The film is a perpetual series of build-ups that end up going nowhere. Even with the short running time, Ghost Team slogs along for an eternity. Avoid this unfortunate misfire at all costs.

For modern-day connoisseurs of the Beatles, this film will yield few revelations, though it offers a delightful stroll down memory lane and understanding of how the four young men functioned as a unit.

No Manches Frida tries wildly to delight, but goes nowhere. It is the cinematic equivalent to the cringeworthy class clown at the back of the room that everyone ignores. It's just embarrassing.

Nobody’s a monster here, and that’s the subtle, aching rub of Little Men: Everyone is right in their claim, depending on the right angle, be it economic, sentimental, moral, or fraternal.

It’s a pleasure to watch, if not always to sit through.

Director Lane and screenwriter Thom Stylinski take a lighthearted, folksy approach to telling Brinkley’s life story, using fairly unsophisticated animation and twangy vocalizations in the spirit of the man’s carefully created image.

The entire plot exists for the sole purpose of the yawning revelation in the film’s last five minutes.

As Lo and Behold anecdotally lays it out, in the blink of the eye of human history, this invention has become essential, and in another blink – a solar flare, or cyberwarfare – its failure could trigger a civilization’s collapse.

The moral dilemma at the crux of the story is what makes it interesting, and good choices were made in the casting of Fassbender and Vikander, he so deft at playing men suffering silently from inner turmoil and she so emotively open-faced.

Because of the episodic nature of the material, Klown Forever feels more like a series of events rather than a cohesive whole. That’s fine with me, as I enjoy spending time with these bumbling, emasculated males grappling with their ultimate insignificance in the world.

Writer/director Damien Lay’s screenplay has some head-scratchers in addition to its flat dialogue, but it’s clear that the airplanes rather than the characters are his real passion. Unfortunately, his film never takes flight.

A flat and tedious action film that elicited the most lethal response possible when I asked my movie date what she thought after the credits rolled: “boring.” Agreed.

The subtitle of Richard Linklater: dream is destiny is drawn from a line of dialogue found in his equally groundbreaking and hypnagogic animated art film "Waking Life," and it serves as a mission statement of sorts for his entire oeuvre and endlessly curious philosophy.

As in Richard Linklater’s lovely "Before Sunrise," the film’s principal pleasure comes from watching two people connect as they get to know each other over the course of several hours.

I could watch Ramírez read the phone book, as the old saw goes. He is one of the most vibrant and charismatic actors working today. He infuses Durán with a charm and a recklessness that is tempered by De Niro’s quiet, understated performance, something he can do in his sleep.

David Hunt’s exhausting film runs over two hours and adheres to a kitchen-sink ethos of sports tropes and spiritual asides.

More methodical than innovative, Don’t Breathe is nevertheless an effective suspenser.

It’s not the unmitigated disaster early reviews suggested. Instead, it is a blandly competent and doggedly uninspired redo of material adapted a half-dozen times already.

Visually inventive and offering up a complex view of family interaction, Kubo and the Two Strings is another feather in the cap for Laika, and a marvel to behold.

Whenever War Dogs plods, close your eyes and count the seconds. Hill’s next deranged little giggle will be along shortly to pick you up.

Equity is a movie about working women that was made by and financed by women, providing a backstory that’s almost as interesting as the movie itself.

Sausage Party glints of greatness, but this is half-cocked comedy at best.

Pete’s Dragon has the power to breathe fire into the most tepid of souls.

Indignation, however, is not really about sex, but rather, the cataclysms that can result from the most banal of choices.

Hell or High Water is a good but not great movie with sensational lead performances that elevate it to enjoyably memorable status.

Brutally frank, and with a biting sense of humor and an earnest love for her husband, Michel, at least for me, becomes the emotional center from which the film radiates.

For the incomparable Streep, it’s yet another performance in high C.

As a document of an extraordinary event, Anthropoid does the disservice of rendering this bit of World War II history dull and colorless. I’m sure there’s a History Channel show that tells the tale better.

The dialogue is enough to make your hair stand on end.

Birbiglia’s acute perspective will pertain to almost any industry in which a few are chosen to advance and the vast majority are left to wonder, “Why not me?”

Horror movies tend to be pretty quick affairs, clocking in at 90 minutes or less, but The Wailing runs over two-and-a-half hours. That's because Na's recipe absolutely requires simmering before it rips your guts out (and everyone else's).

This weighty French/Polish production is chock-full of moral dilemmas borne from its unthinkable scenario. At times, it’s not an easy experience.

There’s no one to root for in this movie, and no one whose prospects we care about. Several plot points lack coherence, and inserted flashbacks add to a sense of the film having been fused into shape in the editing room. It seems that Suicide Squad was done in by its own hand.

Up until now, Roberts and Franco have been second-tier actors in the industry food chain, but their first-rate performances in this better-than-average genre flick exude something called charisma. After this film, the two of them may graduate from watchers to players.

