Everything plays out exactly as you'd expect in a cheerful, well-meaning movie in the style of something made for the Disney channel.

It's a pulp story pinned to the screen with an ice pick of conscience in a manner that would have pleased Allen's idol, Ingmar Bergman.

A Skinemax movie cloaked in art-house fancy dress, the sex thriller Chloe might have worked better as an out-and-out popcorn flick starring, say, Jennifer Lopez.

Wilson doesn’t have the emotional heft, or the narrative arc, of Johnson’s last film, but it does remind you how much fun it is to watch Harrelson. In real life, Wilson would just be a straight-up a - - hole.

An occasionally revealing glimpse inside the mind of Chapman before, during and after the assassination.

Any prison-break yarn that includes Arnold Schwarzenegger delivering the line “You hit like a vegetarian” is OK by me.

Becomes more and more confused, unpleasant and preposterous.

It's the audience that gets punk'd in this crass and sloppy comic recycling.

Sex Drive has shaky moments, and its smutty gags aren't edited so much as slammed together.

Billed as a comedy about a single dad with three girls, the movie is essentially another sudser about the plight of upscale black women in Atlanta.

Staggers between flaccid satire and what is supposed to be madcap farce.

A cheaply made, occasionally repetitive, but passionately argued documentary.

You do have to give Starbuck credit for engineering perhaps the largest group hug ever put on film.

“Twelve Final Days” is a tender, mellow film that delves inside the head of a deeply enigmatic figure as he asks the relatable and terrifying question: “What’s next?”

The only thing that's shocking about Death of a President is how boring it is.

This spring, boredom has a new name: Lucky You. In the poker flick, an announcer calling a climactic poker match uses a Texas hold 'em term frequently, saying, "And the flop. And the flop. And the flop." This movie reviews itself.

Little more than a supersized version of the popular PBS animated series that's stopping briefly in theaters en route to its natural habitat -- video.

While Clooney and especially Blanchett give solid performances, and McGuire plays effectively against type, the movie is best appreciated as an exercise in vintage Hollywood style.

Though the movie has some engagingly quirky moments, everything falls into place far too easily for much suspense to build, and the romance between the two leads seems as contrived as everything else.

Demolition, written by Bryan Sipe is, like director Jean-Marc Vallée’s previous films “Wild” and “Dallas Buyers Club,” a tale of interior repair sought through obsessive and near-penitential acts, but it’s stranger and at times more interesting than those other two.

The talented quartet saves the movie, but making it great would take a rewrite.

Too bad it lacks a substantial story to go along with the kick-ass combat scenes.

As you might suspect, the 2012 dialogue is pure Velveeta.

The Neighbor No. Thirteen forgoes the manic violence of the Korean revenge stunner "Oldboy" in favor of leisurely paced suspense with sudden bloody outbursts.

Showing the personal toll that produces a star in any field could be a soggy, predictable drag, but the documentary A Man's Story never slides into easy sentiment or bromides.

What makes Sing 2 enjoyable are the tunes. And writer-director Garth Jennings assembles a characteristically quirky mixtape.

Does offer solid laughs, engaging performances and a captivating setting.

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."

Apart from the slightly sanitized look of Reagan-era Harlem, this raw ghetto drama rings true, from the smooth dialogue to the unaffected performances of the central actors.

So serious-minded it occasionally teeters on the brink of absurdity.

Patton Oswalt makes an amusing cameo as a Klingon-speaking cop, and Toni Collette is her usual graceful self as Wendy’s harried counselor, but in all this is a half-baked effort at humanizing autism — at its best when Wendy’s at her computer channeling the Vulcan voice of Mr. Spock, that intergalactic hero who was always so puzzled by human emotions.

Visually striking but gets bogged down in supernatural clichés.

None of its characters is especially interesting.

Jane's Journey is an exceedingly graceful and dignified sleep aid.

If McKay crafted the most enjoyable parts of his satire with a scalpel, somebody should’ve handed him a machete to chop the script down some. The film clocks in at nearly two hours and 10 minutes, and we grow exhausted by it as the surprises stop and the ending becomes inevitable.

So beautifully filmed (as if through a gauze curtain), it is especially sad that the script doesn't measure up.

