Roger Moore

The Flash, while it never comes close to the gee whiz “I can do THIS?” novelty of the many Spider-Man “origin” iterations, makes a charming, nostalgic and sometimes touching addition to the genre, and lets us hope Miller will recover enough to return to acting this character and others.

Put The Angry Black Girl and Her Monster on your list of must-see/won’t-be-here-long summer thrillers, crowd-pleasing movie comfort food that embraces an old formula and manages to do something smart, insightful and topically relevent with it.

But the half-hearted attempts to build a hero’s quest story about these increasingly collectible toys and ongoing campaign to wash the humanity right out of the franchise is something all the shiny, tactile and identifiable Freightliner, Porsche or Ducati parts in humanoid robotic form cannot hide.

It’s dreadful by most any measure — violent, tin-eared, clumsily-staged and uncertainly-acted. And it’s head-slappingly stupid as a police procedural.

The structure gives the picture a diffuse feel, as if the writer-director hopes to lay on backstory that will distract us from how short a distance this story covers and not allow the viewer to realize how thin the text is, with or without these subtexts.

The cast does what it can with the material, but their big speeches rarely add up to a “big moment.”

Whatever cultural mores “Missed Connections” is operating under, there aren’t many parts of the world where this tepid, tame adults-flirting-like-tweens rom-com will be seen as romantic or comic.

Built on a quietly compelling performance by Virginie Efira (“Benedetta,” “Elle”), it may be the best depiction of how trauma changes your psyche and your life since the Peter Weir Jeff Bridges/Rosie Perez drama “Fearless.”

Sukowa makes a fine villain, one among many “using” Dali. But Kingsley is the reason to visit Daliland, allowing us to “be in the presence…of genius” and be irritated, titillated, amused and maybe a little depressed about the trap our imperious host has flounced into and embraced as the doom he dreads but so feverishly craves.

The picture hews too closely to formula to be anything more than filmic comfort food.

This is a movie that lets us understand the foibles and dark underpinnings of a movement that seems to have transcended removing itself from “this world’s” everyday concerns to embracing the ugliest elements of its dogma — superstition, dogmatic intolerance, “control” and a disregard for any American or American institution that doesn’t fit their myopic worldview.

A mad cinematic jumble of comic book imagery, comic book mimicry, multiverse plotting and ponderous, pandering fan service.

I love a good gonzo binge boozing comedy as much as the next guy, but I found almost nothing funny in this.

When you see the brutish incuriosity, the cowardly pack-mentality cruelty and utter disregard for “selflessness” and “compassion,” it’s hard not to see its North American analogs among the most self-serving, system-rigging raised-to-be-authoritarians among us. And pray that they devour each other rather than us.

The story here didn’t do much for me and seems like a rickety, illogically-pieced-together structure to hang this narrative on. But the players and the craftsmanship — the lighting, editing, silences and loud noises, they make up for that and deliver those frights we ordered the moment we bought a ticket.

Hard Feelings still manages to find a few outrageous laughs.

Everything about this movie feels familiar, like we’ve seen it multiple times before, not necessarily always starring Gerry Butler. Yes he’s a credible, charismatic action star who always delivers the goods, even in middling fare like this.

The supporting cast has its moments, but this movie sinks or swims with this father-son dynamic. And their banter, not the constant “ba-da-BING” of would-be punchlines voiced-over by Maniscalco, is what’s funny.

Expecting to catch lightning in a bottle twice was mostly wishful thinking on the part of everyone involved.

It’s a sad story, of course, with overdoses and deaths and sort of classical American “price of fame” arc. But it’s also revealing, and only rarely judgemental — even handed, I thought.

Maestro and Varela are the soul and heart — respectively — of this film, one giving it a speechless urgency, the other bringing a woman of science’s common sense pathos and rising alarm.

This “Mermaid,” weighted down with expectations, responsibility to the corporate bottom line and what feels like fear that “We’re going to screw this ‘sure thing’ up,” sinks and rarely swims, an epic that impresses when it’s under the sea, but never really moves us. And when it’s on dry land, it could not be more bland.

An elegaic documentary.

This isn’t just his road to redemption story. Master Gardener is about planting seeds, culling dead or dying branches and making room for new growth.

Fans of the comics will certainly get more out of it than newbies like me. All we see is all the other middling YA sagas it resembles, borrows from and fails to match or improve upon.

Again, stunningly stupid, and a lot more digital than one would like.

Take away the point-by-point comparison, even accepting the jump shots and backdoor cuts on the court, this remake still never gets off the ground.

The fights are OK, the shootouts nothing to remember, the chases are passable and the killings themselves perfunctory.