Hugh Jackman, as a (fictional) former American jumper named Bronson Peary, enlivens things a little.

Refreshing as it is to see the military portrayed as something other than a band of neurotics and creeps, there's a reason this brand of rah-rah and bang-bang didn't outlast the age of Whitesnake and Marty McFly.

A mildly funny, stereotype-stuffed comedy.

Anderson’s film is told via a prologue and three episodes that bring to life the quirky publication’s stories. They just barely engage the audience as we watch the director’s entire mobile phone contact list show up for about 15 seconds each.

Deschanel manages to make Winter Passing almost matter. That's real talent.

Everyone's Hero, a tame CGI cartoon for the simple-minded: the very young, the very old and Yankee fans.

Carell’s niche right now isn’t awkward anchormen, but parents going through hell. He makes a believable dad to the equally moving Chalamet, who writhes, screams and cries, but never showboats. The perfect pair is better than this movie.

Kelly & Cal is at its best when focused on Lewis and Weston.

The film is never gripping, but at least it moves. Director Ron Howard does his best to spark excitement with cheesy horror-movie editing — brief shots of the damnation in store if the virus is unleashed — and there are a couple of twists to keep things lively. Nothing is what it seems, unless it seems ridiculous, in which case it’s exactly what it seems.

So it's not only how they dance, or even what they dance, but why they dance. And that makes Tavernier's movie muddled, simplistic and more than a little pretentious.

Turns out to be an exercise in flatulent pretension, puffed up with a bogus, empty "spirituality" and dependent on a plot filled with implausibilities.

Despite the film’s wispiness, though, there is always something compelling about Waterston, who is usually the best part of any film she’s in (see also: “Inherent Vice,” “Alien: Covenant”).

Like Cam, Tracers is fun to look at, if not too bright, and even includes a line I can only assume is a winking reference to Lautner’s claim to fame: “There can only be one alpha in every pack.”

A very elegant and fit-looking Omar Sharif appears as the on-screen narrator and Kate Maberly ("The Secret Garden") plays his granddaughter in a framing story.

Despite the dramatic dystopia, performances here are uniformly low-affect, which isn’t helpful given the exposition-heavy dialogue and unremarkable set (though Nick’s extraterrestrial visions have a pleasantly kitschy look). Also puzzling is the fact that the pivotal song is not actually performed by Morissette.

It may take a scorecard to keep track of the complicated relationships in this sorry clan.

These characters, especially the uninteresting primary couple, can't sustain almost two hours of movie. Overall, BearCity 2 deals in mild amusement, not wit.

Wright is relaxed and almost meditative as she takes in the beauty of the horizon, and her simple directing captures the majesty of nature.

While Amen works as a history lesson, it's less effective as a thriller, since the outcome is sadly all too well-known.

Too slow to be a guilty pleasure and too dumb to be an innocent one.

There's also a refreshing lack of wrapping everything up in a neat, happy bow at the end.

An Irish indie that is well-observed and well-acted - but ultimately, not much more exciting than the love lives of its lead characters.

Most of their scenes come off as low-stakes dueling stand-up routines, rather than a plot that builds.

They resort too often to infantile flatulence jokes and fairly obvious gags about errant G-strings, with the anorexic plot culminating in the brothers having - yawn - learned to respect women's feelings.

Though quite watchable thanks to its cast, the overly ambitious Don McKay ends up as confused as its main female character.

Godardian title not withstanding, Zeina Durra's not-uninteresting slice of the downtown Manhattan demimonde is too concerned with being cool to work up much in the way of political outrage, much less narrative drive.

Salt contains many conflicts: intelligence vs. counterintelligence, blond Angelina vs raven-haired and . . . well, that's about it.

An example of style over substance. There's lots of slo-mo and jittery hand-held camera work, and references to the French New Wave (especially François Truffaut), but little depth.

What Kamikaze Girls doesn't have is a plot. As nice as the film looks, it soon grows tiresome -- though I could listen to the Johann Strauss II soundtrack forever.

