The plots of these films and stories, and so much of Scandinavian crime fiction in general, often rely too heavily on coincidence and chance, be they serial killers or multinational cutthroats. And while this chapter of Lisbeth’s life is similarly convoluted, they are dark and gritty and compelling.

The film goes by in a wash of uninspired action and unmemorable comedy.

There are precious few surprises here, but parents will find director Robbins' breezy remake a painless affair and, judging by the yowls of laughter from the peanut gallery at the screening I attended, the kids will be barking all the way home.

Visually stunning, Mistress of Evil achieves full fairy-tale splendor – flowers glow, trees walk, and fairies of all shapes, sizes, and colors take flight. The elaborate costumes, especially those worn by Michelle Pfeiffer’s Queen Ingrith, are noteworthy and will surely inspire many a Halloween look. In short, this is where the second Maleficent excels, an instant crowd-pleaser for any fantasy-loving child or adult.

It's a hockey affair at the best of times.

It's all patently ridiculous, but it's also ridiculously fun.

A bittersweet experience. It leaves you asking for more, even knowing that nothing more is forthcoming.

It's hobbled by odd plot contrivances and some less-than-stellar acting from DiCaprio.

Could have used a touch of Madea’s down-home, self-reliant wisdom to spice up the marital doldrums of these four buppie couples.

The movie is a lot of fun if you don't think about it too much, the stuntwork should satisfy the genre fanatics in the crowd even though it doesn't set any new plateaus, and the rapport between Davis and Jackson is enough to keep the sticklers for realism in abeyance at least until the final credits roll.

A few scenes are inexplicably bizarre (why is Gina’s brother-in-law covering his naked body in red paint while staring at a sculpture of a bull?). It’s as though someone came along and said, “Just make it artsy as f*ck.”

Stunning rainforest vistas and shocking ravaged forest footage matched to what was probably a pretty funny script featuring one fine performance and too obvious good intentions adds up to tedium.

Crafted within the broadest, not-quite-funny brushstrokes possible, director Lee’s movie about a class of troublemakers, hustlers, adult J.D.s, and Rob Riggle’s patented goofy man-child schtick struggling to earn their GEDs at the eponymous classroom fails, epically.

Patinkin and King’s characters’ wrangling with spirituality is sincere, and specific. Everything else in this everything-and-the-kitchen-sink film feels like too many ideas stored up over an especially long winter.

This Total Recall is fast, furious, and frequently confusing fun, but to be completely honest, it lacks the snappy, weirdo vibe of its predecessor.

An article of faith for girls who just wanna have fun; only problem is that the movie doesn't go all the way.

Ruffalo, actually, who was so perfect in the little-seen "You Can Count On Me," is the only real reason to sit through The Last Castle.

Hope doesn't float in this film so much as it rises to the surface and then stagnates.

Maybe it’s time for Woo to finally make that musical he keeps talking about.

Kingpin is no classic, but I've got to admit that after sitting though a number of the film's less-than-inspiring previews over the last few weeks, I wasn't exactly expecting the second coming of Laurel and Hardy.

A good concept yields scattershot results in this horror-film anthology.

Toei Animation has done their usual bang-up job on the 2-D animation, filling nearly the entire running time with skirmishes, melees, and battles royal beyond compare.

The film wears its ambitions on its sleeve as it daisy chains from lover to lover, intently focused on maintaining the rhythm of its segues from vignette to vignette to the detriment of any profound insight into its linked characters’ mostly unhappy love lives.

And for all its artful, high-flying sorcery, Hocus Pocus cannot escape the irons of an all too pedestrian plotline.

There's plenty of doom, gloom, and outright despair on hand here but very little genuine human emotion.

He is meant to be brooding, I think, but Tatum’s vague features read more “meathead” than anguished young lover. He has to carry the film, but he’s the least interesting thing going on here.

Coppola never manages to get his themes to coalesce into anything terribly coherent.

Episodically eventful but utterly unsuspenseful, the film is a diversion that requires little attention and satisfies the film-going needs of a wide variety of viewers.

The end result is like watching a season finale of "This Is Us" with a commentary track by Elmo. The dogs sure are cute, though.

This is for kids, mind you, it never transcends into farce and even the sheer joy of watching the three of them is overwhelmed by the mundanity of the story and the stereotyping of the fall-in-love-at-first-sight women characters.

The problem lies not in the plotting alone. Roth's direction does nothing to bring clarity to the story and its characters, and his blocking of the film's action scenes is downright muddled and vague.

A horror film (or, more accurately, a shocker film) that takes such exuberant, gleeful delight in the unspeakably gory dispatch of assorted teenagers that it may well be the most fun you'll have at the movies all week.

Edgar-Jones’ easygoing allure isn’t enough to bind Where the Crawdads Sing together, though, leaving the film a generic, dull outing.

It seems almost beside the point to bring up the notion of plotting and characterization in such an effects-driven film ; nobody's going to rush out to catch Dante's Peak on account of the Shakespearean-caliber thespians involved.

