Kevin Kline makes a terrific Errol Flynn. He just picked the wrong movie to prove it.

Mostly, it's fine. The acting is fine. The writing is fine. The story is fine. There are a few laughs. And that should be fine enough. But with material as rich as Leonard's serving as the foundation, just fine is a disappointment.

Not a lot happens, other than eating between small bits of drama and large doses of humor. If you saw the first film, you know how good that can be.

In addition to the performances — truly, everyone is good — what stands out is Sachs' direction. It's measured, patient. The scenes play out as one imagines the characters' lives would.

Frank is a true original, a film that heads in one direction only to veer off in another, yet never loses sight of where it's going.

The One I Love is an odd, unsettling and ultimately satisfying movie.

Nothing fresh is being brought to the table, but it's a sufficient bit of fun for anyone who longs for the days of Brosnan's spy swagger.

Granted, all the fine elements don't add up to make the deepest or most compelling film. Instead, it's a series of self-contained scenes that don't always hang together as a whole. But like a good hotel, there are enough comforts to make the stay worthwhile.

The brutally sparse documentary Rich Hill removes poverty from the realm of the abstract and makes it personal.

The Possession of Michael King is more scary than original.

There's a purity to the experience of watching a film so naturalistic, like living in someone else's life for two hours.

The film is choppy in parts, but it is George Takei's approachability, his constant big laughter, even his singing (he performs "Don't Fence Me In" after explaining how the internment camps made the lyrics poignant to him) that tie it together.

The problem is that almost everything in the film feels either forced or false, so the tears aren't earned.

Despite the best efforts of Plaza and the rest of the cast, Life After Beth never winds up being as scary or as funny as it ought to be.

There's no question that a soft-spoken person can be a great leader, but Caviezel underplays Ladouceur to the point that you wonder how the players could even hear him, much less be inspired by him.

To stay fresh, you have to evolve. Rodriguez and Miller have stayed the same.

The film is less effective, and less focused, when it switches into activism mode. Not that its heart isn't in the right place — we all know about the appalling state of institutionalized elder care. Which is the problem with those segments: We all know this already, and the filmmaking feels like perfunctory, necessary padding.

Vincent Grashaw's film, although well-meaning (as a postscript reminds us), tries too hard, both in content and form.

It's just a good yarn, well told. So don't be deterred by the title (it sounds like a lame horror movie) or the description.

There are some laughs here, but not many. Johnson and Wayans have a pleasant enough chemistry, but the best parts of the movie are when Johnson gives Ryan an unhinged quality.

This isn't a terrible movie. It just falls flat, in almost every way. It exists and not much else. It's all too predictable, and way too heavy-handed.

The charm of these movies — such as it is — comes from the notion of aging action stars slugging it out between wheezes. So when Stallone brings in a new cast of mostly generic warriors, the premise, like the movie, deflates.

The finale's energy level and actor buy-in makes it vastly more enjoyable than the rest of the film.

Of the bunch, Plaza, Minghella and Parker fare best, though Parker's Ben is weighed down with cliches. Alex ostensibly is the focal point of the film, but Ritter is relegated mostly to observer status, healing while watching the melodramas unfold around him. A few of them are interesting. But not enough, not in a story that seems familiar because, after all, it is.

The movie belongs to Gleeson, commanding in every scene, even when he's sitting silently, listening to another sinner go on about what's wrong with everyone else.

Director Michael Dowse (from the underrated Topher Grace comedy "Take Me Home Tonight") fuels the story with atmosphere, with lots of nighttime activity and bustle. He keeps things grounded in reality, though little touches (Chantry imagines her drawings coming to life) add an extra — and, perhaps, excessive — sweetness.

There's comfort food and there are comfort movies. In Lasse Hallstrom's The Hundred-Foot Journey, you get a full helping of both. And guess what? It's all very comforting.

It's just kind of a mess, as unfocused and immature as the four mutant turtles at its core. Stuff happens, stuff blows up and this is probably a good time to mention that Michael Bay produced the film.