Susan Wloszczyna

As the director, co-writer, editor and composer of ominous piano tinkling heard on the soundtrack, Jason Saltiel is nothing but ambitious when it comes to this semi-successful creepy thriller that, intentionally or not, pushes the #MeToo buttons perhaps a little too hard.

The film desperately tries to be wild and out of control, but it ends up as more of a slapdash portrait of cartoony desperation than any sort of realistic depiction of millennial angst when it comes to current-day female lifestyle choices.

Wood, whose whippet-thin appearance in this dank noir-ish drama semi-draped in mystery could be described as Kristen Stewart lite, fully dedicates herself to embodying a rather unpleasant and contradictory character as she attracts her prey and then goes about abusing them physically and emotionally.

Clearly there is a severe case of “Paddington” envy here and a hunger for yet another animated franchise. But easy chuckles are no substitute for genuine charm.

The Dancer clearly needed a better task master behind the camera. There are too many scenes of Fuller physically and mentally suffering for her art as she questions if what she does actually qualifies as dance.

A feature debut that might have its heart in the right place but can’t quite manage to smoothly blend the spiritual with the silly without a few Biblical hitches here and there.

Branagh, the actor, comes through unscathed. Branagh, the director, not so much.

What could have been a salute to the power of imagination to heal damaged souls and broken relationships instead opts to focus on tragic events.

A high-altitude soap opera, woozy with overly telegraphed peril and determined to make the audience root for a couple who clearly aren’t meant for each other and played by actors who deserve a generous C-minus in chemistry.

Not even Hunter, who eventually wears out her welcome, can keep Strange Weather from going off the cliff.

Suddenly, The Book of Henry turns into a not very believable thriller, complete with a ticking clock and a talent show.

Those who go to see “Dead Men Don’t Tell Tales” might just recognize that hollow feeling as they leave the theater.

And the matter-of-fact portrayal of a bi-racial relationship is presented just as it should be — unremarked upon.

Much like any child, even a supposedly surefire nugget of an idea requires careful nurturing. In this case, The Boss Baby often tries too hard and succeeds too little.

A somber and derivative relationship drama.

The main problem of Monster Trucks is how content it is to take its sweet time before shifting into high-action gear.

Alas, Office Christmas Party serves as yet another reminder that allowing your cast to madly improvise (as evident with an unnecessary end-credits blooper reel) instead of actually providing a coherent script with a scintilla of logic often leads to a decline in sustained laughter.

As hard as it is to admit, Guest’s once-incisive satirical bite has grown dull in its familiarity. He doesn’t seem to be having as much fun here and neither are we.

My diagnosis of why Morgan malfunctions as a chilling plunge into blood-splattered mayhem is that, before the midway point, it is pretty obvious what the eventual outcome and supposed big reveal will be. This is not the fault of the actors necessarily — there are highly respected talents involved here. It is just that we have seen most of this unfold before.

The Intervention is no embarrassment, and any time a woman is allowed to direct a film benefits the cause. But if DuVall’s purpose was to provide a snapshot of her generation, she should have sharpened her focus and dug a little deeper.

Don’t be distracted by the eye-pleasing purple and lavender hues that have been added to the typically chilly color palette. This plot is as disjointed as it sounds.

The same weakness that has plagued a goodly portion of major releases this year that rely on past successes for their reason to exist rears up again: the lack of the new and fresh.

More important than the washed-out blue-tinged rooms, bleached white interiors and sun-blasted sea and sand is Cruz, who single-handedly breathes a sense of genuineness into this maudlin exercise even if she can’t cure all of its flaws.

Irons is the gawky one. His Hardy is a socially inept bachelor who is ill-suited to the role of nurturing mentor and father figure.

Simply falls short.

A sweetly-intentioned though somewhat awkwardly structured spin on a Hallmark Channel-style dramedy that strives to shed light on the disorder from a female perspective.

In the end, it is up to Leem Lubany, a beauty who hails from Palestine and made her debut in the 2013 Oscar-nominated foreign language film "Omar," to lend a much-needed grace note as Salima.

Partisan, Cassel’s latest movie that smartly keeps his innate menace on a slow, low simmer, isn’t nearly as convincing or compelling as its star.

Instead of building upon the welcome openness of that potentially healing father-son encounter, Max stumbles through some iffy crime-thriller territory and ends up pushing its PG rating to its limit.

But Live From New York! is required viewing only if the network’s own 3½-hour marathon salute to four decades of skit hilarity earlier this year was not enough of a retrospective for you.

I kept thinking about “Lilo & Stitch” while watching Home, a decidedly disappointing effort based on the popular kid-lit book “The True Meaning of Smekday” from the already embattled folks at DreamWorks Animation.

