It’s well-staged, well-acted, all the right people die in the end. It comes down to, well, Romeo and Juliet, really, and Douglas Booth and Hailee Steinfeld prove capable in the title roles.

Turns out there can be too much of a good thing. Or a campy thing. Or a silly thing. Or a subtle-as-a-brick-in-the-face thing.

The story of how Moore made the movie is ultimately more interesting than the film he’s put together. It’s not for lack of trying. It’s more a lack of a cogent story.

You can’t help feeling as if Miller has missed an opportunity. Punk rock was all about manic energy, unbridled (and often unfocused) passion. CBGB plays more like a folk tale.

The acting is first rate, the story still heartbreakingly urgent. But ultimately Parkland plays more like a re-enactment than a film in its own right.

The movie’s best moments are the small ones.

It’s not that this slight, good-natured comedy is going to set the world on fire. But the movie boasts an understated sweetness, largely fueled by Camil’s movie-star charms.

The love the two have for each other, particularly she for him, is obvious and moving. So, too, is not just the desire to create, but the need to.

Captain Phillips is a voyage well-worth taking.

Props to Bad Milo for its fearlessly pulp approach in exploring well-worn characters and their ho-hum dilemmas, but you know you’ve got a dull story on your hands when not even a butt monster can jazz it up enough.

It is a remarkable achievement.

An engaging film that’s head and shoulders above the average talking-head parade.

Moors is neither showy nor exploitative in his telling of the story. He just lays out the details, making “Blue Caprice” not just a story of horror, but of tragedy.

You may or may not be surprised by developments here, but it doesn’t really matter. What does is the honesty of the characters and the absolute delight it is to spend time with them.

Picks up where the first film left off, literally, and offers at least as many laughs (if not more for adults), retaining the goofy attitude. Cameron and Pearn throw a lot at the wall, just like their predecessors, and most of it sticks.

Diggs does what he can with the part, as does Patton. There are some funny moments, because most of the cast is so charming. But not enough to make up for the Stone Age attitude about women and marriage.

It makes for a unique sort of concert film, but also a weaker one. It would have been better if it had dispensed with the frail narrative or else committed to being completely bananas. But as die-hard Metallica fans well know, a little buffoonery is worth weathering for the main attraction.

A sharp turn on the romantic comedy, a movie about flawed people doing flawed things, often in funny fashion.

Howard, whose first job as a director was the 1977 Roger Corman-produced “Grand Theft Auto,” has captured what is surely the greatest racing footage ever shot.

This is a film as powerful as it is painful.

A Single Shot never rises to the level of a great film like “Winter’s Bone,” which digs much deeper in its depiction of life in the hills among the desperate poor. But thanks largely to Rockwell, it’s not bad, either.

Oh, and the title? It could be an apt description for almost any character in the movie at one time or another. The satisfaction is in finding out who, if anyone, will be set free.

A delightful look at the public career and mostly private life of the ultimate professional amateur.

Just good enough to pique your curiosity, but never quite good enough to captivate.

It’s aggressively charming, and competitions and training montages are filmed with kinetic whimsy. The film’s chief triumph is in spinning something remotely thrilling out of something as inherently dull as speed typing.

Cash was the star, after all. Saul Holiff was an important part of that, but My Father and the Man in Black makes a rather clunky case for it.

Except where “The Conjuring” invigorated horror-movie tropes with inventive application and strong characters, Insidious only wallows in them.

Yes, The Family has skills. They’re like “The Incredibles” — except they’re heroes for sadists and sociopaths only.

Mulloy’s only other directing credit is for the documentary short “This Morning.” She brings a documentarian’s objective eye to Una Noche, yet the actors — non-professionals — convey exactly the emotions she is looking for.

The Patience Stone largely functions as a one-woman play, with Farahani’s character soliloquizing over her husband’s body.

What makes Drinking Buddies so compelling is that feeling that these are real people, behaving in real ways.

It falls to Wright and Watts to shoulder the heavy lifting here, and they do so with as much grace as the plot will allow. Adore isn’t the feminist medication Fontaine probably means it to be, but it’s not the unintentional laugh riot it could have been in lesser hands, either.

Riddick aims much lower than the stars and still doesn't quite hit its target. But when you consider a summer overstuffed with disappointing prestige pics that cost the GDP of several island nations to produce, Riddick's more modest (and less expensive) stumbling doesn't seem so bad in comparison.

The movie ultimately winds up falling between two stools, failing as both a biography and an action film. Martial arts fans will naturally be drawn to the story, but the film does nothing to open up the world to outsiders.

The resulting portrait is nothing short of a tiny filmmaking miracle. It’s guaranteed to make you feel something — hopeful, probably, for Grace and her wards. And maybe even for the future of indie filmmaking.

