True fans (i.e., the people who are most likely to buy tickets) probably know a lot of this stuff already, and they might be disappointed by the lack of drama and the brevity of 3-D racing action.

There's some undeniable appeal to watching a well-oiled, built-for-speed machine operating with its pedal to the metal -- even if it's destined to wind up in flames before the finish line.

Brian Banks proceeds non-chronologically, toggling between high school years and Banks’ post-prison life. This helps keep the audience on its toes. But it’s the actors who complicate things most fruitfully.

The musical voices belong to Billy Joel and Bette Midler, respectively, but this material is far afield of their best work. As a result, a Chihuahua (voice by Cheech Marin) steals the movie with wisecracks. [18 Nov 1988, p.A]

Malick is a true searcher, true to his preoccupations and definitions of soulful rhapsody. To the Wonder repeats its central motifs aplenty, yet you may find yourself thinking about life, and living, and love, while sorting through the movie. Even if it drives you nertz.

A high school version of A Chorus Line, following a half-dozen talented students at New York High School for the performing arts as they try to become show-biz stars. When the kids perform, the movie sings, but their fictionalized personal stories are melodramatic drivel. [11 July 1980, p.8]

Steep is one of those rare endeavors able to touch on the human condition without neglecting the film’s true star: big-mountain skiing.

Given its premise, you wouldn’t expect The Accountant 2 to go for quite so much buddy comedy, but life is full of surprises.

The movie, like Hitch, tries to be cool, funny and sweet but falls on its face without generating any real sympathy, smarts or humor.

Unfortunately, Operation Finale feels a bit behind the ball when it comes to the dramatic true story.

No one expects documentary realism in these memoir-to-movie transfers. It's reasonable, however, to expect more vibrant and expressive fictionalized treatment than this.

As Sam, Deutch is supported by the likes of Halston Sage as uber mean girl Lindsay, using her armor as a weapon, Logan Miller as longtime pal Kent, and Medalion Rahimi and Cynthy Wu as the rest of her clique. But this is Deutch's film.

See the play sometime. It cooks; the movie's more of a microwave reheat.

There’s more deliciously creepy anticipation in “Chapter Two,” but once again, Muschietti buttresses up the spook factor with too many computer-generated monsters that inevitably become banal. Through it all, Hader cracks wise, Ransone worries, Chastain emotes, McAvoy broods and monsters jump, but we lose the most important thing of all: the Losers themselves.

Io its credit, the film has a surprising and likely to be controversial ending. It creates moments of genuine tension that take us beyond the issue of who is more at fault and into the deeper question of what does a lifetime of commitment really require?

Good and creepy, The Mist comes from a Stephen King novella and is more the shape, size and quality of the recent “1408,” likewise taken from a King story, than anything in the persistently fashionable charnel house inhabited by the “Saw” and “Hostel” franchises.

While I wish the story and the banter had some snap (Groot had better dialogue, speaking of Vin Diesel movies), and while I wish the electromagnet-derived mayhem in F9 led to a truly magnetic movie, sometimes good enough is enough.

Disappointingly, X-Men: The Last Stand slides back between the first two episodes. It's not stuporous, and it's not super.

Inner dialogue is a hard sell on screen.

I just wish Cronenberg hadn't adapted the book on his own. Behind the camera, he does remarkable things, turning Packer's limo into what Cronenberg himself has described as an upscale version of "Das Boot." But the playlets constituting the whole are thick, stubbornly undramatic affairs; the verbiage is lumpy, self-conscious.

Class Action occupies itself with long passages of family melodrama, most of it as familiar as the courtroom drama but far less entertaining. [15 Mar 1991]

The result is a film that feels hidebound. And nobody ever called a dance-driven movie "hidebound."

At its best Jason Bourne crackles with professionalism; at its worst, it's rehashing greatest hits (as in, "assassinations") from earlier films, with a lavish budget.

Louiso has a confident touch and a good eye, and there isn't a scene in the film that wasn't intelligently done. Besides Hoffman's near-great performance as Joel, there isn't a bad or mediocre acting job on view either.

Kansas City is a wonderful film, done with all Altman's offbeat virtuosity, maverick humor and creative daring -- plus the acid nip that runs through all his recent works.

Fans of Young's rocking excursions with Crazy Horse -- as opposed to his more polished pop, folk and country-tinged work -- should have a gas at Year of the Horse. [17 Oct 1997, p.F]

Disclosure is pure and simple trash masquerading as significance. [9 Dec 1994, p.B]

It is filled with imposing and beautiful imagery, though it becomes increasingly monotonous.

Can a formidable actress redeem a pile of solemn erotic kitsch? Kate Winslet answers that one as honestly as she can in the film version of Bernhard Schlink's 1995 novel "The Reader."

It so often is a joy to look at and so often a pain to listen to.

A deeply moving blend of cold terror and rapturous hilarity. Lovingly crafted by Italy's top comedian and most popular filmmaker, it's that rare comedy that takes on a daring and ambitious subject and proves worthy of it.

