The new John Waters movie, Cry-Baby, which opens today at the Kabuki, isn't daring or even daringly undaring. It's a spoof of those dull, corny musicals from the '50s and early '60s and is just as dull and safe as the kind of movie it mocks. I fell asleep, and I haven't dozed off in a theater since ''Dream Lover,'' a Kristy McNichol effort from 1986. [6 Apr 1990, p.E1]

Worthy but dull.

Its main virtue is that it provides Murphy with a juicy role.

A wildly erratic, often annoying but never boring endeavor.

The main event here is Swank, who was a plaintive and sentimental figure in her earliest movies and has only fully come into her strength in youthful middle age. This strength makes Fatale an entertaining diversion and holds out the promise for something deeper and more satisfying in the future.

Instead of a balanced film that explains the zeitgeist that is the X Games, we get a cinematic postcard that's superficial and unrealized.

Has warmth and integrity, but it lacks the urgency of a story that had to be told.

Fails to engage.

A creeping equanimity is taking over the work of John Sayles, a quality that in personal terms might be wise and coolheaded but in terms of drama is absolute death.

It doesn’t help that there are strong similarities with Sony’s equally disorganized yet superior 2016 film “Storks.” Both films work off the same premise — that humans don’t bear live young.

It's a disappointment to see the teen pop star hop in a tour bus. This is a boy who should be traveling across rainbows on the back of a unicorn.

For almost an hour, it keeps us off balance. But once we find that balance, the movie seems to coast.

The picture gives the impression of a director in control of his vision, making precisely the film he intends to make. But the vision is a distinctly idiosyncratic one that will appeal only to certain tastes.

To enjoy it you almost have to be stoned on marijuana.

Yet Apocalypto has to be respected for the sheer audacity of it, for the commitment and ambition behind it, and for its presentation of a complete other world. It is the furthest thing from a cynical or casual piece of work. It's crazy, and it moves.

What makes Middle of Nowhere a break-even proposition, rather than something to avoid, is that it deals with an aspect of life and with characters rarely seen in movies.

Part of what made the prior two “Sonic the Hedgehog” movies work was their playful, controlled scope that still provided engaging, serious storylines. By contrast, the third and latest installation overwhelms with so many explosions and colorful sky beams that instead of pulling the audience in, it has the opposite effect.

By the end, a sense settles in that Whale Rider could have accomplished as much -- and been considerably more powerful -- as a 25- minute short.

Maher makes Michael Moore look incredibly likable in comparison.

A clever, atmospheric romantic drama that lacks something.

Sibyl is for people who like French movies even when they’re a little ridiculous.

The picture meanders and goes back in time for needless flashbacks, and in the end the comedy mutes whatever punch the dramatic elements might have had.

More action directors should include scenes such as the Mercers' extended Thanksgiving dinner, which fleshes out the bond between the brothers without using too many words.

Ultimately, the film is carried by Skarsgard in yet another triumph in a Norwegian film.

It's all about the dumb thrill, baby. Leave it alone, or leave your brain and pocket change at the gate, strap yourself in and just enjoy the ride.

And you thought Hamlet was a melancholy Dane. Compared with this gloomy group, he's Pee Wee Herman.

Unwittingly, Lynch/Oz ends up demonstrating the flimsiness of comparison as a tool of film criticism.

The result is a children's movie that's almost worth seeing even when not accompanied by a child. It's certainly a painless experience, and at times it's quite funny.

Dark, menacing and sexual, with satanic overtones, like a Black Sabbath song, with many moments of genuine fright and harsh eroticism. [19 September 1986, Daily Notebook, p.76]

Some folks will have no trouble being inspired by Rudy's story; some will feel as though they boarded a sinking submarine. [13 Oct 1993, p.D2]

A so-so movie you just might want to see more than once. It belongs in a strange category: a film that can’t quite be called a success, that has too many dead spots, that doesn’t quite hang together or satisfy, and that yet is more interesting and occupies more space in the mind than other movies that are ostensibly and even unquestionably better.

