The Playlist

There’s plenty to like, and this starter kit for detective fiction ought to serve as more of a net positive for kids than another soulless reboot of existing IP. But it’s a shame to settle for merely good when something great was very clearly a plausible outcome.

We’re not sure there will ever be another “Devil Wears Prada” installment, but be glad this one came along. At worst, to reinforce that shining memory of the original, at best to simply delight you for two hours. Hey, it might even be an improvement on that first flick.

The action scenes and kills are bloody, and the performances and muscles are big. After Amazon’s “Reacher,” consider “Motor City” another showcase for the above-the-title billed Alan Ritchson as a credible, cinematic leading man.

Theron can survive almost anything onscreen. Apex proves, once again, that she can carry weak material farther than most actors. It also proves that even she cannot quite drag a dull survival programmer up the mountain.

If you want to relieve some of the MJ magic, Jafar, Fuqua, and those timeless bangers will quench a nostalgic thirst that will make you want to forget all that “negative stuff.” For a few moments anyway.

McKenzie may frame the journey with some bemused curiosity, but the movie lands somewhere much angrier than that. Fair enough. A system this shady doesn’t deserve awe. It barely deserves the dignity of confusion.

The scattershot Mother Mary can never effectively find the connective tissue between different modes of storytelling. To put it in musical terms, this is less a mixtape and more of a playlist on a chaotic shuffle.

The problems are many, the ease with which it goes down is high, and whether Thrash set out to craft a solid thriller or a purposeful schlockfest, it lands squarely in the middle, destined to be forgotten.

Outcome—and it’s bad scenes shot behind obvious blue screen and fake, manufactured sunsets—is terrible. But what makes it memorable is the queasy way the movie keeps collapsing into the very pathology it thinks it is exposing. It wants to mock the famous for living inside a bubble of privilege, paranoia, and vanity, yet it ends up sounding like it was made from inside that bubble.

For all its rage about moral decline and the psychic poison of content culture, Faces Of Death never rises above the same cheap sensationalism it pretends to condemn. Instead of confronting the sickness, it feeds on it and spits out something just as rancid as the faux snuff films it claims to abhor.