A winningly restrained lead performance by Tommy Lee Jones, who also exec produced, isn't enough to put the film on the boxoffice scoreboard.

While Stanford is more annoying than endearing as the self-righteous slacker, the charming Deschanel provides the film with its few moments of genuine fun with her offbeat turn as the wily, put-upon girlfriend.

The dull production obviously sees itself as an updated "Cincinnati Kid" for the World Poker Tour set, but the end result and its characters have all the originality and dramatic depth of a TV telecast.

It’s just a shame this opening salvo takes itself too seriously to have much fun with the mayhem, despite the potential in Smith’s devilish turn for amusing interplay between the antagonists.

Dialogue tends toward the eye-rolling variety and performances feel uneven across the board, with the actors using a menagerie of accents, including some dubious Deep South ones, as they shout above all the pounding rain and thunder.

The Turning sacrifices narrative and emotional coherence in favor of a series of would-be scary set pieces that seem mainly designed to discourage aspiring nannies from pursuing the vocation.

Although the film is a routine thriller with few surprises, it deserves attention because its topic, even eight years after Sept. 11, is one that many South Asian Americans still take very seriously.

The film never achieves any real depth in its unabashedly admiring portrait. What might have made a mildly interesting short feels vastly attenuated even with its brief 72-minute running time.

Where Attenborough's script lent an air of dignity to the shorter film, Allen's reading of Philip LaZebnik's cutesy narration has a canned feel, and is unlikely to connect with viewers too young to appreciate cliched humor about the joys of bachelorhood versus the duties of parenting.

Unfortunately, the power of the message is diluted by the pedestrian filmmaking, with the overall effect resembling a compendium of public service announcements.

This mash-up of cop thriller and torture porn features some clever twists and provides the opportunity for some terrific characters actors to strut their stuff. But Poker Night ultimately deals a losing hand.

Joe Lynch's determinedly B-movie exercise is strictly formulaic but should well please genre enthusiasts who will relish watching the sexiest female badass since Uma Thurman in "Kill Bill."

Director/screenwriter Khalil Sullins makes an auspicious feature debut with his audacious sci-fi thriller that's as engrossing as it is thought-provoking.

What should have been a tautly paced B-movie thriller instead comes to feel like a mini-series, leaving the viewer too much time to ponder the silliness of its narrative contrivances.

There's not a scary moment in the movie, and its characters are neither likable enough to root for nor so repulsive we eagerly await their deaths.

It's So Easy and Other Lies makes for a tedious cinematic experience that will only be appreciated by McKagan's hard-core fans. And even they're likely to come away less than enthusiastic.

Under the stilted direction of Alex Ranarivelo, it's all as clunkily melodramatic as it sounds, with the climactic trial sequences proving particularly slow going.

The film is as shapeless as a real life — amusing in an extremely mild way on occasion, but no more goal-oriented than a protagonist who, time and again, shows that all he really cares about is getting high and tossing a ball around.

Just as one should be wary of tobacco-safety data produced with tobacco-industry money, skeptical audiences will have a hard time putting too much stock in a doc so strongly aligned with vape entrepreneurs.

Although chances are good that something called This Is Your Death is not going to be admirably restrained in the subtlety department, there was at least the hope that this grotesque thriller wouldn’t have kept pivoting uneasily between audacious social satire and mawkish moralizing.

Hughes and cinematographer Peter Menzies Jr. handle the assignment skillfully enough, but without much imagination, sticking to a conventional action style that is more about the quantity of explosions than nuances of execution.

The back-to-the-beginning approach unimaginatively goes through the motions, offering scant justification for its boring existence, at least from an artistic point of view.

The whole enterprise seems like an advertisement for the breed, the ownership of which will apparently improve your life immeasurably while making a holy mess of it.

A case study in how storytelling contrivances can sabotage a courageously vulnerable performance, the movie addresses American parents’ deepest fears but is just one or two steps away from inviting ritualized communal mockery, à la The Room, at midnight screenings.

The story is flimsy, and when the dialogue touches on controversial issues regarding the SAT and its fairness, the slacker tone turns abruptly melodramatic.

The finely observed moments in Stateside accumulate little emotional power. The promise of something startling and compelling goes unfulfilled, and the arc of the central love story isn't interesting enough to sustain the drama.

A grindhouse quality that makes Loosies almost fun in flashes. But flashes are all they are -- pleasures even more fleeting than an off-brand smoke bummed from strangers in an alley.

Unfortunately, while director/co-writer Ed Gass-Donnelly displays an admirable restraint in his general eschewing of gratuitous gore, quick editing and flashy visuals, the results have a generally soporific feel.

Punishingly dull.

Mild vulgarity and discreet nudity garner the sought-after R rating, but this effort feels forced. The real "bad" here is the sheer formulaic nature of everything. There are no surprises but for once you don't much mind.

This remake of a South Korean movie ultimately provides fewer scares than the average aging baby boomer feels every time they look into a reflective surface.

Undeniably offers cheap laughs, its most receptive audiences will likely be found in retirement-community auditoriums.