Unfortunately, director Marc Foster (who co-wrote the screenplay) never allows anyone except Mitchell to play more than a one-dimensional character.

Rambo: Last Blood features what’s easily the most violent movie scene of the year. It’s awesome.

At best, mildly entertaining.

Whaley gives an earnest performance, especially when he's articulating his frustrations during his monologues. But it's all relentlessly glum. The film, like Jimmy's routines, could use a few good laughs.

The story is contrived. Would you believe a high-rise window-washer just happening to be cleaning the window of the room where, at that very moment, his wife is being raped by her boss? Didn't think so.

The tin-earned dialogue and haphazard plotting are more reminiscent of Tarantino's frequent collaborator Robert Rodriguez.

While he takes an evenhanded approach, the filmmaker appears on camera far too often and goes off point as frequently as Moore.

There's little new in Armadillo.

The film can be rough going for those who know little of Berger’s work. That’s especially true of the second part, a stupefying collage about Berger’s home in rural Quincy, France.

Combines the sweet strangeness of "Fargo" with the existential panic of "Memento" and some Elmore Leonard tough talk. It all creates a cinematic tummy ache.

The film’s worst offense is that it works way too hard for it to be a light watch.

But improbable situations, heavy reliance on coincidence and an improbable climax nearly tip the film into TV-movie territory.

The generic plot is redeemed by exciting action sequences, good-looking location photography and a hot sex scene involving a femme fatale named Lea (pixie-haired Melanie Thierry).

There isn't anything terribly exciting or original on offer in the somewhat poky directing debut of screenwriter Zach Helm.

After some early thrills, director Baltasar Kormákur’s movie ceases to excite because the creature has no more surprises left. He just jumps through the window — again.

Certainly watchable, but don’t go expecting much in the way of surprises.

Are Some Girl(s) like this? Yes. But I left this movie with no additional insight on why.

Writer-director Matthew Vaughn, who’s helmed all three, needs to either call it quits or hand over the reins to someone with some self-control. The formidable talent of Ralph Fiennes can lift his movie some, but the man’s not Hercules.

Going Under is the feature directorial debut of 65-year-old Eric Werthman, who has been a practicing psychotherapist for a quarter of a century. If you're not already seeing a shrink, Mr. Werthman, may we suggest that you start immediately.

The film plays out pretty much exactly as you would expect - which won't bother some people one iota.

Basically “Lorenzo’s Oil” without the earlier film’s visual flair.

This wannabe works oh so hard to be a contemporary detective noir, with its shadows, damsel in distress and brooding narration. But it never finds the suspense or sensuality of that genre.

It's also sugary and has a silly tear-jerker ending. But I found myself laughing at the film's gentle humor, anyway.

The three women deliver solid performances, but the film is diluted by the use of flashbacks superimposed over present-time scenes. The result is visual chaos.

There isn't a line you haven't heard or a stock character you haven't encountered before.

They'll say that this year's two Superman pictures could not be more different, but they'll be wrong: Like "Superman Returns," Hollywoodland is laden with atmosphere but moves like it has lead in its tights.

Uncharted, you say? That’s a funny title for an action-adventure movie that doesn’t stray one inch from the well-trodden path of what came before it.

Has the kind of soulful subject matter that will strike some as profoundly emotional, but it gets a flag for roughing the tear ducts. This isn't football - it's cornball.

Barely enough chuckles to keep from running out of gas. Yet it's the sharpest-looking movie shot so far on digital video, outdistancing even "The Anniversary Party."

The last time I saw this much talent in a losing cause was Super Bowl XLII. Trying to mix farce with heart, Drillbit Taylor is instead as soulful as Kenny G and as wacky as public television.

Despite Franco’s laudable desire to shake up a stodgy genre, his film could have done with more life, and less art.

Where Quentin Tarantino's "Kill Bill: Vol. 2" radiates freshness and vigor, Man on Fire feels vaguely like something left over from the 1980s, when action heroes were one-note tough guys methodically picking off baddies.

Touches on issues raised in "Bad Education," but without Pedro Almodovar's flamboyant elegance.