The best parts of this tepid thriller, which seems designed to actually lower audience’s heart rates, arrive before the plot kicks in.

Nothing like a trashy, all-hell-breaks-loose onslaught of blood, bullets and babes that borrows inspiration from a recycling bin stuffed with leftovers from ‘60s grindhouse films, Japanese horror, “Kill Bill,” “Saw” and splatter-fest videogames to cleanse one’s visual palate of those highbrow Oscar contenders.

Ultimately amounts to a visually ambitious tone poem about the none-too-surprising caprices of male adolescence.

In the annals of sexually-charged event cinema, Fifty Shades of Grey barely lights a candle let alone combusts with unbridled forbidden passion.

It’s enough to make H.G. Wells roll his eyes as he rolls in his grave.

Often, Song One feels like the timid B-side of last summer’s more satisfying music-biz saga, the much less woe-is-me and a lot more let’s-have-some-fun “Begin Again.”

The issue of so-called “illegals” could not be more timely and, if Spare Parts does anything, it attempts to humanize the situation of those children who cope with this limbo-land existence without having had much choice in the matter.

Still, I laughed — enough to feel mortified at myself.

As a moviegoer, however, you do have a choice. Either weep with them–or laugh at them. Or stay far, far away.

At a certain point, however, I began to treat The Song as a kind of guilty pleasure, a not particularly good movie that nonetheless entertains in spite of itself.

The kid is the most mature person on screen. Otherwise, it is gripe, gripe, gripe and snipe, snipe, snipe, all served family style with a bare minimum of relatability.

This not-quite-horror movie is so indulgently languorous — some might describe it as poetic and mournful while those who are less kind would dismiss it as plodding and downright depressing — it is likely to test the patience of many viewers.

Michael Chiklis doesn’t get to inject nearly enough humor as Coach Lad’s more demonstrative assistant.

What ultimately should have been borrowed from Spielberg’s oeuvre but isn’t is a sense of wonder and achievement whenever characters come in contact with the unknown or overcome a great obstacle as a team. Imitation should be flattering, not flattening.

This layered melodrama strains for emotional impact with only occasional success while eventually blurring into an overlong and contrived parlor trick.

It's as messy as a teen’s bedroom and packed with all manner of distracting clutter that needlessly burdens a plot.

This supposedly uplifting true-life baseball tale never quite strikes the necessary emotional sweet spots that these types of inspirational sports movies shamelessly if effectively milk, despite a pitch with great potential.

Instead of focusing on gastronomic nirvana, this listless culinary drama feels and looks more like a glossy European travel commercial.

Rio 2 has exhausted its limited amount of charm. Most regrettably, Rita Moreno appears in her first movie in eight years as Jewel’s overbearing Aunt Mimi but is barely allowed to make an impression.

It is never a good situation when a subtitled foreign release is highly dependent on words to get its point across—especially when those words are supposed to make you laugh.

If Nancy Meyers ever decided to dabble in gothic romance, it probably would turn out to be something like The Face of Love.

There is one thing about Barefoot that makes it at least a guilty pleasure. Once you ignore how improbable Daisy is — there is something oddly captivating about Wood's performance.

Cusack's distinctive handling of his sullen poet offers an opportunity for Adult World to make a statement about youthful ambition and middle-age disillusionment beyond Billings dubbing Amy and her peers as "Generation Mundane." But the film just stops short of truly achieving that goal.

Both David-Stahl and Bell are appealing actors but unfortunately their easy-to-relate-to storyline is pretty much upstaged by the rowdy air-sex scenes.

At Middleton is the just the sort of trite if inoffensive diversion that barely tiptoes into theaters before landing in the cable and video-on-demand listings.

At the very least, the makers of That Awkward Moment should get credit for savvy casting.

Too bad that the makers of The Nut Job eagerly purloined Scrat's primal motivation—food—but failed to note the charm of his minimalist approach.

Crave, a creepy and deliberately paced thriller that is effective in its unpleasantness.

As a piece of filmmaking, Torn is slightly above TV-movie quality.

I might have tolerated the film much more with the sound off. With the volume on, this movie feels like a mucho-macho Saturday morning cartoon—specifically Bugs Bunny toying with his eternal pursuer, Elmer Fudd.

Save for a few references of being abandoned by his birth parents and adopted later, the source of Jobs's jerky behavior never is revealed.

Planes modestly succeeds. Very modestly.

Especially strange: A gimmicky cameo by an actress who outclasses all previous goings-on.

The sad fact is Williams is at his best while trapped in Andrew's original sleek form. His performance is subtle, his reactions restrained. The more Robin is exposed, the more ham is served.

