As an action fix to hold you before the summer explosions start, you could do worse than The Losers. It’s no more than an efficient time-killer.

Chockablock with things we're not supposed to notice: that Roberts is wasted; that she and Cusack have no characters to play, so it's virtually impossible to understand why she loves him or vice versa; that the script provides comedy without bite and romance without resonance.

Killer Elite pretends to be fact-based and true to its 1980s period. Just know it's all baloney.

Night Swim eventually runs out of places to go, but not before it weds some sneaky character development to a few good, solid jump moments. It might not find an audience, but it deserves one.

Questions: Did everyone involved in this botched thriller OD on speed? Does jimmy-legs director D.J. Caruso think if he slowed down the action we'd figure out how stupid the plot is?

Hackman and Freeman will pin you to your seat.

This lumbering retread, subtitled The Legend of Curly's Gold, is mostly old ground slavishly covered. There are wider gaps between the jokes this time, and the slick style of British director Paul Weiland, best known for commercials (Schweppes, Heineken), can't disguise the fact that he's selling stale goods.

One might think that a movie featuring Bill Murray, Matthew McConaughey, Janeane Garofalo and an elephant couldn't be all that bad. Think again. This is a terrible, terrible movie.

There's nothing to keep the pulse alive after the first quake. Peyton throws in a second quake and a tsunami, but after a while buildings tumbling into the ocean are just a bunch of pixels turning everything into visual mush and leaving audiences in a digital stupor.

American Pastoral, Roth's magnum opus, needed a film revolutionary on the order of Paul Thomas Anderson, Alejandro González Iñárritu or the Coen brothers to re-imagine it for the screen. McGregor's timid approach does no one any favors, including Roth – and especially the audience.

Gray says she hates fishermen who catch and release: Getting jerked around hurts the jaw. See this movie and you'll know the feeling.

I found myself wishing that Taymor would turn off the sound and fury and let The Tempest speak for itself. My wish wasn't granted.

Not since Gus Van Sant inexplicably directed a shot-by-shot remake of Hitchcock's "Psycho" has a thriller been copied with so little point or impact.

Promises a road movie of blissful comic romance and delivers a series of dramatic dead ends.

Reeks like something produced from a squatting position.

Affleck is modest and engaging, which keeps the movie out of "Gigli" territory. But it's close.

The Vow is a sopping hankie of a romance for women who love to suffer and the men who love them.

Director Reinaldo Marcus Green (King Richard) does his duty by delivering eureka moments, a few greatest-hits sequences, some personal drama. The result is a perfectly functional look at a legend, one that will definitely make you want to put Exodus back into heavy playlist rotation. It’s still not enough.

I laughed, then I wished it was funnier, then I just wished it would end.

Bolstered by the strength of its admirable and talented cast — which includes Kiersey Clemons, Gabourey Sidibe, Jena Malone, Tongayi Chirisa, and Jack Huston — the movie is good at getting a good number of ideas going at once.

There's no denying the movie's high spirits or its irresistible invitation to shake your sillies out.

Equals is really about possibility in a world gone cold from insisting that things can't change. Sound like any place you know?

The Girl in the Spider’s Web, directed with gun-to-the-head urgency by Fede Alvarez (Don’t Breathe), settles for being a tension-packed, go-go-go thriller that will pump adrenaline into your nervous system for nearly all of its suspenseful if implausible 117 minutes.

How the hell can you take an SNL skit that runs 90 seconds and stretch it to a 90-minute feature? Sounds excruciating. But MacGruber breaks the jinx by putting the skit in the context of a 1980s action movie and creating its own brand of explosive lunacy.

This misbegotten sequel to 2014’s not-so-hot Maleficent is a torturous exercise in brightly-colored monotony that chokes on repetitive screenwriting, amateurish directing, paycheck performances and digital hardware for a heart. Kids under five (months) might be fooled, but sentient filmgoers know a scam when they see one.

A slipshod sequel that looks tossed together over a weekend by people who couldn't care less.

Because Allen hasn't lost his knack for slapstick with a sting, Anything Else hits its mark more often than not.

Colorful and exciting, as far as it goes. But Boyle and Hodge pull back on their usual wit and grit.

Geena Davis and her director and husband, Renny Harlin, recover from their "Cutthroat Island" fiasco in grand style, and screenwriter Shane Black ("The Last Boy Scout") juggles jolts and jokes with a mad fervor that almost earns him his $4 million salary.

No matter how much money this clunker makes, this is a movie that never should have happened.

Since the new Recall is totally witless, don't expect laughs. Originality and coherence are also notably MIA.

The title of this limp retread of "Minority Report" -- both films are based on stories by Philip K. Dick -- presumably refers to the reason the big names involved did this movie.

