By now, you likely already know whether or not Jigsaw is for you. The series is nothing if not consistent, but the diminishing returns that led to its near-decade hiatus only continue here.

For a film that looks this wacky, it’s a shame that The Nutcracker and the Four Realms is ultimately pretty boring.

Whatever this film’s intentions may have been, and perhaps they were wholly noble, one thing is abundantly clear: Smokey and the Bandit is still, and without much competition, cinema’s greatest beer run. And that movie managed to deliver a whole truckload of beer without doing any disservice to the Vietnam War.

The chief appeal of Gans’ Beauty and the Beast is its sumptuous, ornate production and costume design, and the flamboyant glee with which Gans’ camera captures it all.

There’s no voice, no style, and no real intrigue on hand. It’s all a slow sail to the next outsized setpiece.

This is a movie terrified to explore the interiority of its protagonist, and that approach will work just fine for the fans who just want to watch an uncomplicated ramble of a movie that plays all the hits.

In an age where “so bad it’s good” has lost much of its meaning in a sea of calculated camp, The Intruder may be one of the few films of recent vintage that truly qualifies.

There’s agony in the margins of every frame, but it remains muted beneath so many layers of color and so many hands drifting across surfaces.

Don Verdean is the sort of comedy which presumes its own hilarity long before it gets around to telling any actual jokes, or staging anything that might otherwise be considered funny.

Its lack of energy, depth, and pure volume are, at the movie’s best, sanitized. Despite the long wait, The Dirt is nothing more than karaöke Crüe.

A perversely fascinating mess from start to finish, Mile 22 is Berg’s most baffling attempt yet to make art out of the most virulent post-9/11 fears about terrorism and international espionage.

A tonal miss and technical meh, Gemini Man arrives looking and feeling self-defeated.

Mechanic: Resurrection plays in an uncommonly generic key, and the film only makes intermittent attempts to enliven the proceedings.

Sure, it’s a thrilling ride, but it’s also as memorable as a 75-second roller coaster.

All Eyez on Me is the opposite of an ideal biopic.

Truly, Flight Risk has its funny moments, though none of them are funnier than when the end credits start and you’re reminded, once again, that this movie was directed by Mel Gibson.

Everything’s so achingly foul and with zero finesse, which makes for an awful, joyless experience.

Kinda Pregnant is a relatively painless, if predictable, diversion.

The Golden Glove definitely isn’t for everyone, and even when divorced from its more transgressive scenes, it’s not exactly a pleasant viewing experience. But for those not repulsed to the point of leaving the theater, there’s a lonely, human heart at its center.

Although it’s by far the weakest of the three, there are some genuinely creative moments that spark the brain and fry the hairs.

Nominal laughs plus three reliable actresses equals the very mediocre Otherhood.

This Ben-Hur is closer to an ‘80s actioner about two men who once loved each other parting ways, only to reunite and settle their differences through vicious means.

It’s probably a bad sign that of all the players in this film, the dinosaurs are probably the ones one roots for the most. They didn’t ask to be revived for a confusing new era filled with cars and pollution and ridiculous celebrity lawsuits! They’re dinosaurs! They’re innocent in all this!"

Murder Mystery is a dud, stained with slack humor and a total unwillingness to play within its own chosen genre.

Hillbilly Elegy does not bring out the best in its cast, and Howard fails to bring the intensity or depth that might make something meaningful. His approach is all after-school special, all the time.

Given the absurdity of the premise, Cell isn’t nearly as luridly entertaining as it should be.

There’s nothing wrong with melodrama. But in order to break the dishes, movies have to be willing to build tension by holding something back. Mr. Church, however, is all reveal, constantly giving everything away in the most obvious fashion.

As a narrative, Point Blank’s like a screenplay slammed to the ground, shot repeatedly, and re-assembled with scotch tape and vending machine stickers (likely White Snake band logo iron-ons). It’s flashy. As far as action flicks go, Point Blank’s cool with its low IQ because it’s having fun throwing ‘bows to loud music. It knows what it is.