Isn't smart enough to cut it as the ultimate blond joke. [25 April 1997, p. 4D]

While Van Peebles' ambitions are epic-size, his results, sad to say, are less so. This is one messy Western omelet - highly edible but overscrambled. [14 May 1993, p.3D]

Hits its silly stride early and never shifts into a higher gear.

But director Jodie Foster and writer W.D.Richter aren't content to serve the usual Planes, Trains and Cliches at their Thanksgiving feast. With her keen actor's instincts, Foster piles on plenty for her terrific cast to chew on and for us to savor. [03 Nov 1995, Pg.01.D]

While the rapping stars of House Party I and II bring a few fresh (as in cool) ideas to the premise, little about this cartoony comedy seems all that fresh (as in not stale). [05 Jun 1992, p.4D]

Parents may be pleased, children will cheer. But it's too bad the movie turtles have had to sacrifice their snap, victims of a box-office shell game. [22 Mar 1991, p.4D]

This boomer-coddling comic fantasy, in which a callous adult on the brink of 40 has a chance encounter with his pudgy, lisping 8-year-old self, is an iffier what-if.

Regard it also as a well-intentioned clunker. [10 July 1991, p.4D]

Mermaids will satisfy those who like sentiment served on a plastic platter. Others should treat it like 3-day-old fish. [14 Dec 1990, p.5D]

What starts as a bright and bouncy time-waster that at least borrows from the best of its genre-defining ilk -- "Fast Times at Ridgemont High", "Clueless", "Carrie", "The Breakfast Club" -- eventually stumbles into sappy message-movie territory. [29 Jan 1999, p. 09E]

Sinbad steers First Kid past mediocrity. [30 Aug 1996]

It's instantly devoured and quickly forgotten.

Director Hugh Wilson and co-writer Peter Torokvei allow this Driving Miss Daisy with attitude to fully steep, like a cup of fine tea spiked with lemon. [11Mar1994 Pg. 01.D]

Freddy's Dead is fan fare, with little to offer those who aren't already Freddy freaks. [16 Sept 1991, p.5D]

Even with nifty giant bird Nimbly, flying dog-dragon Falkor and Tonto-like sidekick Atreyu along for the ride, Bastian seems to meander more than tumble into fun- filled adventures. For all its echoes of Oz, Fantasia is not much of a merry old land. [11 Feb 1991, p.4D]

Despite Murphy's campaigning, Gentleman deserves a veto. [04 Dec 1992]

In this second round of so-so kung-foolery, three brothers once again strain credibility and make sushi out of new foes. [06 May 1994, p.5D]

The "nonsequel" that regathers the inspired loonies who scaled the heights of giddy anarchy in 1988's "A Fish Called Wanda," is a different comic species. [24 January 1997, p. 3D]

This joyless coming-of-age travelogue is such a downer that not even breathtaking locales can provide a lift.

Well-intentioned even as it surrenders to commercialism, G.I. Jane comes on like the ultimate battle of the sexes. But it ends up being an unfulfilling exercise in pseudo-feminism. [22 August 1997, p. 7D]

Never reaches much beyond the surface, and what lies there is all too predictable.

Although delayed several months for fine-tuning, Freejack hijacks any potential cult status with drab visuals and a lousy score. Even Jagger fans aren't going to get much satisfaction out of that. [20 Jan 1992, p.4D]

Heckerling stoops to the obvious at times and there are two car chases too many. But Look Who's Talking never insults the intelligence of adults or babies, and that's quite a feat for any comedy. [13 Oct 1989, p.4D]

Bale tends to be overwrought and self-conscious as he wrestles with his demons, here in both '60s flashbacks (the liveliest segment) and in the 1977 present, in which punk clubs and easy women represent temptation. [09 Apr 1999]

Truth is, Affleck and Paltrow flunk Chemistry 101. They aren't believable even as a fake couple.

Let others recharge that tired Die Hard formula. Cameron invents a new kind of family therapy that saves your marriage and the world. [15 Jul 1994 Pg. 01.D]

It's still a sick kick to see the little girl (with braces, no less) sink her teeth into her own mother. But doing a Sunset of the Dead might have been a more appetizing idea. [23 Oct 1990, p.6D]

Ryder's commitment is impressive. If her movie only had her courage.

While the film comes to a mildly clever conclusion, it feels like a bottle of vintage champagne that never gets to pop its cork at midnight. All that fizz potential wasted. [26 Feb 1999]

In its third go-round, the Lethal Weapon arsenal is running out of ammunition. [15 May 1992]

Works best as a ponderous metaphor for life's uncertainties. As a lighthearted comedy, the force, alas, is not with it. [19 March 1999, Life, p.13E]

But all the devices and upgrades do little to bring the poetry's meaning into clearer and more relevant focus for today's audiences.

Fossilized script spoils effects.