This unambitious Michael Bay-produced version doesn’t seem interested in cleverness, cravenly settling for the usual generic CGI shtick.

Aside from an uninspired script by Frank Cotrell Boyce, is that none of the assembled actors really has enough star presence to compete with the sheer spectacle.

Its priceless clips from the disco era aside, The Secret Disco Revolution laughably fails to turn Barry White and Donna Summer into the Che Guevara and Emma Goldman of the dance floor.

A smug, deliberately convoluted mix tape of Tarantino, the Coen brothers, Guy Ritchie and Hitchcock with (mostly) a cast to die for, Lucky Number Slevin is great fun for, say, 20 minutes.

Looks great but moves like molasses, is more interesting than truly involving.

This is an overlong film interesting chiefly for its performances.

A stylish but distressingly generic and not particularly scary American remake of a phenomenally popular Japanese supernatural thriller that spawned two sequels and a TV miniseries.

Unfortunately, as in Bay’s “Pearl Harbor,’’ much of the sometimes draggy 2 1/4 hours is given to clichéd inspirational drama.

A movie that sets out to make boy bands look silly. The conceptual error is obvious. There’s low-hanging fruit and then there’s fruit that’s already on the ground, rotting underfoot.

A soufflé that begins promisingly but never quite rises.

A buffet of dumb and degrading stunts halfway between Looney Tunes and Abu Ghraib?

Make no mistake, Father of Invention is the hilarious Spacey's show all the way.

Gandolfini, who skillfully fleshes out what's written as a one-joke character, comes close to pilfering The Mexican from the stars. Under the circumstances, that's not a huge accomplishment.

Stick around till the end. You don't want to miss an unexpected cameo from a filmmaker I won't name. Hint: He's short, likes younger women and isn't Woody Allen.

The misleading trailers for the supremely goofy The Adjustment Bureau promise action-packed sci-fi. What you actually get is a love-struck Matt Damon running for the US Senate as he's stalked by fedora-wearing angels.

An occasionally delightful mess of a movie.

Albert elicits good performances from her cast, but she fails to give viewers reason to care about their characters.

O'Grady is very good, but she can't make the hard-to-watch Rid of Me dramatically credible.

Paints a vivid portrait of a compelling young man but, perhaps inevitably, goes overboard on the deification.

The strange thing about the movie is its idea that such couples are rare flowers. But you can scarcely take a step in Seattle or San Francisco or Los Feliz without meeting them in hordes.

Son of God is guilty of all the sins of the 1950s Bible epics, but without any of the majesty.

If you've seen "Gone With the Wind," you've seen what Love in the Time of Cholera isn't.

And how good should we feel about this match anyway? Absolutely anyone, we learn, can win the 1913 U.S. Open. Except blacks, Jews or women.

Good-looking but tonally dubious feature debut from Elizabeth Wood.

Sorvino brings a spark, but neither she nor Patti LuPone, in an amusing cameo, can overcome the clockwork-like plod to the end.

Scriptwriters behind Deliver Us From Eva obviously expended all their creative energy on the catchy title and then promptly ran out of steam.

One of that film's funniest performers, John Michael Higgins, is on hand as a maniacal European celebrity handler who keeps swearing, "I am no homoist."

There are a handful of moments to entrance a non-fan. When the musicians and singers assemble to sing “Proserpina,” the last song McGarrigle ever wrote, with its haunting refrain (“Come home to Mama”), the effect is transcendent.

Fails to show indignation that rich white guys are trying to get even richer at the expense of a naive black kid from the ghetto.

The whole thing is shot in an irritating, self-conscious way.

An unsatisfying biopic.

Not since Edward Norton kicked his own butt in Fight Club has the screen witnessed such a brutal self-drubbing.

Despite a script that occasionally calls for some embarrassingly awkward lines, Kollek's cast generally acquits itself well.

A too-cute-by-half Irish romantic comedy that's overloaded with movie references that begin with the title.

Sunk by too much schmaltz (even for the Lower East Side).

An OK kids movie passing through on the way to video.