Peter Berg’s ultra-bloody battle film “Lone Survivor” is ultimately more grueling than satisfying. It’s more carnage than cinema.

The fact that it stars the extremely funny Melissa McCarthy is both its saving grace and incredibly frustrating.

Though impressively shot, the doc is a weak advertisement for 3-D. Hillary's bees pop out during a background episode, but that's old hat. It's the story of that final ascent is the real stirring stuff.

The result was remarkable, but the story of it, while true to the moment, needed — ironically — much more dynamism.

The film borrows plenty, but it brings nothing new.

A lot makes me uneasy about where biology and technology are going. But Great Scott! Is Morgan really the best you can do?

The long shadow of David Fincher's "Seven" falls on Anamorph, a moody, ultimately unexciting thriller.

Marries an unengaging love triangle to a flat visual style, nearly squashing the one good thing in it -- a scruffy, slouching performance from Peter Sarsgaard.

Airplane loses its buoyancy. Jim Abrahams, David Zucker and Jerry Zucker, who share both writing and directorial credits, become so desperate for laughs that the jokes descend to a much cruder level. And Airplane does an abrupt nosedive, turning a hopelessly flat movie, sparked only by the occasional appearances of Lloyd Bridges as an easily rattled air traffic controller whose nerves are such he depends on booze and pills to keep himself going on the job.

Becomes too melodramatic and bleakly obvious. Weaving, though, as always, is never less than magnetic.

Shares a spiritual link to the Japanese works of Hayao Miyazaki but lacks his films' narrative drive and magical overlay.

It's a tired idea, and it produces an episodic, unstrung film. [6 March 1998, p.49]

Goes about its game so bloodlessly, the result is some of the most unexciting action and seduction sequences in recent memory.

Gere and Grace do make a decent odd couple, but neither seems entirely committed.

Children, of course, won’t notice the political subtext. But do be prepared for them to exit the theater demanding that you make only Tofurkey in the future.

Anthony Byrne's lazy drama is insulting to just about everyone, including Maeve Binchy, who wrote the short story on which it was based. But nobody fares well, especially cast members Vanessa Redgrave, Brenda Fricker and Imelda Staunton.

The story here, like a lot of bar bands, goes loud to cover up mediocrity. When Streep sings, though, so does the film.

Director Sergei Bodrov’s movie is based on a kids’ book in which Tom was a 12-year-old, and the actors wisely pitch their performances to a young crowd.

There’s a line between artfully contemplative and just plain boring. This film eventually crosses it into Snoozeville.

The deeply private, intensely ideological and undeniably brilliant Watterson would make an absolutely fascinating subject. But director Joel Allen Schroeder has no access to him. So instead he talks a lot about how much he loves “Calvin and Hobbes” and then invites other fans to do the same.

Racing enthusiasts will appreciate historical footage, while a thread about a new student overwhelmed by his responsibilities has promise. But after a decent start, Marquet stumbles, never making it across the finish line.

Weitz – who did a great job adapting Nick Hornby's "About a Boy" into an affecting 2002 movie – can't bring the pieces together here.

It would have been helpful had Smith put his words into some sort of context, allowing others to assess his theories. Instead there's simply Ruppert, talking, raging and warning, as if his very life depended on it.

Jones co-wrote the uneven script with Will McCormack, and one can't help wishing she'd aimed higher. Acknowledging cineplex clichés isn't enough if you still wind up embracing, rather than subverting, them.

Though the cast is energetic and the intrigues diverting, you'll have to distance yourself from reality to enjoy so much outlandish scheming.

Don't be fooled by the indie trappings: despite its downtown vibe, Lola Versus is as clichéd as any Hollywood rom-com.

Cage, adopting an accent that could best be defined as Just British Enough to Sound Serious, adds some welcome weirdness to this otherwise generic production. He doesn’t fit in at all, but then again, who’d want him to?

Too bad this would-be heir, Divergent, is so unimaginative and bland.

The great David Strathairn can make any film watchable, but even he can’t save this dry dramatic thriller.

A brazenly mindless thriller about the infinite capacities of the human brain. That said, sometimes we just want to shut down and give in to bombastic summer entertainment. In that regard, as usual, Besson delivers.

As a film, the result is static, like Ang Lee’s similarly muddled “Taking Woodstock.”

Empathy for the all-too-real plight of the working poor drives this heavy but bold indie. Sadly, though, it falters under the weight of too much drama.

Feiffer sometimes gets snagged on the look-at-me nature of her meta-performance, veering from pathological to pathetic, and not always in the best way.

