Arguably the greatest rivalry in the history of tennis yields a touching and nostalgic documentary.

A coming-of-age tale that, without breaking new ground, ranks high among recent entries in its well-worn genre.

An extremely down-to-earth, character-driven heist movie that in the best ways resembles similar fare from the 1990s.

Hoppers certainly has the vibrant feel of a plush-toy merchandising bonanza waiting to happen.

It’s a very different spotlight that falls on The Boss with “Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere,” a deeply personal film about both his artistic integrity and inner demons.

Ryan Gosling and a faceless rock creature forge an unlikely bromance in an adaptation of Andy Weir’s novel that manages to be alternately touching, stirring and silly.

A near-irresistible and highly emotional adaptation of Shelby Van Pelt’s bestselling novel.

Those involved are smart enough to recognize what people really want is the warm tidings of a stylish reunion, and in terms of navigating that narrow runway, the movie mostly delivers.

At times the film feels like “Black Mirror” on peyote.

“Uncut Gems” gets a spiritual sequel.

This middling movie, intriguing but oddly incomplete, plays at best like Spielberg Lite.

This Netflix movie actually rises above most of the herd, thanks largely to co-writer and co-star Brett Goldstein.

"Wicked” should be considered as one sweeping, five-hour canvas. And if the slightly shorter second half doesn’t fully measure up to the original, that does little to detract from director Jon M. Chu’s overall accomplishment.

There’s a Saturday-matinee-type unpretentiousness about the film that doesn’t really aspire to much more than letting the audience have a good time.

The third installment in Rian Johnson’s still-entertaining spin on Agatha Christie for our times exhibits signs of yielding diminishing returns.

A 90-some-odd-minute adrenaline rush that gets stretched out a bit beyond its weight even with its modest running time.

It feels ready-made fodder for streaming’s “You might like” tier.

While it’s worth watching, what clearly aspires to be the definitive telling of the story ultimately isn’t.

A 197-minute epic that piles on breathless rescues and battles in a manner whose ultimate goal seems to be exhaustion as an artistic choice, if not outright “Kneel before Zod” submission.

It has the feel of a filmed play—transparently intended to land Allison Janney a 16th Emmy nomination and potentially an eighth win.

Unlike its protagonist, there’s a refreshing lack of guile or pretense here about what this modest but breezy movie is and wants to be.

The latest installment is insanely weird, gruesomely violent, and features incredibly hammy roles for Ralph Fiennes and “Sinners’” Jack O’Connell.

Landing on Netflix, it’s not terrible, but by the time the credits roll it’s pretty clear why it landed directly on Netflix.

Think of “Jay Kelly” as a taller and better-looking version of Woody Allen’s “Stardust Memories."

Given the frequent weeping captured from her die-hard, singing-along fans, 4DX would really be the killer app, approximating the spray of their abundant tears of joy.

"Michael" conveys the feeling of a slickly produced licensed product.

A brutal and bloody (for a while, anyway) showcase for Hugh Jackman hidden beneath a shaggy beard, with not much more to recommend it.

Masters of the Universe demonstrates how a few missteps can transform an aspiring blockbuster with appealing elements into a streaming-bound 98-pound weakling.

Deftly serves old wine in an equally old bottle.

The joke-a-minute formula is very hit-miss.

The movie rises and falls on Monroe and Withers’ workmanlike performances, leaving it to the heart-tugging subject matter, mostly, to carry it across the finish line.

Despite an abundance of action, “Jack Ryan: Ghost War” never comes to life.

Whatever the A.I. judge’s verdict, this human one says to wait for streaming.

Loyalists should be there for the premiere, but after that, one suspects it’s game over.

The basic premise could have been called “Lee Cronin’s The Exorcist,” although that probably wouldn’t have cleared legal.

Fennell ratchets up the volume to 11, with more emphasis on smoldering and sexuality than literature, at the risk of bastardizing Bronte’s tale beyond recognition.

In what amounts to damnation with the faintest of praise, Tron: Ares is slightly less incoherent than its most recent predecessor (granted, not a particularly high bar), while taking advantage of the passage of time to improve on the visuals, since “Legacy’s” de-aging process involving original star Jeff Bridges served as a lifeless distraction.

Playing the big-screen equivalent of small ball can become its own kind of Kryptonite.

The stitched-together concept proves too bizarre and disjointed to catch lightning in a bottle.

Frankly, I’d begin with having future me warn the present-day version to skip this.

James L. Brooks has no creative mountains left to climb, but watching the ill-conceived “Ella McCay” it’s hard not to wish he had quit while he was ahead.

An absurdly stylized action-horror-comedy mashup that somehow makes a satanic cult, wanton violence, and buckets of blood boring.

A movie that would have at best qualified as about the 17th-best new comedy of 1995.