I'm sure most of the film's scenes will slip from my memory as the days go on, but while I watched, I enjoyed the battle between Theron and Egerton.

"Michael" emerges as whatever the opposite of a warts-and-all biography is. This is a polished, flavorless, cracks-free paean to Jackson, celebrating his highs and only sometimes looking at the lows, as if they were mere dust-bunnies under the couch.

Cronin and his team work overtime to make this movie gross, filled with goo and guts and uncomfortable squelching noises. A lifetime of horror movies has made me mostly immune to such things, but the third act of this film goes to such gruesome places that a woman at my screening who had inexplicably brought her very young child to this R-rated movie quickly scooped her kid up and hurried out of the theater.

Mother Mary is an emotionally distant, confounding, and ultimately unsatisfying work of art. Though its visual ambition and lead performances are commendable, it never gives enough of itself to let the rest of us in.

Sometimes you want to see a fine-tuned work of precision pop art like "Jaws," and sometimes you just want to watch a CGI shark bite a guy on the ass. We, as movie-watchers, contain multitudes.

Ultimately, your enjoyment of Exit 8 will hinge on how much repetitiveness you're willing to tolerate. Liminal space horror fans will likely enjoy the film's moody aesthetic, and there are times where Exit 8 feels like a movie to be digested via spooky gifs and screenshots. Exit 8 may very well give you the creeps, but that might not be enough.

With such a large ensemble and diversity of personalities, Happy New Year fails to flesh them out.

All of this is emblematic of a film that suffers from self-inflicted wounds at practically every turn. Lacking the cleverness of the original, the undeniable flair of the best of Wes Craven's sequels, and the crowd-pleasing thrills of the recent revivals, "Scream 7" is more or less dead on arrival. Maybe it should stay that way.

It's slick, solid, and filled to the brim with talented actors digging in and making the most of a not-entirely-nutritious meal.

This is not an adaptation of "Wuthering Heights," but the result of what happens when you're playing an approximation "Wuthering Heights" without a full grasp on the material but all the money in the world to bring your questionable imagination to life.

The Rip does give us a handful of scenes where Damon and Affleck's characters bro out, but these are brief flashes of light in a sea of darkness. I'm all for dark and gritty crime dramas, but "The Rip" never feels like much of a movie, more like a pilot for a new, particularly violent "Law & Order" spin-off. Matt Damon and Ben Affleck are movie stars, why hire them for anything less?

In terms of cheap, late-night, exploitation flick fun, it satisfies.

It's a shame that Five Nights at Freddy's 2 is such a bloated mess, because it has all of the elements to be a truly special gateway horror film franchise. The new animatronics are genuinely jaw-dropping, Megan Fox voicing Chica is a real delight, the jump scares are effective, the Easter eggs are well-placed, and for a brief moment, when we finally get Mike in the security office (essentially bringing the video game into beat-by-beat live action), the movie absolutely soars. But Cawthon's script is a disaster, and it's one that I cannot in good conscience defend, even as someone who shockingly could make sense of it, having consumed hours of fan theories over the years.

For all his skills, Wright seemingly can't pin down what he wants "The Running Man" to be. The action isn't very exciting, the satire is unoriginal, and the over-reliance on weird product placement (both Liquid Death and Monster Energy get distracting shout-outs here) make the entire picture feel manufactured. I had high hopes that Wright could get "The Running Man" across the finish line, but the film stumbles right out of the gate.

This is ultimately a worthwhile musician biopic if only for Jeremy Allen White's thoughtful, tortured performance. He's so damn good playing Bruce Springsteen that you more or less want to forgive the movie its flaws.

Dedicating yourself to revenge is an act of self-punishment that closes you off from a happier life. I admire the sentiment but a messy story that sometimes loses sight of Scarlet herself means it has limited resonance.

Jared Leto also proves to be a less-than-stellar leading man.

Good Boy may not exactly reinvent the haunted house subgenre, but it proves you can still teach an old dog new tricks.

It's an improvement simply because this trilogy started off pretty badly, but nevertheless an uninspiring survival horror with repetitive set pieces, baffling character choices, and a mythology that feels like it's erasing the very reason his franchise exists in the first place.

Poor conclusion aside, Him clearly indicates that Justin Tipping is a filmmaker to watch, especially if he wants to stick around in the horror genre. Best of all, though, it serves as a wonderful showcase for Marlon Wayans, who has never really been as good as he is here, turning in a performance that's both incredibly fun and undeniably unsettling. I just wish the rest of the movie could match his energy.

It's not that big, it's hardly bold, and it's only beautiful on its surface. It could have been a journey.

Whenever the film was on the verge of losing me, O'Brien's steady, remarkable performance brought me back. He really is that good here, and honestly, that might just be enough.

If you've stuck with the "Hell House LLC" franchise this long, you might be interested in the answers "Lineage" provides. Whatever the flaws in his design, Cognetti deserves credit for trying to expand on such a simple idea with such a modest budget. And there are some moments here — mostly involving those damn clowns — that invoke the right amount of dread.

To his credit, Edwards immediately injects "Rebirth" with a sense of stakes and tension that the entirety of the previous trilogy struggled to depict. But every time the plot kicks in again and writer David Koepp's script goes through the motions of a standard "Jurassic" movie, those dizzying peaks soon begin to flatten out into overgrown valleys.

At a bloated 156 minutes, audiences will have too ample time to ponder the film's many weaknesses. The racing will be exciting — very exciting, in fact — and Pitt is certainly a movie star, but quite frankly, I can have my own midlife crisis, thank you. I don't need to watch Pitt's.

Admittedly, How to Train Your Dragon is not terrible like some of the Disney remakes out there, and it's better than almost all of them, but it's not substantial enough to warrant its existence.

Sure, it's a lot of fun watching beautiful assassin Ana de Armas pick up a flamethrower and burn some dudes to a crisp, but a film featuring such an exciting concept shouldn't be this forgettable.

After the original "Fear Street" trilogy, I was itching to return to Shadyside. It was not worth the wait.