What have you done to The Wolfman, Hollywood? It’s got no kick to it. No fun either. And no real scares, which is more unforgivable.

As for the ladies who think any kind of chick flick is preferable to football, be careful what you wish for.

This is the safe and sorry Disney version, suitable for anyone under 10 or gullible to the point of idiocy.

Roth takes three powerhouse actors -- Julianne Moore as the mother, Samuel L. Jackson as the cop who interrogates her and Edie Falco as another woman who lost her son -- and reduces their talents to rubble and their characters to screeching cliches.

while director Olivia Newman (First Match) and screenwriter Lucy Alibar (Beasts of the Southern Wild) retain the book’s breathless, beach-read momentum — sudden violence! love triangles! plot surprises! incredibly photorealistic sketches of shells! — there doesn’t seem to be much of a spark in the engine powering these narrative turns. Can a movie be both hyperventilating and lackluster at the same time?

Murphy, teaming again with his "Norbit" director Brian Robbins, is assuming we'll all line up for lazyass toilet jokes and pay for the privilege. Prove him wrong, people, please.

A movie about death that stubbornly refuses to come to life.

Plays like an unholy union of "The Natural" and "The Prince of Tides." Too bad...Build a movie as a shrine to baseball and they will come. Suckers!

This third hunk of Pie is a worn-out gross-out, a remnant of a genre that now seems so five minutes ago.

Roger Moore already seems winded in his second outing as Bond. And the film's comedic approach to martial arts justly rankles true 007 afficionados. Compensation comes in the form of Christopher Lee's delicious take on evil as Scaramanga and Herve Villechaize's verve as Nick Nack, Scaramanga's dwarf manservant.

Jammed with story threads that don’t cohere, Cirque commits the cardinal sin for a vampire movie: It’s bloodless.

The film is for horny pups of all ages who relish the memory of reading stroke books under the covers with a flashlight. Verhoeven has spent $49 million to reproduce that dirty little thrill on the big screen.

A stuffy, soggy slog of a movie that fails to generate sparks or a lick of dramatic sense.

There are many reasons that 1999 is considered a banner year for American cinema. This attempt to revisit the type of fanciful, footloose and fancy-twee storytelling that helped characterize that cultural moment is a big swing, and an even bigger miss.

Character gets sacrificed for just another true-crime drama.

Retribution is not the worst of his thrillers/action movies — that honor belongs to either last year’s god-awful Blacklight or this freezer-burned turkey — but it does suggest that Neeson may want to consider retiring from the everyman action-hero beat for good. What once felt like a niche being expertly filled now resembles a formula beaten into submission, like so many nameless thugs threatening the safety of a tough guy’s offspring.

The movie may be so scared of being an Auto-Tuned biopic that it settles for simply being out of tune altogether.

I wanted Paquin, who deserves better than this, to call on her vampire pals from "True Blood" and yell, "sic em!" Oh wait, they're already bloodless.

Dark Phoenix doesn’t just suck big time. It’s the worst movie ever in the X-Men series.

Props to Kutcher for going to surprising, painful places. There's something haunted in his portrayal that hits hard and sticks.

A manipulative script about dog reincarnation that whacks your emotions like a piñata – that's forgivable. Not this. It shouldn't happen to a dog.

I'd rather be buried in a mound of Floridian chad than watch director Donald Petrie force Bullock to jump through another desperately unfunny comic hoop.

Simultaneously full of itself and full of sh--, Brooklyn's Finest is a cop movie so shallow, dumb, derivative and infuriating that it feels like a parody of bad cop movies.

Not even the presence of Money Heist‘s Úrsula Corberó as a slinky villain known as the Baroness could stave off a sense of disappointment.

It's a paranoid thriller without suspense, urgency or a single new thing to say.

Glass is not the flaming flop some folks have already suggested it is, nor is it the movie you want in terms of tying ambitious, highfalutin notions together about how we process our pulp mythos.

Even sex can't save a film that produces instant narcolepsy.

When the movie stalls, it’s Enzo to the rescue. Since the film covers a decade in the lives of its characters, two dogs take turns playing Enzo, at age 2 and 9. They’re both picks of the litters. And Ventimiglia contributes an emotional honesty that serves him well even when the plot sinks into marshmallow.

The original cartoon’s credit sequence, redone with modern computerized shininess, is indeed a gas to witness. The rest is basically corporate synergy, canine shenanigans, and hot air. Zoinks, indeed.

You might think there's no downside to a movie that peeks up the skirts of babes in micro-minis, but writer-director Angela Robinson's dimwitted satire is libido-killing proof to the contrary.

This pooped party brings you down from all the jokes that don't land and the flop sweat pouring off good actors whose forced cheer is exhausting.