Alas, the split-screen compositions, slow-motion effects, pensive closeups and prosthetic teeth can’t distract from what’s missing: Faulkner’s pointed but deeply buried observations of the human condition.

Kessler has indeed made a film about a fame-chasing narcissist in desperate need of attention. But that has nothing to do with the guy we came to see.

The only real reason to see it is for a luminous leading turn from Dakota Fanning as Brooklyn teen Lilly.

Sometimes, less is more. Case in point: Thanks for Sharing, a film that’s a little too eager to be ID’d as a “sex addiction dramedy.” As a result, solidly grounded performances from almost all the cast members wind up playing second fiddle to navel-gazing.

Despite early promise for a semi-interesting examination of teenage obsession, the film devolves into a standard, and not thrilling, body-count builder. And the “twist” ending is one of the more annoying in recent memory.

It's the same movie town we've seen many times before, with dingy mechanic's shops, barren parking lots and a greasy-spoon diner where all the clichés come together.

A decidedly lightweight amusement.

While Suvari is especially miscast as a sophisticate, only Richard E. Grant, as a worldly Brit, seems to understand the text.

Geraghty relies too heavily on facial expressions and mannerisms, but those who appreciate visible effort may be seduced. There's no denying he works hard to keep us on the line.

The movie lumbers, and Loach and screenwriter Rona Munro's affectless approach winds up tamping down the movie's good intentions.

The cinematic equivalent of a cookie-cutter wedding, Made of Honor ultimately feels a little depressing.

Saintliness is a heavy burden to carry, and Smith can't help but buckle a bit. He's always interesting to watch, but crafting a real person out of his cardboard character proves an impossible task.

Yes, there are good moments from a team of veteran British actors, but overall, this return visit to the 2012 gray-set rom-com is deadly dull.

Gandolfini scoops up another chance to show off the gentleness he left at home during six seasons of “The Sopranos.”

Though gorgeous to look at, the first feature from Declan Donnellan and Nick Ormerod has an undeniable void at its very center: an utterly blank leading man.

This earnest, at times touching, reach-for-your-dreams doc about musical hopefuls in middle age gets sidetracked quickly. When it should focus on a reunited R&B group, it wallows in the self-aggrandizement of an L.A. producer and, most awkwardly, a New York cabaret singer.

The film never builds past its initial idea, the references to 9/11 feel cheap, the good actors are wasted, and the bad ones are distracting.

Despite the promise Epps and Turner show in their film’s finest moments, we’re still talking about a movie that tries to wring jokes from puppet therapy.

This dramatic thriller is a ball of confusion, but with barely any bounce. The one reason to see it: Patricia Clarkson’s subtle star turn.

A brutal and preposterous action movie about a guy, a kid and a secret code. And a whole lotta shattering glass.

Looks so great, it may take a while to notice it's a clunky political parable wrapped in a tonally confused fairy tale.

Mind control is a topic that should be fascinating, but it’s utterly forgettable in this disappointing, low-budget indie.

Just like its meaningless title, Rachid Bouchareb’s disappointing drama evokes better works without developing any distinct identity of its own.

In either a stunningly brave or misguided act of meta-absurdity, Real Steel, which is about a boy, his dad and the robot that changes their lives, actually feels as if it were made inside the mind of a kid obsessed with robots.

Writer-director David M. Rosenthal fills this dewy road-trip movie with too many cliches. From the glimpses we get of Shue's character, that may have been a more rockin' story.

Velvety storytelling still feels more thawed-out than heated.

In Cheap Thrills, a committed cast elevates what is, ultimately, a gimmicky thriller. It dissolves into a puddle of blood-tinged hypocrisy.

There's a great idea here, but it's buried within a muddled story that lurches between dark comedy and maudlin drama.

The 3-D format is mostly wasted, and the production so slick we never truly feel like part of that screaming audience. For fans only.

Boasting perhaps the most bored-sounding voice-over ever, this unexceptional drama imagines itself - much as its young heroine does - to be far more noteworthy than it actually is.

All those cliched literary trappings come together in Stuck in Love, but the final product feels more like a footnote than a finished work.

A director as talented as Singer (“The Usual Suspects,” “X-Men”) should be working to raise popcorn movies to a higher level. Instead, this uninspired effort feels like a colossal letdown.

It’s a shame the script doesn’t offer anything beyond loose-cannon-cop cliches.

The Darkness offers very few new scares, mainly because it's so haunted by the ghosts of far better horror movies.

Bell’s skepticism feels real, and Brody, still best known as “The OC’s” insecure Seth Cohen, is perfect as the sort of arrogantly self-deluded player we’ve all met.

