The movie's storytelling is limp, and writer-director Neil Burger's ultimate unwillingness to commit to a point of view -- was this guy really the assassin? -- seems artistically chicken-hearted.

The problem on which the movie turns is this: Bill Murray’s natural quality as an actor exudes self-knowledge and knowledge of the world. If he looks depressed, the aura suggests, it’s not because he knows less than we do. He knows more. Murray brings that quality to bear in St. Vincent, but it doesn’t fit.

It's rough when it works and rough when it doesn't. Much of the first hour is made up of slow patches, while the last 20 minutes are ugly and terrifying.

It's enjoyable enough, but how much you like it will depend on how much you like skateboarding and extreme sports.

The performances are the best part of this uneven film.

Let's start by admitting three things: that Contraband is a ridiculous movie, that it wasn't meant to be a ridiculous movie, and that it's an enjoyable movie. One of the things that makes it enjoyable is that it's so ridiculous.

Skillful as many of its elements are, however, The Underneath doesn't have the taut storytelling and intriguing characters to make this film noir make-over truly compelling.

Combines the usual dumb ideas with one good one. And not just good, but impressive, in that it makes sense of much of what went before.

Tricks with the camera sully an otherwise informative documentary.

It may smell awful from a distance, especially if you have low tolerance for lowbrow humor, but up close this yarn about an unlikely golf star is fairly painless.

An unflinching look at the ravages of substance abuse, and it's also a sobering redemptive tale.

It’s hard to deny that Shyamalan remains one of our most prolific, longstanding filmmakers, and that his work continues to make an impression on our culture. His tense, never dull “Knock at the Cabin” makes us uncomfortable at times, and few punches are pulled. Perhaps he’s found a formula that will take him to new, interesting places.

It is well-made in an old-fashioned way, and its straight-arrow lack of cynicism may be old- fashioned as well.

It's the worst Carrey movie yet, but it has a handful of inspired moments in which his signature wackiness is so funny it hurts.

Exciting and nerve-racking in the moment, but empty.

It's an imperfect facsimile, guilty of borrowing too many ideas from the earlier film, and then executing them with differing results.

The final 20 minutes are the strongest, when Harmon comes to some realizations about his behavior. Unless you’re the biggest of fans, you may find yourself wishing that the film had reached this point earlier.

Its examination of identity and loneliness begins to feel like a soap opera season boiled down into one very long episode with too much happening.

As a movie, it's not much. But it's the best showcase for his charm that Butler has ever had.

Like most ruckuses, it is frequently loud and not always intelligible.

With her first feature, "Manny & Lo," writer-director Lisa Krueger reveals a distinctive style. Though employing no surreal devices and remaining within a realistic convention, Krueger takes the story of two young sisters on their own and somehow makes it seem unreal, strange, outside time.

At the very least, it marks the arrival of a filmmaker with great potential. It also presents a metaphysical vision that’s quite peculiar and not very persuasive if you can’t get on its generous wavelength.

It's a bright and fun movie, but also repetitive and overloaded with plot. A nice enough diversion, but not a necessary one.

In its most touching moments, the film achieves a kind of sad and waltzing rhythm all its own. In its least, it's precious and plodding; the metaphoric link between grief and housework drags like a mop on a bathroom floor.

So at the very least, audiences will come away from Chasing Mavericks with a deeper understanding of surfing and an appreciation for surfers.

Jodie Foster and Terrence Howard are incredibly compelling and hold your attention despite Jordan's deliberately slow pacing.

At its best, “Erupcja” feels truthful, even insightful. At its worst, it’s an off-putting selfie of the chronically self-absorbed, like a big-screen “Girls.” It does offer an interesting perspective on its case of apparent synchronicity late in the film, but leaves plenty for viewers to ponder on their own.

An audacious, messy and sometimes inspired look at an out-of-work poet struggling to find his way in post-Communist Russia, plays like a metaphysical Moscow version of "Mad Men" - on acid.