One of the joys of a good Brian De Palma film is his willingness to go over the top. In a film that isn’t so good, that excess becomes a lot less enjoyable. And Passion isn’t so good.

Some of the comic bits are a little too broad and silly, but Derbez, in his feature debut, makes Instructions Not Included a balancing act more successful than it should be.

The directors (Lapeyre also wrote the film) have gathered a terrific bunch of young actors for the film, which plays at times like a “Lord of the Flies” knockoff but also has something original to say.

Gomez plays ... well, that’s one of the problems. Her character is so underdeveloped in director Courtney Solomon’s movie that she doesn’t actually have a name.

The director is known for visually quirky choices and offbeat interviews and asides. These techniques can be a mixed bag; sometimes they help lighten up a deadly serious segment, other times they seems silly. But it’s distinctive, and “This Is Us” could have used more of it.

The end result is as dour and unilluminating as British weather.

These characters are more than willing to risk their lives to further advances in science. That’s a passion and dedication that fuels Europa Report, and Cordero makes the most of it.

It’s easy to roll your eyes at what we see in “One Track Heart,” but harder to dismiss the happiness and peace on display here.

It’s a compelling topic, even if directors Steve Brown and Jessie Deeter don’t dig deeply into the cultural and psychological significance of it.

Austenland plays out like an overly elaborate excuse to have people act silly in corsets and bloomers.

Although at times maybe not enough happens, it’s still a satisfying homage to a golden age of American film and an original achievement in its own right.

Turns out You’re Next isn’t a slave to horror-movie conventions after all — rather, it’s having tongue-in-cheek fun with conventions while playing up to them, complete with a killer retro ’80s-horror synth score and a gruesome finale that recalls the excess of Peter Jackson’s “Dead Alive.”

A mix of comedy, science fiction, nostalgia, adolescent wish-fulfillment and beer, beer, beer, its parts shouldn’t fit together as neatly as they do. But somehow Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg have again managed to make a movie that is knowing, touching and hilarious.

There’s so much bouncing around in tone and story that this film never really finds its footing. It flounders around trying to figure out what it should be, and never really settles on anything.

Sole Survivor is a puzzle whose pieces don’t fit together perfectly, but still create an cohesive whole.

Paul Schrader, the once-brilliant screenwriter of such films as “Taxi Driver” and “Raging Bull,” has fashioned a movie that seems to exist to be repugnant. Maybe that’s the point; it was written by Bret Easton Ellis. Nearly every character in this movie is unlikable.

"Idiots” definitely isn’t for everyone, but its wry sensibility is several degrees more original than your average Hollywood knee-slapper.

Paranoia is ostensibly a thriller, but there’s nothing remotely thrilling about it. This slick, plodding bore is as exciting as watching somebody else tap out text messages.

Kick-Ass 2 has a mean-spirited vigilante streak the first film lacked (it seemed more concerned with justice, in its way), as well as a fatigue. It’s still funny, particularly when Hit Girl spews profanity and wields weapons. It’s just not as good.

The world Bell creates in In a World ... is so agreeable and inviting you’ll enjoy the visit.

Make no mistake, Daniels is gunning for awards here; the movie has that sheen, that Big Important Feel. But the performances keep it grounded. Let someone else decide winners and losers. Just enjoy “The Butler” for the sometimes-moving experience it is.

If it weren’t for his voice, Kutcher would have been the ideal choice to star in Jobs, a well-meant but ultimately unsurprising biopic.

Blackfish is a disturbing movie, one that will make you rethink parks like SeaWorld and their value.

Despite a couple of powerful performances, a big-name cast and an ambitious structure, Lovelace...feels oddly half-baked, almost unfinished.

As far as missteps go, Prince Avalanche is at least an interesting one, which is better than Green has done in awhile.

James Ponsoldt’s film, and its stars, Miles Teller and Shailene Woodley, continually take us in unexpected directions, giving the film an unexpected depth. It feels real, its emotions earned.

Planes was originally scheduled to be released straight to video. Although the smallest children might like bits and pieces of it, there’s nothing in the movie that suggests why Disney strayed from its original plan.

Kudos to Blomkamp for not shying away from social issues in his films, but here the execution doesn’t live to the intentions.

We’re the Millers plays like a “Saturday Night Live” skit that goes on too long.

What makes mythology so great is its sense of danger, the threat of real loss. This version of “Percy” has none of that.

A brittle, pompous drama.

It’s clever. It’s also occasionally a chore to watch, true to the boredom you’d expect to feel listening to computer programmers hash out chess logistics.

Matthias Hoene’s delightfully chipper film delivers, even on the “not-a-lot-more” front. He set out to make a funny, fast-moving gross-out zombie flick, nothing beyond that, and he has succeeded with style. And humor. And guts. Lots of spilling, dangling guts (and other body parts).