All the while, the music screams and clamors like an ignored child because director Xavier Gens and writer Skip Woods can't pump suspense into this inept mess.

Although Rulin displays a compelling neurotic edge as the driven Emily, Chenoweth and Modine are unable to breathe much life into their schematic roles, while the supporting players are basically saddled with conveying a compendium of quirks.

This feature debut deals mainly in clichés, never transforming the tough question at its center into compelling cinema.

A low-rent monster movie that could well have been released by American International in the early 1970s, Primeval boasts a level of cheesiness that should well merit it a regular rotation on late-night cable.

Sorry, but you need to have something to think about during this latest edition of a franchise that is dead creatively if certainly not commercially.

Simply weird. The funny has gone missing.

The mob-war stuff here could not possibly be more rote.

The emotional and logistical struggles of our heroine, played with sweaty determination by Anne Hathaway, are the film's clearest through-line; but after the intimate clarity of her debut, Pariah, and the wrenching Delta drama Mudbound, this is a pedigreed misfire.

All of [Cages's] natural charisma is unable to compensate for the plodding narrative and thin characterizations.

Ultimately, there's not enough material to sustain a feature-length film, and the sloppy editing, cheesy re-enactments and cheap graphics don't exactly make for compelling viewing.

Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV is so lacking in human interest, or even in merely satisfying action, it is difficult to imagine anyone wanting to pay to sit through it. What Takeshi Nozue's movie does offer is massive, vividly rendered landscapes of sci-fi/fantasy pastiche, home to mayhem that is prettier than it is involving.

The lack of charisma exhibited by leads Jesse Metcalfe and Amber Tamblyn doesn't help matters, and not even the stalwart presence of Michael Douglas fails to provide the proceedings with sufficient gravitas.

Speaking his (Rourke) lines in an unintelligible accent that occasionally requires subtitles and wearing a white suit that never seems to get bloody even when he’s stabbing people to death, the actor brings an undeniably fascinating strangeness to the otherwise familiar proceedings.

Yogi is still smarter than the average bear, but Yogi Bear is much less smart than most of the year's kid-friendly cartoons.

Snyder provides an ample display of the visual flair and skill for action that have endeared him to legions of fans who exhibit so much dedication that they’re willing to sit through numerous versions of his films.

3D swashbuckler wields a disappointingly blunt sword.

Without that sort of compelling figure at its center, Diablo feels far more like a pastiche than the real deal.

A certain derivative, deja-vu quality isn’t the only sin this lazy, numbingly routine, very occasionally amusing comedy commits.

The picture has enough entertainment value to tickle its target audience and even offers a few chuckles for accompanying adults. A strong cast and bright -- if uninspired — animation help to offset a thin story.

Halfway between a guilty pleasure and a missed opportunity, it makes the crucial mistake of treating curious viewers like deferential subjects, demanding far more sympathy than it deserves.

This is a raucous, happily irresponsible party that should help locked-in, bottled-up Americans release some steam. The only downside to its being released when we need laughs so desperately is that this is just the kind of pic that becomes several times as funny when seen in a packed theater.

It's all quite a mess, with awkward performances, worse dialogue and a painfully protracted running time conspiring against any chance of enjoyment, even in a so-bad-it's-good guilty pleasure way.

In the hopes that audiences haven't been spoiled by "Terminator 2: Judgment Day," along comes Freejack, a technically inferior but broadly entertaining futuristic adventure. Though Arnold is nowhere in sight, his spirit looms large. Attempting to fill his vast void are Emilio Estevez and Mick Jagger, an unlikely but likable duo who provide the majority of the film's action...Freejack definitely gives the audience its money's worth. [3 Feb 1992]

The intriguing story degenerates into a flat-out action movie with car chases and violent shootouts that are competently filmed by Singh but seem to come from a far more conventional film.

Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick, who have written much funnier scripts for the Zombieland and Deadpool films, are here working in uninspired mode. Balls Up loses comic steam the more it goes on, and although Wahlberg and Hauser have demonstrated solid comedic chops in the past, their laid-back underplaying fails to provide much juice.

Seldom has such great star power been marshaled in the service of a sillier movie than The Other Man.

A dysfunctional drama.

The film conveys the sense of hanging out with a band despite the fact that we almost never see them talking to us; a mood of creative ferment overrides any detailed narrative, and although its time period includes a massive tour for the group's latest album, this is definitely not a concert film.

A disastrous send-up of James Bond movies that featured KISS' Gene Simmons as a cross-dressing villain. [15 Feb 2016]

Despite the labors of leads Nicole Kidman and Will Ferrell, there's no screen magic being made here.

Jennifer Lopez carries this thin concept about as far and as well as she can, with Alex O'Loughlin in his first leading-man outing managing not to get lost in the shuffle.

It’s hard not to wish that in the future, Harold will stick to the cartoon world where he belongs.

The somber tone and low-end production values may not be exactly in tune with young neo-noir enthusiasts, but more seasoned fans of the genre and the filmmaker will recognize and embrace Hill’s use of noir to play with and comment on topical issues in a deliciously subversive way, political correctness be damned.