A lot of preaching to the converted.

The American Muslim comedian Ahmed Ahmed does lots of jokes about how he isn't a terrorist. How odd: As I sat through his tepid act, I could have sworn he was bombing.

No personal revelations surface in “This Is Us.” Also, no narrative, no conflict — no differentiation between band members, even, besides the designation of dark-eyed Zayn as “the mysterious one” (he likes to paint).

Andy Goddard’s feature debut is shot stylishly in black and white, but deals in themes that feel equally retro.

There's potential here, but the script is entirely too, shall we say, Hollywood. There's even a dog-poop joke.

Instead of smarts, we get farts. The movie is packed with gross body and sex humor, reductive characters (the gay assistant, the boss who should be fired) and delusions of insight. And Henson’s likable performance is so overblown, it could be sponsored by Red Bull.

An eyeball party. The score by Daft Punk, which veers from homages to Hans Zimmer's thundery work in "The Dark Knight" to a retro-'80s synth sound, surpasses magnificence.

Begins exceptionally well. Indeed, for at least its first half it's an unusually thoughtful, admirably underplayed piece of work of disorienting, rather harsh realism that builds its mysteries in pleasurably oblique and unpredictable ways.

Wears out its welcome fast because of its artistic pretensions and self-absorbed characters. You'd be better off renting "Manhattan" instead.

This otherwise undistinguished thriller about cloning is the most entertaining movie from the aging action star for some time.

What makes Final Fantasy a final failure is a predictable, nonsensical plot, laughably lame dialogue and a surfeit of cloying environmentalist piety.

Wait for the video, then fast-forward through every scene except the ones featuring Maria Mironova as a cheating wife.

Lightweight but enjoyable entertainment.

The script doesn't offer anything especially new, but Burman infuses the film with innovative lensing and capable acting.

Love in Space is just what movie fans have been waiting for: a romantic comedy from Communist China.

Misshapen, malodorous and firing its grubby tentacles across the room in a feeding frenzy, The Thing reminded me of a roomful of journalists immediately after someone announces Open Bar. The movie's victims disappear like cocktail peanuts and without a whole lot more significance.

His late father directed "Rambo: First Blood,'' but Panos Cosmatos' debut feature couldn't be more different - this would-be cult classic is the movie equivalent of gazing at a lava lamp for nearly two hours.

Hire “Dreamgirls” director Bill Condon to tell the story of Julian Assange and WikiLeaks? Sure, and next let’s hear from Lady Gaga on the Higgs boson particle.

Harmless if not exactly inspired, and rarely hilarious.

Seeing as Krampus is about the Alpine demon who punishes Christmas a-holes, this is a promising start — but alas, it’s all downhill from there, making a murky and humorless hash out of a pretty great piece of

It may fall into some conventional paces as a triumph-over-adversity story, but Desert Dancer does manage to movingly convey the chilling, ultimately triumphant experience of Ghaffarian’s struggle for creative expression under a regime that tried to crush it.

An intriguingly Hitchcockian premise gradually takes on a preposterous air in the art-world noir The Best Offer.

The Sentinel is so bland that it wants only to be as good as TV. Not as good as good TV, like "24." It merely aspires to be the Regis Philbin of D.C. thrillers. It isn't trying to dazzle you with style, complexity or intelligence.

You simply cannot believe you’re staring at megastars — so sapped of individuality and charisma they are. My barista could have been cast as the lead of this action-thriller, and the film would be absolutely no different.

When New York, I Love You was previewed in Toronto a year ago, there were two additional segments that have since been cut. So you'll have to wait for the DVD to see just how bad Scarlett Johansson's directing debut is.

The considerable talents of Banks make the movie bearable.

Basically "csi: East Texas,'' the debut feature of Ami Canaan Mann is long on style and short on coherent storytelling, not unlike numerous efforts by her director dad, Michael, who serves as a producer here.

Miller never really fleshes out all of these colorful characters in her emotionally facile script, leaving the heavy lifting to the actors. Fortunately for The Private Lives of Pippa Lee, Wright is more than up to the challenge.

