Goldthwait's movie, shot on video that makes it look dragged through puppy poop, is an unholy mess. But it also possesses a quick wit and an endearing tenderness toward Amy as honesty wrecks her life. It's sweet, doggone it.

Life Stinks isn't nearly as bad as legend suggests, and its even won a tiny cult following.

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.

The big surprise here is McKinnon, also an SNL MVP (her Hillary is already iconic). She's a live-wire whose every gesture, reaction and line-reading seems fresh and off-the-wall — a spontaneous eruption of hellfire hilarity.

Gore is kept to a minimum, a fact likely to disappoint audiences out for blood. It's a changed Schwarzenegger on view in Maggie, and the change becomes him.

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

There's not much to say about a jerry-built caper comedy, except that this one has timeliness on it side, and some first-rate clowns.

Thanks for Sharing is all over the place trying to find a tone, but it knows where its heart is.

It's all about the ride, the relentless wallop and whoosh. But, hey, sometimes that's all a cine-junkie needs for a fix.

More clever in idea than execution, this mockumentary about a trio of middle-class poseurs masquerading as the World's Most Dangerous Group Not Named N.W.A (Rock even sports Eazy-E's trademark jheri curl) is at its best when it's spoofing the songs of the time — Sweat of My Balls, a hilarious reworking of Kool G. Rap & DJ Polo's Talk Like Sex is Weird Al–level genius.

Vikander, the sexbot in "Ex Machina," is having a hell of a year. And you can see why. Gaby isn't much of a part, but Vikander makes her a live wire. Her impromptu dance with Kuryakin that ends in a wrestling match is, well, something to see.

While director Peter Chelsom (Funny Bones, Serendipity) can functionally guide his cast through their derring-do and dewy-eyed paces, neither he nor screenwriter Allan Loeb can steer the whole endeavor out of Clichéville U.S.A.

I only wish this richly imaginative movie had stayed truer to the dark heart of its visuals.

Offers dumb fun without apology.

What pulls us in are the performances of Franco and Hill, who know how to hold and reward the camera's tight scrutiny. They play a riveting game of cat-and-mouse.

Seeing the scaly dude side with Mother Nature against the freaks is almost worth enduring the blather that precedes it. I said "almost."

The actors, especially Binoche, do their damnedest to bring urgency to their roles. But despite Minghella's admirable attempt to tackle major themes on an intimate scale, the film goes down like weak tea. There's no kick in it.

Hamm is first-rate, his nuanced portrayal lifting the movie to the winner's circle.

The result this time is just as hit and miss. But when it hits, yowsa.

What 12 Strong does deliver, however, is a rousing tribute to the bravery of soldiers whose contributions went unheralded for years. That impact cannot be denied.

The movie ride delivered by Solo: A Star Wars Story is more mild than wild, a pleasant way to pass the time instead of a game-changer.

It's big, loud, ludicrous and edited into visual incomprehension. But pity the fool who lets that stand in the way of enjoying The A-Team.

Inspiration is what The 33 is selling. And it's hard not to get caught up in the rescue. You forgive the movie its faults, or most of them, because its heart is firmly in the right place.

Binoche never falters. She's the film's fire and grieving heart.

You don't have to feel guilty for lapping up this froth. Just don't expect nourishment.

Foster is electrifying as ego and id clash and the movie fires up with genuine provocation.

Spacey holds center. He's a bonfire.

The star is unstoppable and spectacular to see in motion. Watch her fly.