It’s Allen’s best film in years, an authentic-feeling deconstruction of a life. It isn’t always easy to watch. It isn’t exactly fun (although parts are funny). Blanchett’s performance sometimes overpowers the story. But it’s an essential work in Allen’s later canon.

The Act of Killing is a horrifying film, a surreal experience that explores the limits of human cruelty. It’s a film that is absolutely hard to watch. It’s also a film that absolutely should be seen.

Wahlberg and Washington are so good together, quips flying as fast as lead, that much is forgiven.

There are a few laughs here and there, along with a couple of jokes for grown-ups uncomfortably squeezed in. But this is a movie made for two groups: small children and people who have fond memories of the TV show.

It isn’t just a terrific movie. It’s an important one.

It’s the kind of movie that takes you by surprise. By the time it’s done, the honesty of the performances and the depth of character that’s revealed is exhilarating.

To call the film slight is an understatement, and its budget, particularly for a movie with genuine sci-fi elements, is miniscule. But it is so charming and sweet...and the songs are so winning that it is impossible not to fall for it.

Thomas Vinterberg’s film puts us just on the edge of screaming frustration; Mads Mikkelsen’s terrific performance (for which he won the best actor award at Cannes in 2012) only makes the film more powerful.

Our teenage years are so overwrought with emotion; not to put them in play at all makes Brandy feel like little more than a cipher for Plaza’s deadpan dark humor. And that’s pleasurable enough for a quick fling, but hardly the foundation of a lasting relationship.

The filmmakers work at creating a new take on an old protagonist and then don’t really have much new to do with him once they’ve achieved that. It’s a good effort. Just not an entirely successful one.

It's an unpleasant way to pass a couple summer hours.

Still Mine is a rewarding, performance-based film, ultimately a small pleasure to spend time with.

Laurence Anyways is like a big, ornate, overstuffed pillow of a movie. It’s attractive and comfortable, even if there’s just too much of it.

It’s not that overwrought violence and human depravity are unfit grist for art, but without a compelling plot and a modicum of character development, all this film has to offer is a repugnant prurience and heavy-handed atmospherics.

For all the well-traveled roads in Girl Most Likely, Berman and Pulcini bring a sweetness to the material that suits Wiig’s offbeat talents. We know we’re being played, but really, if we’re enjoying it, why complain?

There is a fine line between silly dumb fun and out-and-out stupidity, and “Red 2” crosses it one time too many.

A sense of dread permeates The Conjuring from the start, and it’s delightful.

Competent, pretty funny in places, awfully nice to look at, that sort of thing. There’s just not a lot of excitement, though.

Directors Drew DeNicola and Olivia Mori’s film Big Star: Nothing Can Hurt Me looks at the band’s rise, such as it was, and its inevitable crumbling, as well as the influence its recorded legacy had on popular music. And it’s terrific.

The gags are stale, the characters uninvolving and bits meant to titillate don’t.

In a movie with uniformly outstanding performances, Rockwell, as ever, is especially good. So is Carell, playing against type. But what makes The Way, Way Back stand out is Faxon and Rash’s obvious familiarity with what Duncan is going through.

It’s hard to imagine another comedy coming along this year that is this abrasive and free of laughs. It’s like everyone involved intentionally tried to create a horrible movie.

It’s not the best movie of the summer, not by a long shot, but if there’s such a thing as smarter dumb fun, this is probably it.

20 Feet From Stardom is frequently sad and frustrating. But while there’s heartbreak aplenty, the film doesn’t function as a pitying paean to unmined talent — it’s ultimately a celebration of the unsung.

Jordan’s tone is consistently drab and morose, which is fitting enough, but the story drags a bit, bouncing back and forth in time in a manner that is sometimes useful, sometimes not. Overall, though, it’s an intriguing addition to the genre.

This well-intentioned buddy-road-trip flick lacks the danger, the drama and the sex appeal that most moviegoers will be looking for.

A too-good Gru is a boring Gru. No matter how much you crank up the adorability factor or offer up the occasional laugh, there is no getting around that.

The Lone Ranger is a frustrating exercise in overkill, a kind-of, sort-of interesting idea buried in summer-movie excess.

Redemption doesn’t have the chutzpah to let loose and be as dumb as it needs to be, so it instead bores the audience comatose with long stretches of sad-face Statham putzing around an apartment to justify the too-brief bursts of giddy bone-breaking.

Everything is so bizarre and deadpan, the humor just sort of sneaks up on you, until you’re laughing without even meaning to. It’s a neat mix of subtlety and over-the-top bloodshed, with everything played with a straight face.