Even with the occasional misfire in the plot, Fey’s strong performance throughout the film lets Whiskey go down in smooth and satisfying fashion.

It would be nice to be able to report that Kinky Boots is a kick in the pants. But this conventional, manipulative British import feels like a re-soled pair of shoes that unquestionably have seen their day.

Though it features witty dialogue and good performances, the plot contrivances keep it from being an altogether winning enterprise.

This would be profoundly offensive, if you could tell what was going on. [15 Jun 1992, p.6D]

It's tough to summon sufficiently negative language to describe the unfunny, desperate mess that is Bad Words.

Does Part of Me plumb the depths of her soul? Hardly. As billed, it's a part of Perry she's willing to share.

Quaid's return to form is worth cheering. He helps make Flesh a watchable depressant. [05 Nov 1993, p.4D]

The Grand is in the grand tradition of Christopher Guest "mockumentary" comedy satires: Its greatest asset is its eclectic, quirky-funny cast.

The film never gets to the heart of Nobbs - a woman who lives as a man. She comes across as more of a sad, clownish figure than a flesh-and-blood human, playing her emotions so close to the vest that it's hard to care about this stoic character.

More interesting as a sociological study than successful as a movie, What's Cooking? gets more involving as it strolls along.

It's problematic enough that the movie's lead characters are unlikable. But worse is the blackening of The Human Stain with a trite and forced plot, uninteresting digressions and clunky direction.

It's unfortunate that the filmmakers juxtapose those striking visuals with a warlike anthropomorphizing element.

While Southpaw doesn’t do anything innovative with the punch-drunk formula — there’s even a rousing final match, leaving you exhausted by the end — Gyllenhaal and Whitaker are real heavyweights who give the feature a winning combo.

Hampered by over-earnestness and tugs too intently at the heartstrings.

This is pretty much Burton doing an "X-Men" movie, with a plucky yesteryear vibe and evil Samuel L. Jackson thrown in for extra fun.

It is a lovely film for the holiday season, as well as afterward, and is reminiscent of "Finding Neverland," without the darker undercurrents.

Goes overboard on the gruesome and scrimps on humor. Raimi's "Drag Me to Hell" was a much funnierchill-fest.

There is more than enough magic, music and muscle to go around – everybody’s so ripped, Love and Thunder often seems like a Frank Frazetta painting come to life.

The thin story, which sometimes feels like a series of one-liners strung together, is wisely kept short. But the gags are funny and the characters endearing.

The material has enough meat to enable charitable viewers to drift in and out, but the result is too arch to conjure up much affection.

There's a lot to talk about but so much outrageousness that the end effect is wearying and not a little absurd.

Hopkins' Hannibal is no longer mysterious, Clarice is no longer vulnerable, and the overextended Florence scenes dash any hopes of early momentum, even if Giancarlo Giannini is perfect as the cop.

For at least half the movie, you need a code book a few inches thick to decipher Code 46.

Mostly, Harold is a guilty pleasure that retains the anarchic charms of the original.

Maze Runner feels only partially formed.

The action sequences are fun, though not as exhilarating as in the 2008 original, and the dialogue can be zingy.

It's a case of laughing at Brooks but not necessarily with him.

It's not that it's a bad film. But the bar is high, and it's lackluster and predictable, missing that alchemic blend of humor, pathos and indelible characters that give Pixar movies their brilliant shine.