The idea of doing The Right Stuff of food stuff and treating the rise and fall of empires over a breakfast treat as U.S. History 101 is, on paper, a well-balanced meal. Onscreen, it comes off as a lot of half-baked self-satisfaction that leaves you woozy from the sugar crash.

All this is conveyed in the remarkable performance of Ronan, an Oscar nominee for Atonement. She and Tucci -- magnificent as a man of uncontrollable impulses -- help Jackson cut a path to a humanity that supersedes life and death.

Except for a rare scene of shaggy charm, nothing works. Nothing.

Starting to feel sick? Just you wait.

Lulls aside, Wain and Showalter deserve camp kudos for getting the details right.

Stuber traps two talented dudes — Kumail Nanjiani and Dave Bautista — in a car that’s going nowhere so fast that Thelma and Louise would hop right on.

Surprise is lacking. Ditto humor, though Miles Teller (Whiplash), as a thorn in Four's side, gets in a few fun licks by not staying on the film's draggy tempo. Otherwise, Insurgent stubbornly fails to surge.

The movie ultimately reveals itself as a pretender with no balls. Creatively, it's all wet.

It’s the sensation that you’re watching something that’s sloppy, overthought, undercooked and can’t decide whether it wants to honor the original (it fails), add to both the in-house lore and the longstanding genre tropes of the slasher canon (it does not), or some combo of both (two missed opportunities for the price of one).

It works far better as a partial document of life under lockdown than as a genre mash-up.

Beasts puts its audience on cruise control, easy and painless. It makes the toy aisle look pretty good.

To shine in a turd like this shows Brody has the stuff that -- damn the Oscar jinx -- makes an actor last.

All I can cull is: don't mess with Mother Nature and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Fortune-cookie stuff. Erase All.

A flabby farce that might win a pass at the box office because it's just so cute and family friendly. But where's your edge, guys? Where are the laughs that walk a tightrope?

The snotty rich bastard? That role goes to Eugenio Derbez, Mexico's biggest star, who's allowed to speak a big chunk of his dialogue in Spanish, complete with subtitles. It's the one original idea that this retrofitted Overboard has to offer. The rest of the movie wears out its welcome muy rapido.

We get something that’s too long for their usual stoner-digestible absurdism, too unfocused to really take on post-Trumpian political targets, and too insular to translate to folks not already invested in their long, drawn-out in-joke.

Even if you view this as just another superhero movie, it still feels like a litter’s runt. We’d have been fine if this kingdom stayed lost.

Neeson has made better pulpy B movies, and he’ll probably make worse ones than this. The good news is that, like buses, a new film from the star tends to come around every few hours, so you can skip this one without regrets.

Hanks is one of the most likable actors on the planet. But Inferno just lays there onscreen, pancake-flat and with no animating spark to make us give a damn.

It’s as if someone had gently ladled a teaspoon of artificial political-thriller flavor over a substandard Marvel movie, being oh-so-careful as to not upset corporate overlords or the status quo. A better title might have been Captain America: Business as Usual.

No dice...But no apologies are needed for Shannon--she earns her star spot.

Once again, it’s the script (by newcomer David Rich) that shoots the picture’s promise all to hell.

A cheerless and unappetizing plate of piffle that deserves to be smashed against a wall or at least sent back to the kitchen.

Stinks worse than dino dung. Sure, the creatures look good.

Mostly, it's a collection of spare suspense parts that someone ransacked at the movie dump and is trying to resell as fresh product. Good luck with that.

This Parker spits in our collective eye. Don't blame us for spitting back.

Suffers from lulls and lapses and one lulu of a casting gaffe, but this keenly observant spoof of the fame game is hardly the work of a burnout.

Close gets laughs, as does Bette Midler as a Jewish rebel. But the sting is gone.

Diesel has chosen to keep selling stupid to audiences who are inexplicably eager to gobble it up. Damn shame.

How do I hate Armageddon? Let me count the ways.

It plays like like a video game in which the goal is to kill as many of these green-blooded monsters as you can before time's up. It's fun for about 10 minutes, and then the tedium seeps in.

It took four screenwriters to turn a potent premise into mush. There’s some compensation in a solid supporting cast, especially Fyvush Finkel of TV’s Picket Fences as the world’s oldest bellboy. But director Barry Sonnenfeld shows little of the wicked spirit he brought to The Addams Family.

Robert De Niro – wait for it – in the role of a mobster. Now there's an original idea.

Unfortunately, Malkovich thrusting in a metallic space suit may indeed be the sole takeaway of this attempt at a social thriller.

Has no vital signs at all, just crushing dull repetition that makes one noisy, violent scene play exactly like the last one.