Kyle Anderson

Only Radcliffe escapes unscathed, lending Igor a convincing psychology despite the ham-fistedness of the material. But he’s not enough of a reason to resurrect this story again.

Seemingly every time there was an opportunity to do something fun, The Last Witch Hunter runs in the other direction, creating an unfortunately heavy-handed, humorless, self-serious tone for a story that should be allowed to be a little goofy.

For all its third act nuttiness, The Perfect Guy really should have gone way crazier.

It’s hard to deny the hedonistic joy in the way Delamarre plays with his various toys, and the goofball stunts—including the yacht-based finale, with a special appearance by a jet ski—are generally worth wandering through the dialogue desert.

In this post-"Mad Max: Fury Road" action movie age, “occasionally bonkers” just doesn’t cut it anymore.

Sinister 2 doesn’t know what it wants to be, and doesn’t add up to much.

Writer-director Alex R. Johnson’s feature debut uses Southern Gothic simmer to heat up what is otherwise a typical gun-and-bag-of-money crime tale, though Hébert’s terrifyingly electric performance keeps the heat turned up enough to make the bloody climax feel like relief.

The film—skillfully helmed by Brent Hodge and Derik Murray and featuring talking-head testimonials from family members, friends, and costars such as Mike Myers and Bob Odenkirk—heralds "Tommy Boy" as definitive and notes how winning a romantic lead Farley is in "Coneheads".

This is another found-footage movie that, with a little art direction and some actual cinematography, could easily have been a decent little terrorizer. Instead, it comes mostly unglued thanks to its hacky gimmick.

Self/less’ greatest crime is that it’s not enough of anything: Not brainy enough to party with the theories about consciousness that Ex-Machina delivered earlier this year, nor is it over-the-top enough to compete with the campy goofballery of something like Limitless.

There’s some chuckleworthy meta-commentary about the absurdity of sports movies, but Balls Out feels more like a long sketch than a feature.

Insidious Chapter 3 is the worst kind of sequel: Not terrible, but also cartoonishly unnecessary.

Unfortunately, Run All Night gets a little slack with its third act and runs out of steam by the time the final showdown arrives.

When we’re first introduced, he’s an overwhelmed infant, and by the time the credits roll, he’s John McClane. Is that an accurate representation of how artificial intelligence can evolve? Absolutely. Does it make for compelling drama? Not particularly.

(Bridges) has a tendency to make mistakes, especially when it comes to science fiction and fantasy titles. He has followed up the minor disasters that were "R.I.P.D." and "The Giver" with Seventh Son.

Predestination's pace is too slack, and the brothers are so painfully tentative as storytellers that the easily guessed big twist gets three separate reveals.

It's a testament to Neeson's startling charisma as an action star that for all its storytelling flaws, large swaths of Taken 3 remain wildly entertaining.

Any tension created during its key moments completely evaporates once the lights come back on. The Woman may be back for another fright, but Angel of Death doesn't haunt like it should.

Director Joe Angio presents the group's music with the contagious enthusiasm of a diehard, but exuberance is no substitute for storytelling, and Revenge of the Mekons is in desperate need of a narrative path.

Sleep is 91 minutes of delightfully twisted tension and three minutes of eye-rolling treacle. Kidman and Firth are both excellent in their sadness and savagery, and Joffe builds tension far better than most of the horror movies available at your local Cineplex this Halloween weekend. If only he had quit while he was ahead.

Within the pungent field of other wide-release scare jobs and films derived from cardboard-based time-killers for kids, Ouija stacks up relatively well, thanks to its look and a confident performance by Cooke.

It works neither as a sweeping historical epic nor as an action-horror hybrid.

For a superior experience, go buy a disturbing-looking doll that says ''Don't go see Annabelle'' when you pull its string.

Like other movies of its ilk, it's missing a very simple bit of next-level Hollywood technology: a tripod.

The space between the spectacles are just too laborious, creating the odd sensation that there's not quite enough dance in this dance movie.

Turtles is head-and-shell better than "Transformers." Cowabunga?

Fluffy isn't awful, just disappointingly lightweight.