This is one of the strangest yet most satisfying movie experiences of the year, one of those films in which you can’t really appreciate what you’ve seen until it’s over. You just have to trust that the trip is worth the trouble. And it is.

Disney scholars may scoff that it’s not a warts-and-all portrayal of the struggle to bring “Mary Poppins” to the screen, but that seems almost churlish in light of the enthusiasm Hanks brings to the film, or the eventually melting icy facade Thompson puts up.

For a film that purports to love dinosaurs, this bigger, flashier Walking With Dinosaurs sure doesn’t trust them to be interesting enough to carry five minutes of a movie without the copious aid of slapstick and bathroom humor in a screenplay so rote it makes creatures that have been dead for 65 million years feel less fossilized than the jokes.

Boasting terrific acting, a brilliant soundtrack, outrageous outfits and hair, and a kinda-sorta based-on-fact story of ambition and greed, it’s relentless, in the best possible way.

Is it a good movie? It’s OK. But is it funny? It is, and ultimately that’s all it sets out to be.

A Madea Christmas, for all its narrative shortcomings, also has plenty of laughs.

It’s too straightforward, at least in terms of what we’ve come to expect from Sayles.

It’s a mix of good films that could have been a single outstanding one.

Tucci and Eve command the screen throughout, shifting tone and intensity as they go. It’s fascinating. So is the film, well worth watching and arguing over. Which, in LaBute’s hands, is doubtless the point.

It’s a Fellini-esque carnival of humanity on display, a more debauched phantasmagoria reminiscent of “La Dolce Vita.” But “La Dolce Vita” created the paparazzi; The Great Beauty takes place in a world where the paparazzi have existed for decades.

For fantasy fans who have dreamed all their lives of spending time inside Tolkien’s dazzling alternative reality, it’s a ride well worth taking.

Among the many historical documentaries on Israel there are to choose from, this one is tantamount to two hours of footnotes.

Gondry’s illustrations are as fascinating as the chats. Sometimes they look like markers on a napkin. Other times they are reminiscent of something made on the old Lite-Brite toy. They’re always delightful.

Interesting as it is, Narco Cultura aims to tell the story of what’s happened in Juarez and in Mexico (and, by virtue of its immense appetite for drugs, the U.S.). Instead, it feels more like a couple of intriguing chapters.

Bouncing back and forth in time and emotional space, The Broken Circle Breakdown contains moments of beauty, power and tragedy, but the constant churning sometimes leaves the film without a solid foundation. Ah, but then there’s the music, soaring bluegrass performed with passion and talent.

Schnack presents all this without commentary, stitching together appearances and speeches and strategy sessions. As is often the case, he doesn’t need to make the point about the quality of politics at work in Caucus. The candidates do it for him.

Out of the Furnace goes so far out of its way to be gritty and meaningful that it sometimes neglects its strongest feature: its actors.

The singing is terrific, particularly whenever Hudson belts out a number (and there is really no other way to describe her powerhouse vocals). But the story is trite and predictable, if heartfelt.

Statham is always good as the silent butt-kicking type and is fine here. Franco, as is often the case, seems to be acting in his own private movie and having a grand old time doing so; results for the audience may vary. Bosworth is good, scary skinny and wired for trouble as a menacing mom.

Philomena could have been a sappy movie, but it’s not. Instead, with such assured performances, it’s proof that sometimes a laugh makes swallowing a big dose of outrage a little easier.

Frozen is a delightful animated musical, a return to form for Disney animation with an intriguing story and terrific songs.

Surprisingly, the movie doesn’t bear much of the stylistic stamp we’ve come to expect of Lee, who’s in his generic journeyman mode here. But aside from a satisfyingly clever new direction in the denouement, what distinguishes the remake from the original is its cartoonishness.

Plenty of families harbor resentments, but the goings-on here become ridiculous. Which is too bad, because Cold Turkey has the seeds of a good movie.

The whole thing is sentimental corn, which isn’t bad if it’s handled with conviction and sincerity. But the direction by John Stephenson (better known for special effects than directing) is resolutely stiff and hollow. That’s murder for a movie dealing with miracles.

Nebraska is as cold and unforgiving as its setting, yet just as stunning.

To call Armstrong’s story a tragedy is probably an overblown notion. But it does involve sadness, not just with its depiction of a fallen idol, but with the necessary acknowledgment that some of our own hopes and dreams fell alongside him.

It’s not a bad movie, by any means. Just repetitive in its relentless praise.

Delivery Man means well, but it’s innocuous to the point of non-existence. In trying to please everyone, the film runs the risk of pleasing no one.