Stale as week-old bread and every bit as bland, the movie saddles a strong cast with a groaningly ineffectual script (courtesy of Michael LeSieur, who wrote 2006’s You, Me and Dupree) and wastes the director’s gift for bringing lived-in charm and feeling to broad comic premises.

The film forms a near-perfect storm of misjudged decisions, with its implausible plot, irritating or outright-dislikeable characters, and strained attempts at “wacky” British humor that fall so flat they’re below sea level.

The sort of cheesy thriller that would prove mildly diverting on late-night cable, Slow Burn at least features a terrific cast to enliven its familiar elements.

A tepid ghost story filled with all the usual things that go bump in the night minus the somewhat crucial element of suspense, this bland effort from Sam Raimi and Rob Tapert's Ghost House Pictures is surprisingly devoid of the creepy, claustrophobic atmospherics that haunt the brothers' Asian work.

Dripping with floridly phony dialogue that no actor should be forced to speak, this paternity mystery uses the Bosnian conflict as the manipulative backdrop to a preposterously overwrought and overlong melodrama.

Although he can’t quite get a grip on guiding the lightweight narrative, Zada demonstrates a fluid visual style, particularly in the complex sequences filmed in the forest settings.

This is the sort of bad film that can only come about as the result of misguided ambitions.

Its deadly serious take on the subject may inspire more titters than anything else.

The movie clumps through one witless if not wince-evoking sequence after another without the relief of laughter.

Named for a slur used against Northerners who opposed waging war on the South, the film works best when focused on Abner Beech (Billy Campbell), whose conscience-driven minority opinion makes him a pariah in his upstate New York village.

Even as agile a performer as Sandra Bullock seems to be straining here amid the repetitive jokes and muddled girl-power message.

Directed with aching purpose by Lawrence David Foldes from a script he wrote with Grafton S. Harper, the lavish-looking but hackneyed memory play is small-screen fodder at best.

Written by "Final Destination" screenwriter Jeffrey Reddick, the film has its dubious pleasures, not the least of which is the extended sight of nubile lead actress Jenna Dewan in a bustier, high heels and killer miniskirt.

Ruins is sometimes as sunny as its locations but as familiar and predictable as a Greek diner.

The movie seems more like a '50s science fiction film of extreme paranoia or an episode of "The Twilight Zone" that even at a swiftly paced 90 minutes feels padded.

Strip away its gorgeous wintry landscapes and we are left with a symphony of ponderous New Age mumbo-jumbo masquerading as philosophical wisdom.

Though satisfying enough to please many casual moviegoers drawn in by King's name and stars Idris Elba and Matthew McConaughey, it will likely disappoint many serious fans and leave other newbies underwhelmed.

In its favor, The Last Witch Hunter boasts some terrific production design and digital effects.... Less impressively, Eisner’s movie is clogged with cardboard characters, flat dialogue and a sluggish middle act that gets lost in too much fabricated witchy folklore.

In the end, there is just about enough narrative to hold interest, while the lyrical camerawork, constantly in motion, blurred images and all, offers a single emotion that is impossible to stretch over a feature-length film.

Never rising above the level of generic B-movie, Sleepless represents the sort of disposable fare typically dropped into theaters in January.

The War with Grandpa will probably prove riotously funny to small fry while providing some compensations to adults with its supremely overqualified cast.

Most anthology films give you the comfort of knowing that if you don't like one segment, another one will be following in just a few minutes. Berlin, I Love You perversely does the opposite. It makes you nervous that if you don't like one segment, which you surely won't, another mediocre-to-awful one will follow.

Pleasant and atmospheric family romp, offering enough mildly chilling thrills to keep everyone entertained during its brief running time.

Writer-director de Souza, with the help of five editors and 12 assistant editors, is unable to tell a coherent story or put together a decent fight sequence. There are likewise far too many characters to keep track of, undercutting what instant allegiances one forms for those heroes or villains that make a strong impression. [27 Dec 1994]

A novel cultural focus, highlighting Guyanese citizens of Indian ancestry, isn't enough to sustain interest in the lifeless film, which will attract few outside the Indo-Guyanese community.

A passably silly but lowbrow buddy comedy.

Never manages to rise above its thin premise, with its claustrophobic setting smacking more of stage than screen.

Despite Barrett's careful attention to creating an unsettling mood of existential horror by loading the soundtrack with ambient dread, and his depiction of New York as a breeding ground for overstimulated instability, Brain on Fire just sits there, inert and uninvolving.

Director Rachel Talalay squeezes the life out of the suspense sequences by dragging them on for too long, and doesn't always hit the macabre witty tone the gruesome murders seem to call for. [30 Dec 1993]

The script does create sufficient tension and intrigue to hook viewers along with a photogenic, hardworking cast.

Fletcher conducts the high-speed chase more than competently, but it’s the sparks generated by de Armas and Evans that keep it buoyant.

It should hardly come as a revelation that Black’s hardworking comedic efforts are the film’s saving grace.

It's business as usual at Camp Crystal Lake, with very little in the way of fresh jolts or an innovative visual style that would have really revitalized the hokey franchise.