When the movie is funny, it’s very funny.

The Canyons comes across as a desperate gambit for relevance by a group of artists who want to reinvent themselves but don't know how. Fittingly, that's the theme of the film itself.

Social critique isn't the main concern of director James Ponsoldt ("Smashed"). What he does is take us inside an unexpected, but not unrealistic, high school relationship and provide a splendid stage for two young and very promising actors.

Although there's a twist in this tale, most of it is stuff we've seen before. And Wingard doesn't think of a new way to show it.

By trying to inflate one remarkable life story into the chronicle of a generation, Daniels fills what could have been an inspirational, personal saga with a lot of hot air.

If it works at all, fitfully, it's because of the precociously talented and in-control Moretz, who carries the film on her own small shoulders.

As with so many of his appearances, Franco manages to bring a jolt of energy to the film even while skewering its credibility.

Even the finest troupe of thespians would be wasted without Allen's guiding hand as writer and director. But Blue Jasmine, which might rank among Allen's 10 best films, shows what can happen when it all comes together.

Sudeikis has always been a charming comedic actor. He usually doesn't have to work this hard for laughs.

In the films at least, there's something so naked about the Potter/Percy story parallels that's it's hard not to sit there as a viewer and get distracted playing connect the dots.

Langella is solid as always, but his haunted, bitter character is pretty two-dimensional, and having to share all his scenes with Bentley doesn’t allow for much interplay.

A drab, gloomy drama that doesn't provide any real enlightenment about why something so awful could happen.

With barely a hint of trippy visuals, it captures the highs and lows of one mind-expanding surfside day.

As storytelling, it's extremely effective.

The movie's fast pace, and the three gleeful central performances, keep I'm So Excited! mostly painless. But the rest of it has a whiff of the sort of desperation that can make an exclamation point in a title seem like a good idea.

There's a potentially innovative teen comedy in here somewhere, but it's surrounded by one that's much duller.

The movie's a solid fish-out-of-water thriller that just happens to be populated by a few folks with adamantium skeletons or poison saliva on their résumés.

Willis appears to have finally grown bored of his own shtick, and Malkovich spends most of the movie looking humiliated.

As horror movies go, The Conjuring is an extremely skillful, entertaining remix album. That's not an insult.

Refn's trying to make too little stretch too far.

Bening and Dillon both play roles they could act in their sleep, though it's still moderately fun to watch them do so.

Co-directors Nat Faxon and Jim Rash, who won an Oscar for writing "The Descendants," are smart enough to mostly stay out the way and let this talented crew bring their script to life.

Idris Elba exudes the requisite militaristic authority as Raleigh's commanding officer, and Rinko Kikuchi is his determined partner in mecha mayhem.

Miller, who's still trying to find her way as an actress, isn't bad, and the Iranian-born Farahani is convincing, but their characters are blandly angelic, in stark contrast to the vast majority of men they encounter.

20 Feet From Stardom spends time as well with Claudia Lennear, Táta Vega and Lisa Fischer. None of the three ever found much success as a solo artist, but you probably can't listen to a classic-rock radio station for a half-hour without hearing one of them backing up Joe Cocker, David Bowie, Tina Turner or the Rolling Stones.

A Band Called Death is more effective as a chronicle of the intensely close relationship between three musically ambitious brothers than as proto-punk archaeology.

It's just a shame that the search for the missing formula ends up feeling so formulaic.

The ferociously misguided new rendition of The Lone Ranger has no legitimate reason to exist.

The central figure in The Attack is the very picture of a tolerant, integrated future for the Mideast. When a horrific blast kills 17 people and sends dozens of wounded to his hospital, he's elbow-deep trying to save the victims, even the one who refuses help from an Arab.

For most of its running time, How to Make Money Selling Drugs is a cheeky, moderately interesting look behind the curtain of the trade in contraband substances, from the corner dealer to the cartel-topping drug lord.

Disco scholars convincingly analyze lyrics and fashions as presenting bold expressions of sexuality and democratic hedonism, while Kastner doesn't skimp on the vintage clips, which range from unintentionally hilarious to surprisingly impressive.

If the film takes too long to wrap itself up --and hints, predictably, at a sequel -- the funky soundtrack is fun and McCarthy's South Boston relations are a scream.

It's probably not a good idea to examine the political content of a film in which the leader of the free world proves that the pen is mightier than the sword by stabbing someone in the neck with one.