When it comes down to it, Baywatch’s central sin is that it’s just…not funny.

My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2 is about as unmemorable a movie as you’ll find in 2016. Everything about it, from Vardalos’ screenplay to the limp retreads of the first Greek Wedding’s better moments, stinks of an extended HBO special that somehow made its way to theaters.

Serenity is often stylish. It is never, ever dull. It is also deeply stupid.

What’s most unfortunate about Fist Fight is the wealth of talent it amasses for little to no discernible purpose.

If you don’t mind your action comedies laced with a bit of meta, Red Notice is a treat.

It’s damnable with faint praise. It’s too cheap to be thrilling, and too earnest to be all that offensive. Mired in clichés. Mostly flat. A weak Spy. Only Kevin James diehards need apply.

It’s weird, intermittently amusing gobbledygook that should help a drowsy weekday night pass a bit quicker. Unfortunately, mediocrity won’t do much for the Cloverfield brand, which set a high bar for itself with 10 Cloverfield Lane.

Is it a ride that includes clear story structure, comprehensible stakes, or narrative momentum? Not really. Is it a ride featuring a lot of bright colors, familiar characters, and the occasional deranged moment? Absolutely.

Like Prince’s music, perhaps this film is best taken in for its sensation and not its literal output. That, and the dialogue is just ridiculous. But Prince looks cool, owns his story’s loose ideology of churlish change, and stages some marvelously ornate shots.

How It Ends ends with something of a whimper, leaving us feeling as if a compelling story was undercut by being told through its least interesting characters.

What saves this head-scratching, relentlessly portentous movie is what also saves the games: the action is on point.

As a comedian, Gervais hardly lacks a sharp perspective. The Office showed him to be a merciless satirist of workplace culture. But when it comes to international politics, the comedian lacks the keen insight to say anything that hasn’t already been said by other filmmakers.

Sure, it may be a little rote, and even thrifty, but it offers more than enough yuks to earn its way into your Netflix queue.

The film has spent so much time telegraphing its own depth that it forgets to create any, and thus when that wig arrives, we have no reason to view it as anything other than ridiculous.

The movie is reasonably successful in its own modest way; its interests go no further than offering a handful of pratfall-driven laughs, and a few lessons about kicking back and cutting loose before you miss out on the simpler pleasures of life.

Unfortunately, the good stuff comes not only too late, but is more or less undone by a head-scratcher of an ending.

Mute has gobs of style to burn, but it’s virtually the textbook definition of sound and fury signifying nothing.

To be honest, Venom’s almost worth watching for Hardy’s bizarre accent and whirling-dervish mania alone, but it’s a shame he’s not surrounded by a better, more exciting film.

While it’s probably got some of the best production value since the last theatrically-released entry in the series (1997’s Home Alone 3), and is replete with a cast of genuinely funny actors, there’s something rotten at the core of Home Sweet Home Alone that makes it harder to swallow than a pool ball to the kisser.

The stakes might technically be high, but at a certain point, Argylle abandons all connection to reality to deliver pure romp from beginning to end. Yes, this at times tips over into silliness, but during a time of real geopolitical upheaval and political uncertainty… maybe there’s nothing wrong with that.

While the movie’s a letdown in the remake and modernization departments, it’s at least a modest success in terms of ebullient talent and frothy farce.

I saw this movie last Wednesday, and I still feel like I’m watching it, like its dry and stuttering dynamic hasn’t yet ended, like I’ll never hear a real Bowie song again. Someone commit me before I’m forced to don my famous alter ego, Lights Camera Jackson, to cope with my insanity.

At its most basic, this is a conventional talkie, rooted in Warner Bros crime history, happy to play with cliché. At its most audacious, The Kitchen is a welcome flip on the generally male-dominated script. And at its most pleasing, this is a popcorn flick, with big moments, great pops, and three stars giving it their all, having one out in the street, making big moves for the people.