Child's Play would probably be sickening if it weren't so relentlessly stupid.

Wasikowska is a fine, intriguing actress, though I'm not sure anyone could make actual psychological sense of this woman. Nobody on screen — not Kidman, not Goode, not Wasikowska, not Jacki Weaver as Auntie Gin — seems entirely at home in the chosen (or guessed-at) style.

The King simply unsettles and bothers us -- and it finally misses both the true terror and the twisted redemption it needs for its wicked song, a would-be "Heartbreak Hotel" of horror, to really chill our spines.

Wholly predictable yet serenely enjoyable.

High-minded sleaze, the film deceives you with its first 10 minutes, which are interestingly creepy.

The film should've aimed higher, given all that these people endured to have their story told.

For its first hour is as exciting an action picture as the Die Hard films. The tension and humor level tail off a bit toward the conclusion, but Steven Seagal and Chicago director Andy Davis clearly declare themselves as top-flight talent.

As Nerve builds to a roaring Thunderdome climax (which is resolved all too easily), it starts to lose its grip. But the ride is a neon-saturated teenage dream, high on first kisses and digital hearts.

This one’s more than one kind of comedy, too. It’s a sweet yet nicely vinegary immigration fable; a deadpan fantasy; and a tale of two Brooklyns, one (1920) a repository of rat-infested factories and Eastern European Jewish immigrants, the other (2020) the gentrified land of their progressive, pea milk-drinking great-grandchildren.

With Neighbors 2: Sorority Rising, they've flipped the script, creating a feminist party classic that's completely current and doesn't skimp on any of the wild humor. It's also even better than its predecessor.

Despite the proficient technique, after a while you may feel you're watching a particularly scenic snuff film.

Ambitious, yes. Does it work? Not really. While it's genuinely cool to hear characters talk about early rap records (Sugar Hill Gang, etc.), the constant referencing of hip-hop arcana can alienate even the savviest audiences.

Crimes of the Heart feels random, vague and sluggish. The incidents don't build upon one another, but merely collapse into an undifferentiated heap. [12 Dec 1986, p.A]

It brings me no joy to relay this: From an irresistible “tell me more!” of a true story, Eastwood and his “Gran Torino” screenwriter Nick Schenk have made a movie that feels dodgy and false at every turn.

The comedic actor makes his directorial debut with a politically charged comedy that's sort of a satire, designed to wring wry laughs out of our deeply divided political state. But in this climate, it's just frustrating and unpleasant to watch.

The real trouble with Psycho III is that it's one sequel too many. Norman and his Gothic manse have already been drained of creative resources. [03 July 1986, p.A]

Compared to so many varied and skillful female-driven hits such as "Bridesmaids," or this summer's "Trainwreck" and "Spy," Sisters isn't worth talking about.

Unleashed is like an old dog: No new tricks.

For many, this central performance will be more than enough. For others, the film will simply be too much.

Cohen at his best is both brazen and sly. As is The Dictator.

The way it's shot and cut, it plays like a parody of a car commercial shot in the style of a Bond film.

Even when the movie loses its way narratively, Washington’s in there, slugging, building a living, breathing character out of Gilroy’s knight-errant.

With husband and wife starring, you can't help but wonder which details here are autobiographical. No matter: This is obviously a deeply personal work for Attal, whose comic timing and passion can only serve him well both on screen and off.

There's a delayed-secret hitch in the narrative that hijacks the movie, for better or worse. You don't have to believe any of it to enjoy a lot of it, however.

A pre-teen on the autism spectrum, lonely and isolated, becomes the online prey of an unwanted stranger, a monster from another realm. That’s Come Play in one sentence. The results unfold more like a collection of reference points to previous film than a film unto itself.

Snakes on a Plane represents a fairly craven mixture of deliberate cheese and inadvertent lameness, plus fangs.

The ability to subjugate everything to the story is both Avildsen's strength and his weakness. Lean on Me, with its warts-and-all hero, its driving rhythm, its carefully calibrated climaxes, is a finely tuned machine. It also happens to be a steamroller. [3 March 1989, p.Q]

With a lovely voice performance from Cena, the spirit of Ferdinand does shine through. But the rest of the story filler is mostly forgettable.

Has a melodramatic glow.

There are better holocaust dramas than Grey Zone -- "Schindler's List" for one, and due later this year, Roman Polanski's magnificent "The Pianist." But few will disturb you like The Grey Zone -- mostly because it won't try for tears.

An idealized, dreamy fantasy of life in the business world-harmless as airplane reading, a bit dull on the big screen. [2 Mar 1990, Friday, p.C]

Bigelow gives this film edge, tension and something you aren't expecting: a woman's touch for teasing out the buried emotion beneath those stoic surfaces.

Easy Virtue may be a bauble, as Larita's described at one point, but Coward's examination of hypocrisy demands real skill. The style should suggest "whipped cream with knives," as Stephen Sondheim once described "A Little Night Music." Elliott's film is more like curdled milk with a spork.