Unlike last year's superior "Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer" - which put its grade-school heroine through similarly seasonal woes - "Dog Days" squanders several chances to find something magical in the mundane.

"Field of Dreams" this ain't, and Crowe, whose "Jerry Maguire" and "Almost Famous" are justly held in high esteem, can't build the right frame here. It's neither fish nor fowl; a "guy-gets-his-life-right" rom-com runs smack into a "kids-with-animals" lark.

This sometimes-taut little thriller is sullied by its unnecessary masquerade as a documentary presented by HBO’s gonzo news show “Vice.”

There is no urgency, and little honesty, to the convoluted goings-on unfolding here.

Too bad the new actress doesn’t bring much to the party, and this “origin story” feels like leftovers.

The biggest problem, however, comes down to chemistry. If the leads have it, a Sparks romance will work.

The film doesn't play games; it's basically just Lucas going through a short story-like period of reflection and redemption almost entirely without dialogue. It's not enough, but it is what this underappreciated actor does best.

If you're going to have a ghost in your movie, it might be a good thing to present a viable alternative to that ghost. Mama, however, presents a battle between two not very good options before crumbling like a sheet on a string.

Deep — deep! — in this impenetrable block of ice is an actual, OK story. But the patience it takes to get to it? The return on investment just isn’t there.

Most people can only watch the same movie so many times. But Philipp Stölzl is clearly hopeful that when you’re done with “Taken” (and “Taken 2”), you’ll want more of the same. Should that be the case, this undistinguished but decent knockoff is ready to satisfy.

It's no minor accomplishment to make one of the most indulgent projects in Hollywood history. But with This Is the End, Seth Rogen and his pals have indeed achieved this dubious goal.

It may not be one of his finest roles or one of his more memorable films. But in its own way, Boulevard may be one that says the most about him.

I am neither anti-charter schools nor anti-union. I am, however, firmly against heavy-handed lectures disguised as art.

The first half of the movie is painfully tense, drawing us into a relationship that we desperately want to see work. But the screenplay lets its characters down, as it devolves into platitudes and melodrama.

There are some mildly amusing turns from costars like Kristin Scott Thomas, playing an icy editor, and Robert Stanton, as her frustrated debt collector.

Reese Witherspoon’s oversized appeal and radiance is no match for Home Again, a ramshackle romcom short on both romance and laughs.

Step Up 3D is so lacking in any kind of edge, it might as well be "High School Musical: The Hip-Hop Edition."

The biggest problem, however, is the way Zhang romanticizes the unimaginably awful, turning gold-hearted prostitutes and virginal orphans into cinematic martyrs. Though his talents are vast, there may be too much truth in this particular story to suit his extravagant tastes.

Just as the migrant workers of California deserved better treatment from their bosses, the man who won the labor dispute deserves better treatment than this film.

Despite the incongruous romance and abrupt action beats, Crowe gives a likable, sympathetic performance. But it all starts to dry up before our eyes. Emotions feel false or melodramatic, flashbacks are drawn out and coincidences and connections are forced.

Every actor probably dreams of creating his or her ideal role. So kudos to Marvel movie stalwart Clark Gregg (“The Avengers,” TV’s “Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.”) for actually doing it, as writer, director and star of this indie drama. If only we could extend our congratulations to the project itself.

The best moments in Bird People soar to such heights that you almost want to forgive the parts that amount to mere droppings.

Just another loud, boy-centric comedy aimed at ’tweens. The movie turns a slight children’s book — in this case, Judith Viorst’s 1972 fave, from which it takes mainly the title — into a charmless mishmash.

Director Hiromasa Yonebayashi did a wonderful job adapting “The Borrowers” into “The Secret World of Arriety.” But this slow-moving film, also from a book, tends to plod rather than float.

This drama, as traditional as its subject was epochal, is earnest and studious to a fault. Rarely has a film about upheaval felt more like a textbook.

It's not sharp or ironic, but drab and downbeat. Unfortunately, it's also going to feel utterly familiar to those who've seen their share of independent dramas in the last 15 years.

The title may suggest acts of indecency, but if there’s anything this mild dramedy could use, it’s a little more raciness.

Noah, Darren Aronofsky’s often ludicrous, occasionally thoughtful epic, puts theology front-and-center, and doubles down on its blockbuster ingredients — like adding huge rock monsters with glowing eyes.

While ATM does offer a few jolts, we're paired with bland characters and an underrealized premise.

This National Geographic production mixes two amazing adventures, neither of them quite what you expect.