Morbius, at best, will be remembered as the latest effort on Sony's part to make its nascent Sinister Six franchise happen. And, like "fetch," it's hard to see that happening.

The mood and atmosphere is appropriately unsettling, and the stellar cast never stops trying to elevate the material, all of which makes it even more upsetting to watch as it slowly unravels and botches the landing.

It’s an unnecessary, monotonous, 102-minute scrapbook of better horror films that fails to muster even a spark of originality.

Henson, ever the magnetic performer, elevates so much of Najafi’s boilerplate direction with sheer presence alone; while the film consistently suffers from the tendency to bathe nearly every scene in maudlin strings and over-exposition, the actress manages to convey multitudes about Mary’s interiority with little more than a sustained gaze.

Once the giddy critical pile-on and hate-watching settles down, the (justified) moral outrage that (re)Assignment tries to thwart will end up being the regrettable and forgettable film’s only lasting legacy.

Bringing the action of future Dark Tower novels forward isn’t a sin. The sin is not having nearly enough space for it. The film is breathless in all the worst ways as a result.

Better than My Super-Ex Girlfriend, sloppier than Hancock, it’s nothing dynamic but fun all the same. And frankly, not every superhero flick or comedy needs to be the Super-person of its domain. Likability is sometimes an underrated super-power, and Thunder Force is bursting with it.

It’s a classic case of sequel bloat, a film that seems to exist less because of any extended story it wants or needs to tell than because it must repackage something that was once popular.

Zoolander No. 2 invokes that old Simpsons headline: “old man yells at modern culture.”

Parents will nap, some kids will be amused, and the nerdiest viewers will have good reason to point out flaws in the movie’s not-so-intelligent designs.

Unfortunately, The Mummy’s true curse is that it’s doomed to sacrifice its moments of fun, breezy spectacle for overwrought world-building.

The Bubble works in fits and spurts, especially in its first half. The cast is game, and even the respective branches of the Apatow family tree get plenty of chances to prod at the validity and privilege of Hollywood actors finally enduring a crumb of suffering. But it suffers from the same issues as most Apatow pictures; it’s too long and aimless, swimming around its critiques of Tinseltown without really nailing a concrete target for its satire.

There’s a laziness to The Road Chip, what with its mostly stale or needy jokes and cutesy plotting.

As with Collateral Beauty, Loeb piles on the ridiculous narrative twists to eye-rolling effect. The last twenty minutes of The Space Between Us are a rollercoaster ride of changing motivations, baffling character reveals, and overblown dramatic gestures that completely defy belief.

Dull at best, damaging at worst, and not worth a moment of your time.

Blakeson and screenwriters Susannah Grant, Akiva Goldsman, and Jeff Pinkner don’t seem to care much about telling the story. They’re just checking off the boxes.

Hart, the firecracker that he is, has a fitting comedic (and crime-fighting) partner out there somewhere. But it’s not in the Ride Along series.

A curiously loud and ugly beast of a sequel.

Jones slaves to make something of the material, and to his credit, or rather his profoundly large cast and crew’s credit, the craft is certainly visible in Warcraft. It feels rude not to compliment the hard work of the makeup, costume, production design, and visual effects teams.

As an adaptation, Cats is declawed, never delving fully into the possibilities offered by its proportion-manipulating trick photography and its animated cast. As a big-budget spectacle, it’s a triumphant disaster, if one at least born from a unique idea.

Is it better for a Stephen King franchise to burn out or fade away? Firestarter manages to do both at once.

There’s nothing particularly memorable about Robin Hood even when you’re laughing at it, and that may be one of the saddest fates a movie can meet.

Farahani is quite liberal crosscutting between the story’s varying point of views.... This manic style offers the film all of the necessary intrigue to make its story captivating, but it’s at the expense of being incredibly manipulative to its audience.

