If you have young kids and want to spend two hours out of the house in a cool, air-conditioned theater, then go see “Haunted Mansion.” But if you can hold out until it’s released on Disney+ all the better. It’s really not worth spending money on the ticket.

Without Lohan, Falling for Christmas would be another of the near-anonymous morass of holiday movies so prevalent during the season. Even with her it’s not much more.

Too often the jokes don’t land. Neither does the physical comedy. The story doesn’t really hold. It’s clear that Schneider and his daughter love each other, and this film is a way to express that. But it’s a lot to ask of the rest of us to watch it.

It’s not clear that the movie has anything to say, new or otherwise. . . . Other than that it’s just blood and guts, and lots of it.

The movie... keeps things surface-level when it comes to Bieber’s life and doesn’t give fans any new insight into the pop star that they haven’t been able to glean from his social media posts.

In fairness, you can say that Mortal Kombat is pretty much exactly what you expect it to be. It’s clearly meant as the first film in a renewed franchise. But for me, it’s game over.

The script to this flop doesn't even have enough laughs to amuse someone in the most boring of orthodontist waiting rooms.

Director Michael Goi is big on jump shocks that get increasingly tiresome.

Maybe there’s a place in the film world for El Coyote as a cult artifact, something that years from now enthusiasts will defend as a kind of dada experiment. In the moment, though, as you suffer through it, it’s just an ill-conceived mess.

In the end, if someone doesn't have the time to absorb Tartt's book, they'd be better serviced reading a Wikipedia synopsis than seeing this film.

While the film’s last 30 seconds are refreshing, they hardly redeem the previous 90 minutes of utter predictability.

It doesn’t take long to suspect you are witnessing an epic fail of Alexander proportions — a visionary filmmaker pouring years of craft and ambition, not to mention millions of dollars and the talents of dozens of gung-ho actors, down the drain of a misconceived “statement.”

Climax is actually two movies, one in which you hang out at a party with young dancers who are as wearisome as they are flexible, and the other with the same group on acid. Neither is the least bit interesting.

¡He Matado a Mi Marido! seems to be inspired by the kind of bold comedies that Pedro Almodóvar specializes in, with divas at center stage and madcap situations. But writer-director Francisco Lupini-Basagoiti is no Almodóvar, mistaking stupidity for zaniness.

When an inane ending appears out of nowhere and purports to add depth to a movie which has little? That's just maddening. And the twist in Serenity leaves you feeling both cheated and annoyed, which surely isn't the filmmaker's intention.

People who love thrillers without question may find a lot to enjoy here. For a political thriller, it's not one of the most cerebral out there. Those who simply love Curtis and Sumpter might also like the film. But other than those perks, audiences are better off saving their money.

Landais certainly brought little cinematic verve to The Aspern Papers, telling the story largely in turgid literary voiceover lifted directly from the original source material.

The goal here was to show the tragic downfall of a once-praised hero, similar to the actual poem written by Wilde with the same name. But because of the lack of depth in supporting characters and half-baked writing, this movie couldn't have ended fast enough.

Life Itself is one of the worst kind of bad movies, because it achieves nothing that it sets out to do.

If it balanced out the wild drinking, dancing and sexual scenes with moments that dug under the characters' surface, it could've been a more solid film.

D'Souza fans and Trump apologists will flock to this, misguided moths to a misleading flame. In that way, it's a perfect representation of the current climate. In every other way, it's a mess.

Journalists deserve to be heralded — just not in this holier-than-thou cinematic cri de coeur. So, on behalf of journalists everywhere, I have to tell Mr. Reiner thanks, but no thanks.

These supremely talented women are put through embarrassing paces by director and co-writer Bill Holderman. It’s meant to be a film about a reawakening of desire, and thus life. It turns out to be a wince-inducing mess.

Yes, it recalls “Turner and Hooch,” a movie Show Dogs references so many times you start to feel nostalgic for it. And when you find yourself longing for “Turner and Hooch,” things are very bleak indeed.

Johnson and Dornan retain the chemistry of two mannequins knocked into each other in a department-store storage closet; the actual sex scenes play more like aerobics videos than anything actually steamy.

The title Acts of Violence has less to do with the storyline of the movie it graces and more about what’s perpetrated against the audience watching it.

The dialogue is agony.

The Snowman is like if aliens studied humanity and tried to make their own movie in an attempt to communicate with us. This simulacrum contains all the requisite pieces of a movie, but humanity got lost in translation.