Meyers has a good feel for contemporary comedy; it’s reality, however, that slips through her grasp.

It's like Garai can never work out whether she wants this to be a modern Gothic fantasy, or a contemporary horror with deeper social meaning, then falls afoul of excessive coincidence. The parts of the spell are all there, but the conjuring is incomplete.

Although the movie contains occasional moments of glimpsed accomplishment, Kansas City is for the most part a lame duck.

By the film's climax, following the plot movements has become merely complex rather than suspenseful.

It's rougher stuff than most would expect, though not unrewarding in its own horrific way.

A sweet, sweet movie; it's just one that celebrates the bond between a boy and his dog with heart and a heavy, handy hand.

Sparks, an acting novice, falters when her character must muster gumption or sexual heat. She saves her best for last in a barnburner singing performance, but it's too little, too late – especially with the memory of Houston's one song – a heart-stopping gospel number – still ringing in the ears.

It's impossible to shake the feeling that these are merely actors -- albeit good ones.

Cue ultraviolence, gang stereotypes, and a bucketload of plots that never really go anywhere.

The actors, particularly the icy Bassett and the fiery Devine, excel in their roles and drive home the film's multifaceted messages.

Hell of a nice try, but I've seen it all before.

Sunshine Cleaning doesn't exist in relation to the outside world but only to other movies. Its characters aren't human beings but cultural signifiers and indie-movie stereotypes created to survive in the laboratory safety of the festival circuit but never meant to actually walk the streets or talk to strangers.

So ingratiatingly good-humored that it's hard to take it seriously enough to complain. Sure, it's no great triumph of moviemaking, but it is entertaining, and a more or less plausible way to kill 95 minutes on a Saturday afternoon.

Like the peanut butter that serves as a primary source of sustenance in the film, Adrift can be devoured in smooth and/or crunchy modes: high-seas romance or cataclysmic adventure. There are commendable aspects to recommend each approach, yet the final result is an uneasy blend.

It's a glorious mess, though, with genuine bits of comic genius strewn amidst the rubble, not unlike a plane crash in its own way.

It's a cuckoo's nest that's nicely feathered.

Second-guessing the audience in the third act takes some of the wind out of his sails (the film wraps up the loose ends so tightly you can practically see the bow), but Hackford does his best with a King tale that many thought would be unfilmable.

The relationship advice is all fairly boilerplate, much like the film itself, but these actors have made this a bankable romcom.

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

The first 30 minutes of this film feel like a fever dream, as Hannaford and his entourage trade barbs while the film stock (and subjects) change like a child’s kaleidoscope. It is frenetic and a bit unsettling. But once the party settles in at the director’s estate, it becomes mildly coherent.

The amazing thing is that, despite such crass beginnings, Space Jam rises to the occasion and succeeds as an enjoyable piece of film entertainment.

Eastwood's grim handling of even grimmer subject matter could have used some paring down toward its histrionic ending, but Changeling is still one of the director's most assured and engaging historical horror shows.

Fairly uninspiring, but it still manages to ingratiate itself, largely through the efforts of Krasinski in a secondary part.

The film has lovely moments – Gehry buildings can be extremely photogenic, after all – but it doesn't sink its teeth in the way it probably should.

The Little Hours is a farce that doesn’t really mock anything. It exists as if amusing itself were its only objective. In that, this troupe may have succeeded, but I feel compelled to throw back the film’s favorite phrase: “What the f--k?”

It’s all mighty existential and interesting, yet the introduction of this heady topic acts as prelude to a rather bizarre, if dark, comedic situation. The timing, like everything in this movie, is a little off-kilter.

Intelligent and well-meaning, Rendition is nevertheless an oversimplified and uneven attempt to arouse righteous indignation among its viewers.

As Zamperini, Jack O’Connell is the film’s strongest asset. The actor holds our attention from beginning to end, making us care deeply about the man’s fate instead of becoming an empty icon of stoicism.