It's a pleasant, engaging version of probably the closest thing to a sitcom the Bard ever penned.

The Bling Ring still feels more like a magazine article overstretched into a feature length film.

World War Z manages to be scary without descending to in-your-face gore -- it wants to frighten its audience, not disgust them.

The East never goes as deep undercover as it should.

Man of Steel has too many characters and too much plot, resulting in a movie that feels overstuffed and overlong.

With less intelligence behind it, this could have easily been one of those films that seem like they were more fun to make than to watch. Instead, it's a thoroughly good time at the movies, from humble beginning to cosmic, surprise-cameo-featuring end.

For those with adventurous tastes and a little extra patience, the 90-year-old's possible swan song (though he evidently is far from fatigued) is rewarding.

When a film like Stories We Tell comes along, you're reminded how powerful and universal even the most intimate and individual lives can be when captured with intelligence and perspective.

For most of its running time, it's a riveting rendition of a stranger-than-fiction tale.

The plot is simplicity itself, and Jaden's quirk-free character and bland performance don't add anything. It's actually a little sad that M. Night Shyamalan has descended to this sort of vanity-project work-for-hire, but at least he didn't insist on some absurd twist ending.

Although the filmmakers reportedly worked with David Copperfield and other renowned real-life illusionists and tried to minimize the use of CGI, you're still left wondering how much of the magic is merely the kind Hollywood spits out by the terabyte.

It's visually appealing, but embodies the movie's (and Frances') problem: wanting to be taken seriously without putting in the real work required to prove you're actually serious.

"Fast Five" and Fast & Furious 6 -- the newest, nearly-as-much-dumb-fun sequel -- play more like "The Avengers" than they don't.

Galifianakis tries hard, and he has a few nice moments with guest star Melissa McCarthy, but this is a movie to make teetotalers of us all.

The documentary's soundtrack is composed entirely of Source Family music, and some of it's not half bad.

By combining formulaic screenwriting and downbeat art house clichés, the ending puts a significant damper on what had been a fascinating character study.

Aselton is clearly trying to broaden her reach as both actress and director beyond the rumpled indie comedy of "The Freebie," her directing debut, and the concept is there, but a movie like this needs a much more polished execution that Black Rock gets.

A watchable, even suspenseful portrait of a woman who spends most of the film smoking cigarettes, sitting at typewriters or sparring at dinner parties.

Not only compelling and complex, but educational.

Since the revelation of Wall Street's culpability for the 2008 economic crisis, though, the arc of Changez's transformation feels almost clichéd, despite Ahmed's earnest, effective performance.

When the camera glides down a pier to settle for the first time on Gatsby's face, it's a movie-star moment of the sort we don't often get anymore, and there aren't many actors who could pull off Gatsby's mixture of confident charisma and pathetic vulnerability.

There's something in this nostalgic, lovingly photographed film about the transition from the classical art of painting to the new art of the cinema, as embodied by one of the greatest practitioners of each. The independent-minded Andrée, who would go on to marry Jean Renoir and star in several of his early films, is presented as something more than a mere muse, if something less than a full-fledged character.

To top it all off, the movie ends with one of the best covers of "I Shall Be Released" you'll hear, courtesy of gospel singer Marion Williams.

It's solidly entertaining, with Downey's roguish charm as appealing as ever.

There's a certain bravery in Brandon's full embrace of the themes of Cronenberg père, who may be returning the favor with his next film, the Hollywood satire "Maps to the Stars."

Bay seems to have been gunning for something along the lines of "Blood Simple" or "A Simple Plan," but Pain & Gain is just plain simple.

Lyrical and gorgeous, it indulges in enough trademark Malickian touches to seem almost a parody of itself.

The spirits of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer are alive and well in the Southern-fried coming-of-age tale Mud. It's got all the ingredients.

Paradise: Love, the first in a thematic trilogy, is a sad story about the difficulty individuals face when trying to establish relationships across vast cultural and economic gulfs.

As far as the company Redford keeps, I liked it better when he hung out with Paul Newman and Sydney Pollack, but those days are long gone.

The credibility of these theories ranges from faintly plausible to frankly ridiculous, but Ascher isn't interested in judging them; his movie is more about the joys of deconstruction and the special kind of obsession that movies can inspire.

Upstream Color culminates in a wordless final act that is among the most transcendent passages of pure cinema in memory.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about this story is that it would have been lost to history had not American spelunker Chris Nicola happened across mundane relics -- buttons, shoes and the like -- while exploring the cave complex in the 1990s.