It’s not that funny, and feels like a ripoff of Animal House. Either way, The Wild Life is like the contractually obligated Crowe script that time forgot, his undisciplined id, playing with cheap thrills before he got a chance to express himself like a human storyteller in 1989.

This film is all easy beats, predictive familiarities, and absolutely zero heart, soul, or silliness anywhere to be found.

The dispiriting thing is that Tom & Jerry is far from the worst family film in the world. It’s just a familiar, by-the-books, vertically integrated product to ensure continued IP visibility for the film and television arm of a corporate portfolio. Here’s the latest and laziest IP for you to become disenchanted by, should you feel so inclined.

Unfortunately, Game Over, Man! sacrifices all the brusque cleverness of their hit show for a warmed-over Die Hard parody that’s too self-indulgent to entertain anyone but the four goofballs who made it.

That the film never fully gets to the heart of its savage commentaries is probably its greatest disappointment.

Sure, it commits wholeheartedly to its bone-dead stupidity more than the first film. But it leaves a final product so scattered and uninspired that, less than 24 hours after seeing it, the vast majority of it escapes my memory.

Give or take one excellent joke about the practical applications of handcuffs — delivered with expert awkwardness by Dakota Johnson, who remains the only moderately charming element of the trilogy — the film is as devoid of wit as it is of subtlety, and that combined absence, courtesy of screenwriter Niall Leonard, leads to some of its biggest unintentional laughs.

In its current shape, Rebel Moon isn’t just boring; it feels hopelessly compromised.

There’s something distinctly odious about a storyteller exploiting both a city’s tragic reality and a country’s debate about firearms to make a film that thrives on violence.

Neil Marshall’s Hellboy is a monster mash, loud and proud. Just bring a mop.

Unfortunately, The Reckoning is the biggest whiff in Marshall’s filmography. At its best, it delivers moments of optic greatness (a lightning strike-illuminating barn scene stands out), but most of the film is bleak and droll, full of a muddled script and lackluster performances.

It aims for the kind of sprawl that could contain a film with so many big ideas about death and grief and cruelty and salvation, but it’s somehow at once too modest for how bizarre it eventually gets and too excessive to meaningfully deliver on those emotions.

You’ll only lose 90 minutes of your life to this misbegotten mess.

The real problem, sadly, comes down to script and execution, along with a failure to tackle that one big question all reboots really ought to answer: Why this story, and why now? Why did we need a new take on The Crow, after all these years? Just having the rights to the IP isn’t a good enough reason. And yet sometimes, it feels like that’s the only reason a movie like this gets made.

It’s clichéd, distant, afraid to truly immerse itself in anything but long looks, but at least it looks good. And that’s that.

This is another bad Perry film, but a curiously verbose one with jokes piled atop more jokes.

The first major problem with Slender Man is that it’s not anywhere near as scary as many of the fan-made mockups that can be found online right now, but the second and arguably bigger one is that it’s barely a Slender Man story.

Daddy’s Home 2 wants points for exploring the ever-expanding family tree in a Christmas comedy, but it only barely succeeds. Lithgow’s delightful grandpa offers a welcome diversion from the madness, but those moments are as fleeting as the plate of cookies left out for Santa on Christmas Eve.

It’s fine if Hannah and her ragtag team just set out to make something fun. But it feels better-suited for playing on a reel-to-reel projector in someone’s basement than at the biggest film venue of SXSW.

If Peppermint has one thing going for it, and it’s by and large the only one, it’s Garner.

When it comes to video games, fidelity to the source material only gets you so far, especially when the source material is as low-impact as Ratchet & Clank.

It’s the kind of film that sets up a compelling sandbox in which to play, and then smashes gracelessly through it, cackling all the while.

Save yourself from this disaster of a movie.

The film isn’t — as crazy as this sounds — a total wash.