Martin's a smooth enough director to make fuller and more ambitious pictures than Dean. This one's a promising start.

There are few marquees that could contain the title The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: the Metal Years, but Penelope Spheeris' documentary on the heavy metal bands of rock 'n' roll turns out to be much more graceful than its name. [05 Aug 1988, p.B]

The film works best when widening its focus to include the Federal Communications Commission's often baffling and hypocritical stances regarding what's OK to say, or show, on TV and radio, and what isn't.

At the end of Jojo Rabbit, you’re just left wondering what the point of it all was.

There’s no question about the talent on display. Coel is one of our most hypnotic screen performers, and had Hathaway decided to put her prodigious talents toward pop stardom instead of an Oscar-winning acting career, she’d be one of our top icons. Her Mother Mary performances are so fantastic it leaves you wanting more — of her, but not necessarily this plodding movie.

Too often The Express sidelines its own main character in favor of the lemon-sucking, jaw-jutting glower patented by Quaid.

More happens in Eclipse than in the previous "Twilight" zone, "New Moon," and yet it's duller

Palmer and Bello really do seem like world-weary, spook-addled daughter and mother, and they play the stakes just so, favoring neither blase understatement nor yellow-highlighter melodrama. They're strong enough to take your mind off some lapses in narrative judgment.

Cry Macho may be fond and foolish in equal measure, but it has a few grace notes to remember, in addition to a fine gallery of images of Eastwood in silhouette, at dusk, against a big sky, alone with his thoughts.

A surer hand behind the camera might’ve finessed the jokes more effectively, or established a consistent and satisfying tone.

It's not that the movie is bad; it's merely uninspired and relatively clueless about Kaufman.

Chan and Wilson's easy camaraderie remains eminently watchable, but the rough edges from last time out are missed.

Jonah may resemble an 83-minute Sunday school lesson, but at least it's a playful, colorful one, with spunky peas and tomatoes, chirpy kids' tune-- and bright animation that may not rival "Monsters, Inc." or "Shrek" but gets its points across.

Presented with such confidence, such care, that we love all of the characters, even if we don't like them.

A routine Neil Simon comedy with Goldie Hawn ,Chevy Chase, and Charles Grodin mixed up in a story about an innocent bank robber and a power-hungry district attorney. Hawn has been married to both. Not very funny, but the dogs are cute. [19 Dec 1980, p.10]

A word of warning. Big Fish is so strange and so literary that audiences seeking conventional fare may get impatient with it. But it always takes effort to catch the big ones. This one is worth it.

Director Peter Markle, whose credits include TV documentaries and commercials as well as "Young Blood," has taken pains to make this a craftsmanlike production, shot in Malaysia, full of laborious attention to detail and enterprising stunt flying. Regrettably, the script doesn`t fly quite as smoothly.

It's fairly absorbing though, increasingly, a bit of an eye-roller, and it's designed, photographed and edited to make you itchy with paranoia.

This should've been a really good picture, especially with Hillcoat's crack ensemble. Instead it's a stilted battle waged between the material and the interpreters. It's up to you, the thirsty customer, to decide who won.

At 79 minutes, Love and Other Catastrophes is more of a snack than a meal -- one that could use a little less sugar. Now that Croghan has figured out how to bring characters she likes to the screen, her next lesson is to learn how to flesh them out without resorting to emotional shorthand.

The film is gripping---an honorable and beautifully acted addition to the tradition of homefront war stories.

A play based on the most delicately nuanced interactions inevitably loses electricity as a movie. Worse, it becomes predictable. [28 Apr 1989, p.L]

Too loud, bright and shallow for its subject: a movie that pushes too many obvious buttons to build naturally to the big, heartbreaking climax it obviously wants.

Only director Apted`s admirably low-key, matter-of-fact approach to the material keeps it from becoming unbearably artificial.

An offbeat, poetic piece that eschews the terse, hard-boiled style of the standard cop movie or TV show for something softer-centered and more nakedly emotional.

Relentlessly driven by fashionable revisionism and good intentions, Geronimo: An American Legend-which deals with "days of bravery and cruelty, heroism and deceit"-is so politically correct it often is dramatically inert. [10 Dec 1993, p.C]

A charming confection, set on an ocean liner. [13 Apr 2007, p.C5]

I found nothing likable or funny about either of these characters, who both deserve a pie in the face. (One of them even gets it.)

[Cage] cracks wise throughout the third act and is almost entertaining enough to make this absurdly energetic movie recommendable.

A different editing rhythm (and a less narcotic musical score) would substantially change the personality of this movie, for better or worse.

The pleasures of Jumanji: The Next Level are not visual or story-based, as they revolve around the ability of each of our stars and their abilities to do impressions.

Moana 2 is more of an action movie with a few accidental musical numbers of varying quality.

The core of Fey’s storyline hasn’t changed, even if technology has. It embraces, with trace elements of sincerity, the juicy comic extremes of mean-girldom, complete with an 11th-hour repudiation and a reminder to be nicer. Before it’s too late.

The sort of movie that both rewards and tries your patience.