Some of the visual compositions are impressive to look at, but the overall self-consciousness of the enterprise, paltry attempts at wit such as describing Bacon as “a screaming queen who painted the screaming Pope,” and basic thinness of this wistfully wish-fulfilment material make it hard for a viewer to stay involved.

The biggest flaw in Mackenzie’s film is that it is so focused on plot and action, there is all too little emotion, save that surge of rage for (or in) battle.

The filmmakers believe they have better emotional beats at the end than what that hack Dr. Seuss came up with—and in the process make the Grinch pathetic and practically groveling.

Overlord, produced and presumably overseen by J.J. Abrams, is good, bloody fun, with all the polish and production value that come with not being a low-budget exploitation movie.

The Front Runner works hard to accommodate all points of view.

In the end, perhaps, von Trotta’s search for Bergman never quite finds him. But did he ever quite find himself? All he knew was that he was an artist.

The contrast between young and old, life ending, life continuing, is leaned on too heavily.

Joel Edgerton produced, directed and adapted the film—much too gingerly and gently to have the powerful impact that it should.

Foy and Alvarez have still spun the old and new elements together in an effective web. If this is a trap, it’s one you won’t hurry to escape from—or even fear being caught in again.

A movie that should be seen on the big screen, in order to fully appreciate its special effects, this Disney production will likely enchant lots of little girls and boys while also tugging at the heartstrings of grown-up sons and daughters who still value all that was given to them by their departed parents

Ultimately, then, for all its attention to historical detail, not to mention pictorial splendor, Goyo: The Boy General offers American audiences a puzzling, inconstant vision of the past.

Don’t Go is sufficiently subtle that some viewers will find it dull and lacking in traditionally “scary” moments. But others will appreciate the care with which it walks the line between supernatural and psychological horror.

Comprised entirely of the diva’s own words, whether filmed or transcribed from her various writings, letters and reminiscences, the film offers the definitive portrait of a woman who rose from obscurity in her native Queens, NY, born Greek, to become a true citizen of the world and queen of an art form.

Above all, this is Sarandon’s picture and maybe her best film work in many years.

Trading “Dueling Banjos” and gut-wrenching tension for haphazard plotting and an impromptu group singalong of an original folk tune, the results are disappointing on a number of levels.

For fans of this goofy sort of comedy, or of Atkinson’s similarly loopy “Mr. Bean,” it may be a gentle treat.

Much of the film’s success is due to the work of a better-than-average ensemble.

Deftly tweaking the tropes of rock biopics, this drama of singer Freddie Mercury and British hitmakers Queen dazzlingly captures an era, a man and the universal quest for identity.

The Super is well written and acted—two things that should be givens but often aren’t, especially in genre films

Wildlife offers a fresh glimpse of lower-class anomie and the rhythms of life in a simpler time and place.

Character development and backstory needed more work and would have added to better, more engaged storytelling.

Although no one dies from Lou Gehrig’s disease or gives a heart-rending baseball retirement speech, Late Life is possibly the most purely moving batter-up film since every dad’s favorite male weepie, The Pride of the Yankees.

The film’s disparate elements add up to less than the sum of its parts, and this would-be fiery take on the failures of the American higher-education system never really ignites.

This is a movie that ripples with sublimated fury well before the bloody and shocking long take that ends everything without much of an answer. But it is also a movie that leaves too much unsaid and takes too long to end up nowhere.

Duncan’s film is at once obvious and repetitive, ably depicting the in-depth study required to be a doctor and yet failing to convey anything that isn’t readily apparent–including the sheer unpleasantness of seeing deceased men and women carved up for scientific inquiry.

If there is any "message" to Monrovia, Indiana, it may be that we all share the same fate.

Although the film hits all the time-marks of cinematic storytelling, the characters are broad, the music intrusive, and the dialogue made-for-TV-movie-esque. Just because the plot is swift does not mean the story compels.

Part One, subtitled For the Sake of Gold, is original and intriguing.