Notably, Phantom Boy treads territory that’s similar to much of Hayao Miyazaki’s work, with a main character seeking the otherworldly in the face of a terrible reality. Missing, though, is the narrative and emotional cohesiveness that would likely have led to Felicioli and Gagnol’s film being a more engaging and memorable work

This current film smartly adds material that keeps it up-to-date with the reality of today’s sophisticated electronic surveillance. The series may become a marker by which we come to gauge the future disappearance of all personal privacy. For the sake of the series’ endurance, I hope so, but for the sake of the rest of us, I hope not.

Come for the sophisticated charm and intoxicating wit suggested by the term “café society.” Stay for the rote charms and recycled bons mots offered up by Woody Allen’s umpteenth movie, a decidedly lesser entry in the director’s vast catalog but, as with all Allen movies, a cut above most everything else that passes for comedy these days.

Jokes about anal sex and cameos by the likes of Martha Stewart and Wanda Sykes help or hinder as the case may be, but know that your level of enjoyment is directly proportional to how many drinks you’ve had. My advice: Make it a double.

Lin’s F&F films are operatically dumb, which was what makes them so much fun; maybe if Star Trek Beyond were stupider it wouldn’t feel like such a chore.

Anything but dull, Gibney’s clarion call whipsaws along like a combo Jason Bourne/007 thriller minus all that running. Unnerving and likely to give viewers some bitter food for thought, Zero Days is Gibney’s most important work yet.

It’s the cinematic equivalent to a carnival funhouse: a bit scary when you’re traversing it, but utterly forgettable (and mildly regrettable) once it’s over.

Owen’s story is unique, and deserving of singling out.

Collision Course is overstuffed with meandering, unnecessary micro-storylines, far too many new characters, and an obvious lack of focus, none of which should impact the movie’s target demographic, kids under 10.

Uninterested in persuasion or education, this third documentary by Dinesh D’Souza is designed to aggressively reinforce prejudices and hostilities among true believing conservatives as it offers a “history” of the deliberately evil, completely corrupt, America-hating Democrats.

For a while, the freeing experience of the clan’s nonconformity gets tamped down, and the movie appears headed toward some kind of moralized conclusion. Once back on familiar ground, however, Captain Fantastic rights itself toward as happy an ending as possible, without too much compromise.

If the movie isn’t so fabulous, should die-hard fans who can quote the show by heart see it? Absolutely. (The gays are sure to love it.)

What elevates this conventional tale is how Waititi tells it. With sharp, nimble humor, and one-liners that come a mile a minute, Wilderpeople is a sweet story told with biting wit and an editing style that keeps things going at a rapid pace.

This is a guy who marched to the beat of his own drum, even one that’s got two spoked wheels and some handlebars.

Despite its overly familiar ring and lack of genuine suspense, there are nice touches that can be found throughout The Infiltrator. Brad Furman (The Lincoln Lawyer), however, hasn’t the stylistic chops to turn this from a routine movie into a memorable thriller.

The actresses are so quick and so supple, the force of their individual personalities and their irresistible camaraderie hoik the film up from its middling story and scripted jokes. I would have happily stayed in my seat another two hours to continue keeping their company. Just in a better movie.

Tickled doesn’t quite answer all of the questions it brings up, and there’s a nagging feeling that there is much more to this story than portrayed.

Crafted by much of the same creative team behind the "Despicable Me" franchise, The Secret Life has wit, for sure, but it could use more balls.

The film rarely demonstrates how the ideal actually works in practice. Personally, I would have liked to see a savage breast or two being charmed.

Scatologically speaking, Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates is best described as one of those summer movie turds: It passes easily and then disappears with a single flush. It’s crap any way you look at it, though there are less pleasant ways to spend your time on a day marked by triple-digit temperatures.

It’s all kind of amusing, and that would be fine but for the fact that the filmmakers offer many openings where they seem to be in search of deeper meaning.

In the end, trying to compartmentalize this movie in some neat fashion is folly. This is Todd Solondz and, refreshingly enough, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

What it does have in its favor are two sit-up-and-clap supporting turns from Skarsgård, all barking bear in tacky gold chains, and Lewis, who wears the sour mouth of someone who just underwent a prostate exam. Collectively, they’re the film’s fail-safe: Whenever Our Kind of Traitor threatens to go completely inert, they show up and give it a good goosing.

A lauded Shakespearean actor and adapter who won an Oscar last year for his collaboration with director Steven Spielberg on "Bridge of Spies," Rylance portrays the body (via motion-capture) and certainly soul of this gentle giant. In his mournful, lyrical cadence, he makes poetry out of the BFG’s gobbledygook command of English.

As it turns out, The Legend of Tarzan isn’t half-bad, and the film deftly put most of my fears to rest by creating animals and jungles that serve and enhance the story rather than detracting from it.

It's the narrative equivalent of Twitter: so much there, but nothing going on.

It’s a nice bit of close-quarters cinema, offering some jolts and scares before the obligatory WTF ending.

Honestly, I could watch Goldblum and Gainsbourg – two of the most quirkily sublime multihypenate artists alive – reading phonebooks to each other and enjoy the experience thoroughly, but sadly even they seem wasted here.

He's like the bizarro version of Wes Anderson’s same meticulous attention to detail, but while you can tell Anderson wants to entertain you with a story, Refn is clearly more interested in mood and highly stylized provocation. With The Neon Demon, he more or less succeeds.