After his disastrous outing in 200X with "The Adventures of Pluto Nash," there was no direction for Murphy to head but up in terms of another space alien movie. Indeed, Meet Dave is a step up, but that's only in relation to Pluto Nash.

Needful Things is hardly a cinema milestone -- it's a bit too episodic in chronicling the downfall of the town, and some of King's best bits are glossed over in favor of some of King's worst bits, but all things considered, it's still a hell of a good ride.

Not surprisingly, it’s better to just read the book.

Meet Joe Black flows nicely, and the whole of the film is bathed in some of the most sumptuous cinematography (courtesy of "Like Water for Chocolate's" Emmanuel Lubezki) of the year.

Kind of "Hoosiers": Part 2. But the storytelling is so backassward that it’s impossible to care about any of the characters or really engage in the movie whatsoever.

Worth a look.

Watching Raimi's visual style and narrative verve flatten out into this pale reiteration of a middle-aged-male weepie is an exercise in modern horror.

Suffers from a lack of good gags. That’s not to say there aren’t scads of chuckles scattered throughout – Dylan and his cast are nothing if not gluttons for the fast and cheap yuk (not to mention yuck) – but the howls of laughter that arose from Paul and Chris Weitz’s original slice of Pie just aren’t there.

It's more fun than a poke in the heart with a sharp stick.

Once spoiled by the gossamer disquietude of Kim Jee-woon's original Tale, it's difficult to view this Americanized version in anything but the blandest light.

Yes, The Old Way is at first glimpse merely a classic revenger, but it's also vintage low-key Cage, with that acid little twist that makes it all the more fascinating.

Verhoeven's film is fascinating, if stupid and stylish, if shallow. The story has to move along at a fair clip because otherwise we'd notice how nonsensical it all is. And there is very little to connect with emotionally.

The sadness harbored by all the film’s characters is evident. Their passions, however, stem from ginned-up claptrap about love and hate being opposite expressions of one overwhelming emotion which can also substitute for each other.

Red Snow does a surprisingly good job of manipulating, and then subverting, your sympathies for these particular devils.

Unaccompanied Minors isn't likely to become a frequent flyer but it could strike a chord among children of divorce for many holiday seasons to come.

The questions being probed here about how to be vulnerable, what it takes to connect – y’know, the big stuff – aren’t exclusive to romance, after all. And I so admired the movie for having the daring and openheartedness to try to tackle the big stuff. I just wish I liked it more.

The wraparound storyline is unnecessary and continually interrupts the vastly more interesting story of Khayyam's history.

The don't-get-caught '80s and holier-than-thou '90s do battle in True Colors, a political drama of all-too familiar dimensions. The painstakingly obvious screenplay by Kevin Wade (Working Girl) plays like an eighth-grade civics primer: ethics and morality are good, greed and corruption are bad.

Possibly one of the dullest takes on a real-life murder mystery, this gutter’s-eye-view of the waning days of Los Angeles porn king John "Johnny Wadd" Holmes is barely as interesting as one of the big man’s films, and a lot less revelatory.

The melodramatic film has numerous light and comical touches, and the performances are uniformly good. The film's pace, however, has the consistency of molasses, and there's hardly a scene that wouldn't be improved by judicial trimming.

Anderson has neutered the original film's outrageously transgressive macadam mayhem and completely stripped the story of its pointedly political social satire, making this Death Race one of the most boring drags of all time.

It's fascinating how an innocuous film can suddenly flare up into offensive claptrap.

With its combustible mix of high-octane action and Christian faith, and an overall vibe that falls somewhere between bloodthirsty nihilism and an unshakable belief in the twinned powers of religious redemption and obsession, Machine Gun Preacher is certainly the strangest examination of grace under AK-47 fire to merit a mainstream release in ages.

After two hours of Vera's pretty but wet-blanket direction, it's too late to ignite any fireworks, even in the hands of such capable actors.

There's plenty of solid, intelligent content here to stir the mind and heart, assuming you're able to overlook the distinctly patronizing presentation.

My favorite line from the movie: "The god---- truth won't fit in your brain." How's that for cheap gimmicks for getting out of having to make a movie make sense?

Despite some clever writing (Widespread Panic jokes never go out of style), a game cast, and a funny critique of the ethics of documentary filmmaking, I Do … Until I Don’t never rises above the trite characters and well-worn scenarios it depicts. Best to get the annulment papers ready.

In the hands of director Nimród Antal, a filmmaker who’s made good movies (2003’s Kontroll) and bad movies (2010’s Predators), who has worked on engaging TV shows (Apple TV+’s Servant) and brain-dead TV shows (Netflix’s Stranger Things), Retribution falls pretty much right down the middle.

Taking its title from her second and final critically-acclaimed blockbuster album, music biopic Back to Black gives you all those details you’ll recognize – but not much beyond that.

Schwarzenegger has probably never been better-cast.

