jon Holmberg’s Swedish caper-comedy/prison escape dramedy and “Fugitive” spoof Trouble is more amusingly frustrating than stupidly frustrating.

Screenwriter Jim Beggarly (“Free Samples,” “A Country Called Home”) must have tailor-made this part for Falco, one that honors her screen baggage as the mistress of unconventional mothers.

But aside from a couple of genuinely touching moments, “Rez Ball” is dramatically flat. Heartache and heartbreak are suggested but never plumbed or embraced.

There’s madness afoot, and Demoustier ably captures how overmatched a mere interviewer would always be with Dalí. And the various actors playing Dalí indulge in grand vamping of the genius in a script that only occasionally hints at his sense of his own mortality.

If this mad gamble is indeed the “final film” of a great director from the Golden Age of great directors, cinephiles can celebrate the fact that at least he got it cast, filmed, edited and distributed and lived to see its release. That’s more than Orson Welles could say.

Will & Harper became a hopeful, upbeat snapshot of a nation struggling with its own transition, just a couple of pals in a collectible Jeep, experiencing the “real” America — diners, dives and Walmarts and the wide array of folks who inhabit it, at least some of whom are starting to “get it.”

Winslet is convincingly flinty, uncompromising and American in the part, a feminist in the truest traditional sense of the word. Excellent supporting cast aside, she’s the reason to see “Lee,” a one woman argument for why what Lee Miller documented and how she documented it mattered in a movie that honors her memory, and the memories that haunted her to the end of her days.

When My Old Ass works, it’s comically judgmental, droll in the ennui the older feel about the young and sentimental about what you’re missing out on by focusing on the impulse of the moment.

The charms of The Wild Robot sneak up on you.

Claire Ayoub’s debut feature is witty but utterly predictable, uplifting in all the right ways, manipulative in many others. Characters are a checkbox of political correctness and incorrectness, with mean girls and a mom who wants to “understand,” but just can’t without help. What all that adds up to is good-hearted and damned adorable.

It’s a star vehicle that reminds us of why star power still counts for something, even if the comic thriller you park this pairing of Butch and Sundance in has them upstaged by a kid still young enough to be willing to not just wear tidy whiteys, but to run all over New York in them.

Comedy is quick and The Zombie Wedding lumbers, staggers and stumbles up to the wedding, and flails like a tortoise sinking in quicksand after the “I do’s.”

I found the early acts boring with moments of shock. But the finale to “Sleep” is a corker and well worth Yu’s perhaps unintentional efforts to encourage the viewer to doze-off. That climax is a waking nightmare of the worst-fears-confirmed variety. Whose worst fears? Watch and see.

It’s set up the way Chekhov’s play is traditionally-mounted these days, as an actor’s showcase. That’s just not enough to put His Three Daughters over.

It’s a modest but immersive film more interested in cryptic characters and plot lines and in period detail — minimal effects, mostly in the third act — and the idea that some sort of rift in reality might be possible, that it could happen, and why not in the Swiss Alps in 1962?

There’s a lot that feels incomplete here, introduced and abandoned or at least never wrestled with. And much of what transpires after the assorted ingredients are introduced is utterly predictable.

Moore’s performance is unfiltered and fierce, manic at times, a tour de force turn and maybe even her career best.

It’s a grim, well-acted vengeance thriller with moral underpinnings that would have worked, with or without the supernatural “judgement” folded into its unraveling grief, guilt and madness.

By the time the credits roll, it’s succeeded in creating zero interest in investing any more time in this universe or this story.

There’s little to nothing redeemable in it, a film where half the scenes have no reason to exist and the other half go on past any point they may have.

Slower and more superficial than the original or not, the riveting performances and the vague political parable of the way the story is spun this time out put this one thriller over.

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.