For all its surface seriousness, Splice is a regulation monster movie. So however somber it gets, it's never truly thought-provoking, and however outrageous it gets, it's still always 20 minutes behind the audience. It's just too dumb to be serious and too slow to be entertaining. Read more: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2010/06/03/MVKJ1DOO26.DTL#ixzz0pqYvhKuF

The movie's best special effect hands down is Anthony Hopkins as Talbot the Elder, who flounces around in a tiger stole and utters his lines with such a delicious madman twinkle you might want to snack on him yourself (ahhh-ROOooh).

While the battle scenes are impressive, they are repetitive; and while the characters are likable, they never rise above the level of cliche.

Seems to want to be a fierce satire of corporate culture. But by hewing so faithfully to their source, the creators don't let the material pursue its own direction, and the result feels dramatically arbitrary.

Too bad. The trappings of The Equalizer 2 are first-rate — the star, the director, the central character, the concept — and they make for a movie that’s watchable and intermittently pleasing. But not enough time was spent getting the substance right.

Angels in the Outfield may not be a great baseball movie, but it is a cheerful line drive as a story about having faith when the world seems stacked against you.

Not for a minute is Mad City anything less than entertaining. Yet it becomes frustrating nonetheless. Its ideas gradually seem to be at cross-purposes -- not complex, not tantalizingly ambiguous, but tangled and undefined.

The Little Stranger will satisfy a very specific audience: “Downton Abbey” watchers who thought that show would be perfect if only the manor were down at the heels and haunted.

Surprises you with heart.

There is one thing interesting about Alex Cross, and if you miss this, you've missed the whole movie. It's not the story - it's worse than mediocre. It's not the lead actor - nothing wrong with Tyler Perry, but as an action star he's no Vin Diesel. And it's not the dialogue, which has a clunker every other scene. It's the direction. Notice the direction. Alex Cross is a good example of what a seriously talented director can do with a heaping pile of garbage.

We're left with a metallic aftertaste.

At a brisk 101 minutes, My Spy doesn’t overstay its welcome. It knows exactly what it wants to be and how to get there, and it is made more engaging than it probably has any right to be thanks to the oversize charisma of its oversize star.

Something about Don’t Worry, He Won’t Get Far on Foot keeps it from adding up to a satisfying movie experience. It has the feeling, rather, of a story you might hear about a friend of friend.

Audiences will walk away thinking, "What was that?" But they will walk away thinking.

Dogs are notorious scene-stealers in the movies, but in the sappy yet mildly entertaining Dog Days, the humans mug just as shamelessly as their impossibly cute canine counterparts.

An old-fashioned and family-friendly comedy.

A bizarre original from the bizarrely original director.

The film is good enough to inspire viewers to learn more about Fela, but it should be better than that.

As the photographer, Baldwin tries to keep his chin up, but he's ultimately sunk by the built-in ludicrousness of the character he plays. But Hopkins -- through wit, luck and imagination -- emerges victorious from the barren wilderness of Mamet's script. He has only himself to thank.

The humor is lowbrow, but the screenwriters and performers have a sense of pride that makes them strive for stupid jokes that haven't been done before.

Perhaps Patten is trying to do to us what Rinpoche does to his followers, but the film's meandering structure and intrusive narration detract from the focus on the master.

Too many moments elicit a polite half chuckle, when the screenwriters are trying for uproarious laughter. But it benefits from an excellent cast, who seem to be all in. And whenever there’s a stretch of extended mediocrity, it’s almost always saved by an unexpected moment of politically incorrect inspiration.

Although some of its parts are brilliantly executed and played by a terrific cast, the result is scattered, overamplified and unsatisfying.

One to One: John & Yoko combines the best aspects of Boomer nostalgia with generational overindulgence.

Because “Leave the World Behind” is weak and unconvincing when it comes to character interaction, the film drags in the moment-by-moment, despite its stellar cast.

Some of the talking heads say entertaining or thoughtful things and some of the locations are quite exotic. But does this justify 98 minutes of screen time?

Has the usual overlong running time, the half-hearted feints in the direction of human feeling and the obligatory action sequences that are big without being either exciting or particularly legible.

The material obviously had to be stretched to fill the big screen for almost two hours.

Many of the individual scenes are compelling, with a gritty tension that recalls "The Wire" and other good television. But too many of the attempts at "The Sopranos"-style comic drama fail.

Overall, the film sparkles. But it's a curiously unaffecting sparkle, an example, almost, of how the special effects stole Christmas.