As it is, Newt Knight, the forward-thinking white liberal, is the only character with whom we might connect. And that’s a shame because this compelling episode of American defiance is so much richer than that.

Until things devolve into a stormy conclusion, Dheepan is a sharply observed drama about identity and separation, strangeness and commonalities, and making do while hoping for something better.

Since so many of De Palma’s films have become part and parcel with the American cultural consciousness of the last 50 years, I can’t imagine this filmmaker’s insights not providing every viewer with some memorable takeaways.

When it’s Law reading aloud in his awful cornpone accent, it sounds like curdled grits. But when Firth narrates, low and measured, the prose springs to life. I wouldn’t call Genius inspired, but not for nothing it inspired me to pick up "Look Homeward, Angel" for the first time.

Where "Finding Nemo" capitalized on the awesome splendor and danger of the ocean, this follow-up shifts much of its action to an aquatic park and becomes broader and sillier, or at least reality-busting, for it.

This young actor is good, very good in fact. Watching him become beautifully alive in Viva is this little gem’s greatest pleasure.

This documentary is the sort of film that will leave both young and old(er) film fans grinning like the boys (and one girl) who dreamed the whole fantastic, mad scheme up in the first place.

Director and co-writer Athina Rachel Tsangari wants viewers to fill in the blanks.

A throwaway film that in all the worst ways give summer movies a bad name: told by idiots, full of sound and fury, and signifying nothing but first-weekend grosses.

Maggie’s Plan is an ensemble piece, with Maya Rudolph, Travis Fimmel, and a magic, romantic New York rounding out the cast. They’re all great, but it’s Gerwig who’s just so damn gosh-wow.

Longtime World of Warcraft players should and likely will storm the cineplex gates, burn the castle down, and salt the earth (and screenwriters) from whence this abomination sprung. Me, I’m going to chill out and download 1982’s top-notch "The Sword and the Sorcerer."

The deal-breaking problem with these films – among so, so many problems – is this: They don’t f--king ground the magic in any sort of reality, but rely on CGI for their showstoppers.

Refreshingly, there’s nary a cheap scare manifested in this Conjuring, although the unspoken corollary to that is that The Conjuring 2 just isn’t very scary, or even unnerving.

No groundbreaking cinemagic there, but Out of the Shadows’ oddball moments keep things weirdly surreal throughout.

Hard truths: Popstar’s jokes land pillow-soft.

Me Before You isn’t going to win any awards for sophistication in storytelling or direction, but it tenderly reproduces the book’s most iconic scenes, and their tearjerking effect.

"The Cross and the Switchblade" it’s not; this is the reality of Ukraine today, and Crocodile Gennadiy is a badass man on a mission … from God.

It’s a movie from which you can’t look away, no matter how hard you may try.

Sunset Song is not one of Davies’ most expressive or artistically successful films, but I’m very glad for the opportunity to have made the acquaintance of Chris Guthrie.

Shaw works mostly because Samantha Montgomery is such a compelling and likable character, that you want – nay need – her to succeed, and that is Haar’s ace in the hole.

There might be a glimmer of a theme in the film concerning faith, but it all drowns in too many tangents and dull minutiae. Recommended for die-hard fans only, Australia's Lost Gold is not worth its weight in much of anything.

What wicked good fun it is watching this bad girl do her worst.

Apocalypse never rises from the sum of its parts, becoming another bloated summer spectacle that rides the rail between fan service and coherent story. You can probably guess which side it eventually crashes on.

Often impeded by ham-fisted, inspirational dialogue, The Idol is not likely to earn Assaf more worldwide admirers, but for those who are already in his fan club, this film will be received like a bonus gift.

Allen’s film is as much a self-reckoning as it is a cautionary tale for other spiritual seekers, and as such it offers invaluable insights into how cults – and especially cults of personality – function and grow. “Namaste,” for the record, is also an anagram for “Me Satan.”

While the underdog element of this tale is emotionally gratifying, it’s the humanity on unadorned display here that will move you beyond words.

This return to Wonderland is a dull outing, about which it can be said that Alice doesn’t live here anymore.

Overall, The Lobster packs a wicked punch, eviscerating modern romance in surprising and evocative ways.

Last Days in the Desert is a Jesus story that plays well for the nonfaithful who nevertheless appreciate the example of Jesus and his teachings.

As a mood piece, A Bigger Splash leaves a lasting impression.

I’m not sure I’ve laughed harder all year than at Gosling in a bathroom stall, accidentally dropping a lit cigarette down his pants leg.

The twist – and it’s a smart, effective one to be sure – is that this time it’s not a bunch of beergasming dudebros making life hell for the Radners, but an off-campus sorority led by Moretz’s feminist-slash-party powerhouse blonde, Shelby.

Maybe it’s supposed to be the enlightening tale of one bird’s self-redemption from neurotic negativity, but I just wanted to punch this film in the snout.

It’s like being haunted by outsized chimney sweeps that never bathe. And for the most part, it’s about that scary.

While the Occupy Wall Street rage supposedly fueling this thing is flimsy, what’s left is still solidly entertaining.