A blandly middling crowd pleaser.

Dull and repetitive, even by the standards of an already repetitive genre.

If it's art, it's only mildly interesting.

Even if a good phone-sex movie does exist, For a Good Time, Call . . . is woefully, definitively not it.

Isn't as novel as it hopes to be, but it gets the job done.

Those nostrils do a lot of Momoa's acting, to be honest. As right as he is looks-wise, Momoa falls short in attitude.

It's a performance in search of a movie.

If director Michael Dowse took Matt and Tori out of the equation - which is to say, if he took out the main storyline - the whole event could have been a lot more fun.

In Faster, it's a car, not actors, that drives movie.

It's a bloated, shockingly tedious trudge that manages to look both overproduced and unforgivably cheesy.

While I Am has its boogeymen - especially the rich, the racist and the ultra-competitive - Shadyac implicates himself whenever possible.

Everything about it screams mid-20th century. Rather than refresh the cast with new actors, the producers would have done better to just digitally reanimate Patricia Neal and Gary Cooper, the stars of the 1949 adaptation of Rand's "The Fountainhead."

A dog-frequency movie: enjoyable only to those tuned in to its particular register.

And the action? It's especially hard to determine who's fighting whom in "Legends," because, well, because they are a bunch of owls.

Slick, sick, self-consciously stylish and defiantly shallow, Gangster Squad is one of those movies you can't talk about without invoking other (often better) movies. A lot of movies.

First-time director Anne Sewitsky may intend Happy, Happy as a Chekhovian chamber piece or romantic bagatelle, but her smugness about racism - and her glib symbolic resolution of the conflicts she raises - suggests an ambition that far outstrips her ability, at least for now.

Most of the comedy, however, is unintentional. House At The End of the Street may not draw much of an audience during its initial run, but the movie's preposterousness certifies it for future midnight screenings, where the story will get the jeering it deserves.

There's no sense of perspective here.

I spent most of Johnny English wondering whom the filmmakers were targeting. While childish and silly, it's far too violent for young kids.

So why bother with this earnest but imperfect impersonation when the original artists are readily available on VHS and DVD?

This "Holmes" is just about as silly as it awesome. At times, Ritchie and company try so hard to make sure this isn't your father's "Sherlock Holmes" that it comes across as, well, cartoonish.

Enjoy it, in moderation. It's your recommended weekly allowance of schlock.

It all amounts to a missed opportunity considering how many female athletes and sports fans would probably flock to the first film that targets their demographic since "A League of Their Own" nearly 20 years ago. The people behind The Mighty Macs could learn a lot from that film, especially that following formula is fine, as long as you don't skimp on the details that complete the portrait.

When all is said and done, Mike proves to be not only peripheral to the main thrust of the movie, but a drag on its momentum.

Here's the thing about the new The Thing. It isn't as satisfying as the old "The Thing." And it's nowhere near as enthralling as the vintage "Thing," which inspired every other "Thing" to follow.

This fitfully funny but mostly dull misfire defines exactly where the line can be drawn between truly subversive humor and lazy cynicism.

So light and airy, it almost floats away on its own breeziness.

There Be Dragons is like fine wine, served in a Big Gulp cup. A little is very nice. A lot is way too much.