Frank Scheck

There have been plenty of horror movies involving murderous children over the years, such as Village of the Damned and its sequel and, of course, Children of the Corn. But Roth doesn’t hide his desire to outdo them all with this effort that can only be described as sick and twisted. And I’m sure he’ll take that as a compliment.

Any stabs at cultural satire about, say, Gen Z’s addiction to documenting their lives on social media, are subsumed by the crazy action-comedy shenanigans, with the younger cast, all of whom have proven themselves funny on prior occasions, unable to elevate the pedestrian material.

Feeling much longer than its two hours, Young Washington suffers from the stiff, stodgy quality of so many historical dramas, especially those concerning that particular period of history.

Brown has matured nicely in the role, exhibiting a newfound steeliness and steadily increasing comic chops. Cavill, absent from the proceedings for long stretches, remains a sturdy presence as the most buff screen Sherlock ever, while Helena Bonham Carter is again reliably amusing as Enola and Sherlock’s sardonic mother Eudoria.

As an aging Albanian nightclub owner, Crowe proves consistently delightful even when the material lets him down.

For all its technical impressiveness, Lucky Strike never gathers the narrative momentum and suspense to which it aspires.

Sure, lead jackass Johnny Knoxville is an appealing performer (and a decent actor, as he’s proven numerous times). And some of the rest of his motley crew display a healthy awareness of the utter stupidity of what they’re doing. But while there are occasionally funny moments, these movies are emblematic of the dumbing down of America.

If Little Brother feels familiar while you’re watching it, it’s because this is a film so pre-digested that it’s as if a bird ate Twins, What About Bob? and Planes, Trains and Automobiles and then spit the contents into your mouth.

It’s all very atmospheric, including the frequent bloodlettings that Sister Brigid applies to Robin’s arm (the camera lingers lovingly on every spilled drop). But the dour, humorless proceedings never achieve the profundity they’re aiming for, and the revisionist take on Robin doesn’t prove very interesting or revelatory.

Using a well-edited combination of vintage and recent interviews and copious amounts of archival footage, the documentary recounts the band’s story in compelling fashion, with Questlove providing enough imaginative stylistic flourishes to prevent it from feeling like an extended Behind the Music episode.