Ryan Reynolds isn't around this time - and neither is most of the wit.

A couple of grand, intriguing ideas does not a movie make. Say it with me, folks: It’s the little things.

There's a hint of nostalgia toward the end, with Jason encountering two nubile female campers in a virtual reality Camp Crystal Lake -- but it merely serves as a reminder that the franchise should have quit while it was ahead.

The girl kept talking and strategizing as heavy string music played on the soundtrack. This was doubly weird because: a) it made me feel like the bad guy; and b) life doesn’t normally have a soundtrack. Somehow the bitch got hold of a flare gun. Ever had a flare gun fired into your hide? Unpleasant.

Amy Sedaris, channeling her inner Frances McDormand as a hyper admissions coach, gets most of the laughs.

The Concert is an art-house trap, the cinematic equivalent of one of those salads that turns out to have more calories than a Big Mac. And for the same reason: gobs of thick, sweet dressing.

A great-looking but wearyingly cliched and confusing vanity production.

Murphy has fallen back into the comfortable rut of sloppy family comedies that are low on laughs and high on toilet jokes.

Something high schoolers might yawn through in history class, but they have no choice. You do.

By the time this corn festival is over, you'll be crying out for the relative toughness of the average Jimmy Stewart film.

A campy docu-drama about the secretly gay world of 1950's muscle magazines.

To paraphrase that old quip about slow-paced art films, it literally is watching paint dry.

Well-meaning yawn-fest.

Unfortunately, this version of the familiar formula lacks the inspiration, genuine wit and raunchy charm of 1998's outrageous "There's Something About Mary."

Remarkably sluggish and not particularly suspenseful.

Might have worked as a 10-minute sketch.

Branagh’s warped vision of these films as putrid, depressing slogs makes Death on the Nile interminable.

An awkward hybrid of genres that just doesn't work.

Slicker than most attempts to document Monroe's successes and tragic trajectory, but even her own words don't provide much more of an insight into what made this troubled icon tick.

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

Clichéd stories, clichéd characters. All that's missing is Ed Burns.

The longest 85-minute road trip you could imagine.

A non-starter.

Despising the British upper class is so utterly common, as we see in The Riot Club, a farcically heavy-handed attempted satiric takedown of an elite group of Oxford students.

I’m probably more intrigued than 99.3 percent of the American public by the idea of deconstructing the hidden symbols in Stanley Kubrick’s “The Shining,” but the theories proposed in the doc Room 237 aren’t eye-opening. They’re laughable.

It's not uninteresting, but so much footage is given over to earnest discussion of sexual politics that the overall effect is like sitting through a semester's worth of transgender studies.

There are a lot of casualties in this stylish, unoriginal thriller, but James McAvoy’s knee was the only one that moved me.

Even I realize that other people's babies are boring. So is Babies.