The season's first guilty pleasure, Shoot 'Em Up is a joyously silly, R-rated, John Woo-in flected Looney Tune, with Clive Owen as a carrot-chomping, gun-toting Bugs Bunny matching wits with Elmer Fudd-ish assassin Paul Giamatti.

To put it as positively as possible, there's never a dull moment in this flick - and that's not something you can take for granted at this time of the year. At the same time, though, there's rarely a believable moment in the script.

Has a secret weapon in Winger, whose part is small but crucial. Looking a bit older and with redder hair than previously, she brings an earthiness to a movie that could use a lot more of that quality.

Falters seriously is its too-leisurely pacing.

A well-intentioned, semi-autobiographical pastiche, is trapped in a straitjacket of political correctness, self-conscious acting and spurts of try-hard dialogue that come off as precious.

The movie is saved by its well-trained four-legged stars and the likable Liam Aiken ("Road to Perdition"), who plays 12-year-old loner Owen Baker.

Disco may still be dead, but Benji: Off the Leash! resurrects another dubious artifact of the '70s - the crudely made family films starring that lovable mutt.

The Grudge offers a bit more exposition than did "Ju-On," but the plot is still wispy.

Yet what makes this movie is the digital effects. It's got all the heart of a demolition derby.

Cheerful, slightly cheesy entertainment that uses the latest special-effects techniques to breathe life into a venerable film tradition.

"Rhapsody” has a shallow script, oversize performances and looks like it was shot in a sauna.

At best, the film serves up mild chuckles, with occasional cute jokes.

This movie fails so spectacularly - and on so many levels - that it's like watching a train plummet off a bridge.

Campy and clichéd.

Very few actors would have the courage to allow von Trier to put them through what Dafoe and Gainsbourg experienced in the name of art.

Bullet Train is a fun flick, to be sure, reminiscent of director Guy Ritchie’s better crime comedies such as “The Gentlemen” with Hugh Grant. But, as the title suggests, it’s louder and faster. And, a warning to the squeamish, there’s a swimming pool’s worth of blood.

Four Brothers? Ringling Brothers is more like it, because John Singleton's latest stinks like something the elephants left behind. It's not clear what the film is trying to do, but it seems safe to guess that it's doing it wrong.

Just when things should be getting exciting and complex, they become repetitive and predictable. Subtext becomes hint becomes statement becomes declaration. For once, Pinter is a little too easy to understand.

Amsterdam has every advantage imaginable. Doesn’t matter. It’s the worst movie of the year so far, and I will bow down to whatever comes along and tops it.

Aside from a relatively brief appearance by Joan Cusack's avatar as the kidnapped mother, there are no involving characters or situations.

For much of Flannel Pajamas I wondered if the couple's big problem was that Stuart was secretly gay. Nothing so interesting - he's just a narcissistic control freak and she's off-puttingly needy.

Frankenstein’s Army is funny and original, with innovative costumes and set designs. It’s sure to please horror fans.

On the whole, the pairing of these two comedy titans is forgettable and slow as an ice age. To put it in skiing parlance: Downhill is pizza-ing when it needs to french-fry.

An unassuming love comedy with plot problems.

It's like your appendix - you'll never even miss it.

Psst! Wanna vicariously experience a consciousness-raising LSD trip and watch Sarah Michelle Gellar star in some explicit sex scenes?

Might have worked as a travelogue, minus the story. In its present form, it is hardly worth the $10 you will be asked to fork over at the box office.

Suddenly topical because of parallels to the kidnapping and death of Daniel Pearl.

Clive Owen stumbles around the scenery doing unfortunate drunken-writer shtick in Words and Pictures, a formula movie whose script is yet more unfortunate.

I only wish the Little laughs were bigger.

Modestly entertaining.

Tristan & Isolde makes sacking and pillaging about as exciting as the line at the post office.

With the exception of “Tape 49” — the Simon Barrett-directed segment about the PI — the films are ridiculously shaky, their camerawork so determinedly guerrilla-style that it’s difficult not to look away, sometimes at crucial moments. Found footage is all well and good, but if it’s unwatchable, it might as well have stayed lost.

I’d rather put Baby Shark on repeat all day than spend another 90 minutes with this adult horse.