Oblivion is Moebius-comic gorgeous and it sounds great, especially the loud, nervewracking honks the drones make when they're weighing whether or not to shoot you. I suppose that's a surface appeal. But it's a nice surface.

It's a remarkably mature achievement

There's visual poetry here, in small doses, but it doesn't take long for one's patience to run out.

Spike Lee wanted for years to make a Jackie Robinson film, and I hope he still gets his chance. Another take, maybe angrier or more polemic, could be fascinating, and the heroism of Jackie Robinson was significant enough to justify more than a few movies.

It's neither grounded enough to be genuinely horrifying nor over the top enough to be nastily fun.

Wrong never feels dangerous or truly challenging, content generally to amuse rather than amaze.

Although some of the accents are so thick it's difficult to understand the dialogue (where are the subtitles when we need them?) the performances feel genuine.

The animation is pretty and clean, reminiscent of other Studio Ghibli films like "Whisper of the Heart," but never achieves wondrous artistry.

Anchoring a terrific cast is Bernal, who gives one of his best-ever performances.

Cianfrance is the real deal, and anyone who can persuade talented Hollywood stars to enact nonironic, intelligent, ambitious drama should be encouraged, especially when the result is something like this.

Beyond the Hills is an undeniably difficult (not to mention lengthy) film to endure. But for those with the fortitude, there is grace and enlightenment hidden in this harsh Romanian winter tale.

Be warned that this is a movie literally awash in blood and graphic violence.

Nguyen reportedly worked on War Witch for a decade, and it shows in both the immediacy and authenticity of his tale, and the meticulous craft with which it's told.

Not content to make his point through sharp-tongued comedy, Hogan ends up beating a dead horse -- or shark, as the case may be.

Lily Tomlin gives the movie a boost as Portia's radical feminist mother, who would hate this movie.

Even if Salles' film can't possibly capture the impact of its source, it's intriguing enough to rate a place in the ever-expanding mythology of "the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live."

It's a pleasure, so soon after seeing Franco's recent bewildered performance in "Oz the Great and Powerful," to watch him tackle this menacing yet beguiling character.

Like Someone in Love meanders with intention toward a bittersweet resolution, but then pulls the rug out from under you in a cruelly ambiguous shot.

It starts off well enough, and Solanas has a marvelous sense of space and style. But he doesn't develop its story and doesn't truly draw out its characters.

The opening sequences of this film from director Olivier Assayas are gripping, as students flee baton-wielding police, then embark on a late-night vandalism spree at a school. But the drama becomes mired with too many characters, too many shots of pretty Italian scenery and an unfocused story.

[Guterson] has crafted a near-masterpiece of understated humor and empathy, demonstrating that, despite Hollywood's usual indifference, it's possible to make authentic, funny, engaging films about characters over the age of 50 who are neither grizzled hit men nor sassy grandmas.

Once Wentworth Miller's screenplay starts to provide answers for Charlie's mysterious menace, though, expectations are left unfulfilled.

Jim Carrey kills it every time he shows up in his supporting role as street magician Steve Gray.

The movie unfolds in the uplifting manner you'd expect, but its real pleasures lie in its terrific '60s pop-soul soundtrack and especially in its frequently funny performances.

Spoofing the pernicious effects of television, especially the so-called reality genre, doesn't require pinpoint aim, and at times Luciano seems as much a target of ridicule as the superficial, oversexed entertainment served up on the tube.

West of Memphis does nothing to displace its predecessor films as masterpieces of investigative filmmaking, but complements them as a riveting capstone to an epic and tragic tale.

Most of the time, though, it's a confusing mishmash featuring a fine actor too willfully operating outside his comfort zone.

Not to be mistaken for a serious treatment of religious fervor or clerical corruption, The Monk is instead a knowingly over-the-top bit of gothic nuttiness.

It's almost too bad, then, that MacArthur and Jones take a back seat to the far less interesting Gen. Bonner Fellers in the stolid drama Emperor.

As is, the slapstick humor and mild repartee won't please many with a mindset above that of a 10-year-old, while the level of (admittedly fantastical) violence might be a bit much for the pre-teen set.

In the end, The Phantom remains mediocre, with flat cinematography and crude dialogue.

It's quietly brutal stuff, beautifully acted by Fanning, Englert, Christina Hendricks and a word-twisting Alessandro Nivola.