Its dazzling special effects make its combatants flip and fly, spin and soar, all the while punching and kicking each other like jackhammers, only to leave viewers utterly unmoved.

Its virtues of crisp, uncluttered photography and striking performances are frustratingly undermined by the muddled pretensions of Hungarian director Peter Medak. [09 Nov 1990, p.E7]

If you see the movie, notice how the ending is no ending, and the fact that it even feels like one is entirely a function of Michael Giacchino's musical score.

An enjoyable movie not because of any special gifts by the filmmakers or emotional resonance in the script. It was more like destiny. Once someone jotted down the concept on a cocktail napkin and hired B-Boys who could actually dance, the movie pretty much had to turn out OK.

It's probably pointless to complain when a movie sets out to be stupid and actually is. (And the people who came up with a couple of these ideas think male models are dumb.)

There's some serious food for thought here.

If they can swallow the intensity of the musical numbers, fans of the show will feel at home with this adaptation, which is just a higher-stakes version of a typical episode (with shadows).

This film doesn’t know exactly what it wants to say.

Neeson is as earnest as ever, but the movie’s tone is arch. Neeson doesn’t think he’s funny, but the director thinks everything is funny, or at the very least, absurd.

An unusually cheerful depiction of prostitution. You've never seen such wholesome hookers.

Fascinating in its own strange way, not as entertainment but as a cultural document.

For all of its dazzlingly rendered cityscapes and nonstop action, this revamped Total Recall is a bland thing - bloodless, airless, humorless, featureless. With or without the triple-bosomed prostitute.

This is a movie in search of a finale.

Unfortunately, we've seen this before.

Builds up comic force in its first half. But then it blows it, leaving the audience feeling unsatisfied.

A canny buyer will beware the blandishments of car salesmen, but it's a mystery why Robin Williams bought the inane script for Cadillac Man. [18 May 1990, p.E3]

A mostly entertaining movie with built-in appeal to young audiences. The good news for parents is that it won't put them to sleep.

If the ultra-slow pacing, sparse dialogue and depressingly gray pallette don’t get you, perhaps that super big close-up of a toe-clipping session will.

The tense, stylish thriller turns into soft-core, slapdash psychodrama.

Sly, stylishly cynical dark farce.

It’s such a pure delight to see Erivo and Grande just standing around when they finally duet on “For Good” that we will take that scene over a hundred where their characters dance, preen or ride a broom on their own.

By the time the sex actually starts, any sense of tension or anticipation is gone. It's the rare orgy that feels like an anticlimax.

Starts out OK, but then almost seems to be intentionally going for humor.

Overlong, overplotted and underdrawn.

A melancholy Spanish drama that’s competently made and checks off all the boxes defining a contemporary art-house movie. But it lacks the spark that separates top-of-the-line films from the pack, and watching it becomes something of a slog.

About Endlessness is like a bunch of Debbie Downer skits directed by Ingmar Begman, just not as entertaining.

As a piece of filmmaking, Where to Invade Next gets off to a strong start and then sags in the last half hour, but it makes a lot of interesting points and, in the way it shows other countries, conveys something about the United States.

This is a slacker comedy with "festival" stamped all over it, so you can bet the consequences will be quirky.

Has to be one of the least charming French romances to find American distribution in recent years.

It’s a mix of comedy that isn’t especially funny — offering something more like general high spirits, rather than laughs — and drama that isn’t really dramatic, except to the people on screen.

Disappointingly mediocre.

What “The Grab” doesn’t do quite well is sell its argument or weave its many disparate, admirably reported discoveries into a graspable whole.

Crush is that strange mixed bag -- an otherwise wretched movie in which an actress gets to do some of her best work.

The careful camera work, beautifully dank cinematography and the quietly nuanced performance by Darín keep our attention, but in the end, the film's bigger challenge isn't its length, or its deliberate pace: It's that it's overly freighted with symbolism and meaning.

The characters are mostly likable, and despite some comic sallies the film takes a compassionate stance toward them. But it feels like a glossy, overly neat take on what should be an explosive topic.

The movie is achingly slow, and by the time it's over, the story is about where it should have been after about 45 minutes. Then it ends just as it gets good, or as it's starting to.

A relentlessly quirky British comedy-drama that demonstrates why more is not always more.