A relationship dramedy wields little power without an emotional punch. And when the theatrical (literally) climax attempts bold emotionality, one can’t help but wince.

The film's best stretch, wherein each American gal is romanced by an international lover, faintly recalling the Fifties' sudser "Three Coins in the Fountain."

There are flashes of what made the franchise work. Turner, after stumbling through the part in the rocky terrain of X-Men: Apocalypse, finally gets to grapple with the emotional complexities of a woman whose gifts are the most constant curse.

A misguided and utterly tone-deaf Hallmark card to the canis lupus familiaris and the people who love them.

A remarkably solid, streamlined, action-comedy in the ugly-duckling-to-gorgeous-swan genre that elicits more laughs and genuinely affecting moments than you might expect from its tepid ad campaign.

What's saddest is that this was a wasted opportunity to adapt an era-defining comic arc into something with weight, meaning, and visual flair.

Brooklyn’s Finest is mo’ wrong than right.

Despite the sheer gorgeousness, it ends up feeling false and, towards the end, rushed.

Compared to other Hollywood blockbusters, Snake Eyes is better than fine — but there are hundreds of Asian and Southeast Asian action movies that run circles around the final product here.

The movie is utterly ineffectual as a techno-thriller.

It’s good to see that passionate cinematic rabble-rousing does not rest solely in the hands of the left.

Szifron and his co-writer Jonathan Wakeham play it too safe, creating an aggressively stale procedural that doesn’t pack the gut punch it wants to deliver.

There’s a degree of mythologization at work here, an attempt to frame the birth of the Texas oil industry as this great drinking game between old money and new money. What it lacks is a distinct perspective; for all its period details and solid acting, the underlying message about this time in Texas oil history – that it was right, that it was wrong, that it was necessary – is lacking. This makes The Iron Orchard a film that is both worse and better than it could have been.

Cobbled together on what appears to be a very low budget, Glass shatters under the weight of too many comic book allegories-cum-history lessons, weirdly abrupt plot machinations, epically puny bouts of brawny fisticuffs, and a third-act bit of outright what-the-f**k-ery that gives even the lamest deus ex machinas a bad name.

By no means an embarrassment to the fledgling DreamWorks, The Peacemaker is instead a grand, noisy step in the right direction.

Bombastic it may be, but it’s rarely boring, as was the first Tomb Raider. Keep your expectations in line with the source material and you may be pleasantly surprised.

The film never gets too far beyond disposable youth fare, best consumed like mouthfuls of sugary cereal.

Two hours pass painlessly enough, thanks to the affability of its trio of leads, Hathaway, Andrews, and Elizondo.

Carrey is in top form here, giving a wildly confident, physically draining performance with all the stops pulled out.

A moment, please, to appreciate that 47 Meters Down: Uncaged contains a landmark in shark attack cinema (which is a genre, don't question me). Finally, a film has dethroned Deep Blue Sea for the title of "dumbest and most hilarious chomp-chomp moment."

Although predictable, the story still manages to pack an emotional punch and depending on your level of relatability to Swift’s hardships – cancer treatment, custody battles, a stagnant career – it might hit harder than you expect.

By the time the final act slithers on the screen, Gormican has abandoned any sense of originality and just props the film up on nostalgia-manipulating cameos and clumsy, overused needle drops. Those moments barely cover some astoundingly inept filmmaking, from shot composition to editing, that will make you wish you were watching Anaconda 3: Offspring instead. OK, maybe it’s not that bad, but Anaconda – both this film and the whole franchise – should just slip back into the swamp.

Flipper's story is a tired fish tale.

Cruising is more of an exploitation effort as opposed to a genuine mind-bender. The film concentrates on the gay underground in New York City, although Friedkin's take on a sexually charged mystery is more funny than challenging

Do not count on Office Christmas Party to deliver a contact high. Yes, there are laughs to be had, but not the off-the-charts merriment promised by the title and the film’s expert cast of comic actors.

The film squanders any potential it had to be a revealing look into female intimacy and instead uses broad-scale melodramatic strokes.

How the devastating story of the senseless murder of a 14-year-old could be stripped of emotion is a feat in itself, though one of dubious achievement.

Fortunately Trespassers has Balk, who adds just the right dose of slow-acting venom into proceedings.

The reality of this film is that it is pretty innocent fare, for the most part, and Depardieu does prove his versatility by possessing a natural comic flair that eases him into the paunchy papa bear role.

Dogg has the makings of a genuinely great actor. When he's on screen the film crackles, and even when he's not it's a trippy, funhouse ride.

The worst thing about Bounce isn't that it's bad but that it just isn't interesting.

The film's two saving graces are the time machine itself -- a gorgeous, whirling array of burnished copper and blazing light -- and the CGI-created rise and fall of New York City.

A holiday film Joe Lieberman could love, unembarrassed by its wholesome, sugary pro-family message.

The goal of Drive Me Crazy is simple: to sell tickets by selling fantasy.