Sara Stewart

The birth of the titular infant — what the whole movie’s leading up to — is just an anticlimactic mess.

The movie’s one saving grace — so to speak — is Raymond Cruz (Tuco from “Better Call Saul”) as a priest turned shaman. He, at least, injects a little wry humor into a film that otherwise bored me to tears.

Note to Greek chorus of execs: Turning a space psychodrama into a “He went to Jared” commercial is pretty low, even for you.

For connoisseurs of the “Grudge” series, the brief prelude of this fourth installation links it to the ones that came before. Everybody else, good luck making that connection.

Italian director Carlo Carlei has a background in TV movies, and this film, plodding and earnest, seems meant for the small screen, too.

Rockwell is incapable of being boring, so there’s some small entertainment to be found in watching his buttoned-up beta male blossom into full Sam Rockwell.

This is hardly reinventing the wheel, but it is serviceable, if you're looking for a few shivery communal scares.

McCarthy shines when loosely riffing, but the plot tightens around her like a vise.

Despite a sympathetic lead performance from Steve Carell, the fictionalized version bogs down in extensive animated doll sequences, so similar they grow increasingly tiresome.

Director Suri Krishnamma capably depicts the darkness in Jim’s head with his shadowy surroundings, misanthropic inner monologue and increasingly frequent hallucinations, and Griffith’s vulnerable performance is a standout. But the film’s final third seems needlessly graphic.

Domino, though, is the dregs: This thriller may be randomly set one year in the future, yet it’s hopelessly regressive — a parade of lame stereotypes that feels directed by an out-of-touch Old Hollywood old guy (De Palma is 78).

The film alternates between shoving its confusing plot forward and dropping dialogue bombs that fizzle.

At the start of Insidious 2, a young woman opens her mouth to speak and someone else’s voice comes out of her. Demonic possession? Nope, just some inexplicable dubbing to kick off this clunker of a horror sequel.

This unambitious Michael Bay-produced version doesn’t seem interested in cleverness, cravenly settling for the usual generic CGI shtick.

First-time feature director Clare Niederpruem gives it her very earnest all, but falls short both on continuity issues (a smoldering curling iron, for example, is dropped to the floor and immediately forgotten) and on making her gradually aging cast match up.

The dancing’s fine here, but there’s little else to distinguish Make Your Move, an entirely generic drama.

Outlaws and Angels isn’t perfect — Murray mumbles into his beard way too much — but Eastwood sure is at ease with a cowboy hat and revolver. Clearly, she’s studied with the best.

Fanning has little to do beyond grasping her prosthetic stomach, but James is a decent foil for Gere, who gives form to the highly topical subject of how pain meds destroy lives.

As apocalypse scenarios go, this one feels both retro and commendably topical: Nuclear bombs, remember those? (Also: Edward Furlong, remember him?)

Like some hybrid beast out of Greek mythology, this young-adult sequel has the body of a “Harry Potter,” the head of a “Twilight,” the feet of a “Hunger Games” and the tail, oddly, of a “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

Playing like a script that’s been moldering since Diane Keaton turned it down in 1983, The Other Woman is a weak adultery rom-com in which the most authentic performance comes from a non-housebroken Great Dane.

This pastiche of sitcomy episodes never gels into a plot.

It’s a little less cute these days to watch his Jack Sparrow swish about drunkenly, knowing the actor’s an abusive lush. Equally wearisome is the spectacle of a once-entertaining franchise staggering around, devoid of purpose.

[JK Simmons] provides a little comic relief, and sums up my feelings on this whole outing: “Goddamn time-travelin’ robots!”

If Think Like a Man Too was a man, he would be the world’s worst date: humorless, shrill, speaking primarily in clichés (“what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!”) and absolutely terrified of women.

A forgettable — and occasionally borderline offensive — animated tale of turkeys trying to take back Thanksgiving.

I only laughed once, and it was when Whit Stillman made a cameo to be snubbed by the newly self-actualized Imogene. But it was mostly in disbelief; pretentious or not, Stillman represents a caliber of smart writing that’s wholly absent from Girl Most Likely.

Even with a title this generic, there’s less to Murder Mystery than meets the eye.