Susan Wloszczyna

Good intentions do count even if the outcome is not perfect.

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.

Still, the funny lady is better at zinging quips than defining her Socialist agenda.

If all I saw was the first half, I would have given it a shrug and left in a semi-foul mood. But the whole is greater for being two parts in this case, making me glad that I have finally lost my Hong Sang-soo virginity.

The result might be less fulfilling this time, but “Dory” is ultimately worth the voyage.

Whatever the flaws, The Music of Strangers does provide enough enticements to make it worth a sit, if only to see Mr. Rogers greet Ma in an old TV clip.

Luckily, many of the plot’s maudlin pitfalls are greatly mitigated by the film’s utterly infectious leading lady. Emilia Clarke’s performance is winningly immersed in charming gawkiness and heartfelt sincerity.

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.

The Angry Birds Movie isn’t a total turkey. The animation itself is OK and I did laugh out loud once.

At the very least, we should give thanks that an almighty cinematographer like Emmanuel Lubezki, who has won a record three consecutive Oscars for his work on “Gravity,” “Birdman” and “The Revenant,” exists.

Proves to be a kind of career rehab for Dad.

What Messina lacks in substance in his storytelling, he mostly makes up with raw feelings. We come to care through our own powers of observation, and that might be enough.

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.

A dinner-party-from-hell scenario best served as unspoiled as possible. After all, a psychological thriller built upon slow-simmering tension is only as good as its surprises.

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.

As tedious as much of this sounds, an odd thing happened around “Allegiant’s” midway point. The fairly packed audience started vocally reacting “Rocky Horror”-style to some of the more overtly melodramatic turns with “oohs," “ahhs” and even laughter.

Hello, My Name is Doris is like a beacon of beckoning human warmth just waiting to be cherished.

Is Whiskey Tango Foxtrot a horrible movie about a white outsider plopped in the middle of Afghanistan? No, that would be last year’s “Rock the Kasbah.” But neither does Whiskey Tango Foxtrot fulfill its assigned duty to provide evidence of Fey’s versatility.

Rather than presenting something akin to the heady youthful cravings of Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes as contemporary versions of Romeo and Juliet, the equally tragic Marguerite & Julien often feels more like a version of Richie and Margot in Wes Anderson’s “The Royal Tenenbaums” crossed with the pre-teen runaways from “Moonrise Kingdom,” but minus the humor and insight.

In her latest film Touched With Fire, she (Holmes) delivers a beautifully understated and moving performance.

But what might seem innocent enough on the written page is often downright silly if insulting on the big screen.

One of the loudest laughs arrives when we get to enjoy a scowling James re-imagined as a game character. Points for greater diversity in the cast as well, but, if there is a second sequel in the offing, please allow the women to be more than the sum of their body parts.

If you prefer acting prowess over “Star Wars,” you won’t do better at year’s end than observing Rampling (she of the withering stare) and Courtenay (he of the soulful gaze), two stalwarts of that wonderful wave of British talent that hit our shores in the ‘60s, as they perform a finely calibrated pas de deux.

I kept thinking one thing during most of Don Verdean: What would Christopher Guest do with his company of ace ad-libbers with such material? And the answer suddenly came to me — probably toss it in the trash and start all over again.

It fails to provide the sorts of human inter-connections and deep revelations for which director Mitch Davis seems to be striving.

For anyone who adores Smith—which is pretty much everyone these days—they will have quite a satisfying ride with this crusty grand dame behind the wheel.