THE BACK-UP PLAN Jennifer Lopez's first screen outing in four years isn't a motion picture so much as it's a new form of Chinese water torture: Seemingly innocuous at first, it continues to pelt the viewer with one abysmal scene after another until insanity seems like the only logical result. Lopez stars as Zoe, a single woman who, tired of waiting for Mr. Right while her biological clock continues to tick away, elects to conceive through artificial insemination. But wouldn't you know it, as she walks out of the clinic, she bumps into a charismatic cheesemaker named Stan (Alex O'Loughlin), and they begin dating. Zoe waits until Stan falls in love with -- and makes love to -- her before she alerts him to the fact that she's pregnant and that he'll have to deal with this issue if he wants to permanently commit to her. Zoe's actions throughout the picture make her a particularly odious heroine, but that's the least of this film's problems: More detrimental are the slapstick gags scripted by Kate Angelo and directed by Alan Poul, including (but not limited to) the scene in which Zoe wrestles with her dog for possession of a pregnancy test stick and the sequence in which a woman gives birth in a bathtub while members of her single-mom support group chant around her (speaking of the support group, this movie exhibits nothing but contempt and derision toward single women). There's also the usual rom-com character of the outspoken best friend (Michaela Watkins) whose wisecracks are supposed to be funny but are instead merely obnoxious, the expected cutaway shots to the mutt whimpering or barking whenever one of the humans says something stupid (needless to say, this happens frequently), and an unhealthy obsession with scatological humor. The only bright spot is seeing '70s sitcom vets Linda Lavin (Alice) and Tom Bosley (Happy Days) in minor roles; the rest is unspeakably awful. *

THE BOOK OF ELI Talk about apocalypse now. If there's one positive thing to be said about the sudden glut of end-of-the-world tales, it's that the batting average in terms of quality has been on the winning side. Certainly, 2012 was a stinker, but The Road, Zombieland, Terminator Salvation and now The Book of Eli have all been compelling watches, each for different reasons. In the case of The Book of Eli, the first film directed by The Hughes Brothers since 2001's criminally underrated Johnny-Depp-meets-Jack-the-Ripper movie From Hell, it's the potent religious slant that makes it intriguing. Thirty years after a war that wiped out most of the world's population, only one Bible remains in existence. The righteous Eli (Denzel Washington) owns it, planning to use it for good; the despicable Carnegie (Gary Oldman) wants it, planning to use it to forward his own insidious agenda (no mention in Gary Whitta's script as to whether Carnegie is related to Pat Robertson). Admittedly, the spiritual stuff often takes a back seat to sequences of Eli slicing and dicing his way through hordes of sinners. But Washington provides the proper amount of gravitas to his role, and the surprise ending almost matches the denouement of The Sixth Sense as an audience grabber. ***

THE BOUNTY HUNTER The Oscars for Best Sound Editing and Best Sound Mixing frequently go to war movies or science fiction films ­ this year, for example, The Hurt Locker beat out such competitors as Avatar, Inglourious Basterds and Star Trek for both statues. Frankly, I think the criteria regarding these categories should be modified so that the winner doesn't necessarily have to promote technical innovation or seat-rattling verisimilitude, but can instead simply make a torturous viewing experience more tolerable by including some aural pleasures certain to ease the suffering of moviegoers. By that token, I nominate The Bounty Hunter as an early contender for the next round of annual awards. If nothing else, the soundtrack contains a delightfully eclectic mix of songs, from The Rolling Stones' "Hang Fire" and Run-D.M.C.'s "It's Tricky" to Frank Sinatra's "This Town" and Jerry Reed's "She Got the Goldmine (I Got the Shaft)." Whenever these tunes (and others) floated through the auditorium speakers, it was possible to shut my eyes and pretend I was back home, peacefully sitting on the couch with beer or wine in hand. But then the music would subside and somebody on screen, usually Jennifer Aniston or Gerard Butler, would start speaking again, and I was cruelly snapped back to reality. Honestly, what's there to say about a romantic comedy so generic that it might as well have been called Generic Romantic Comedy? As the title character, a slob who's been hired to find his ex-wife and haul her to jail for missing a court date, Butler builds on The Ugly Truth by playing another boorish chauvinist, once again demonstrating that his comedic instincts are roughly on par with those of a great white shark. And as the angry ex, a reporter who's on the verge of single-handedly cracking a murder case (in tight dress and heels, of course), Aniston regrettably shows that she's only dependable when insulated by terrific indie casts (The Good Girl, Friends with Money) or co-starring opposite adorable retriever puppies (aww, Marley!). Predictably plotted, poorly cast (the leads have zero chemistry) and painfully unfunny (nothing here to even crack a smile, let alone bust a gut), The Bounty Hunter is yet one more imbecilic effort suffering from arrested development. *

CLASH OF THE TITANS 3-D or not 3-D -- that's not even a question as far as Clash of the Titans is concerned. In the wake of Avatar's phenomenal success, studios are shamelessly slapping the 3-D format onto whatever pictures are in the can, failing to take into account that Avatar's visuals were so stunning because the picture was shot in 3-D. Clash of the Titans represents the laziest use of the process to date: I repeatedly removed my special glasses during the screening and could scarcely tell any difference between 2-D and 3-D. My advice? Avoid any theater charging more to see this in 3-D; it's not worth the extra cash. As to whether the film itself is worth seeing in any format, that's a closer call. Fans of the 1981 original won't find many improvements here: Ray Harryhausen's lovingly crafted stop-motion effects have been swapped out for the usual CGI sound and fury; the ingratiating sense of camp has been obliterated, replaced by a solemnity signaled by furrowed brows and stone faces (and not just on those who encounter Medusa); and the amusing banter between the gods (played by the likes of Laurence Olivier and Maggie Smith) is noticeably MIA. On its own terms, however, the film is passable spectacle. As Perseus, the mortal son of Zeus (Liam Neeson) who must thwart Hades (Ralph Fiennes) by defeating a string of ghastly beasts and saving both a city and its princess (Alexa Davalos), Avatar's Sam Worthington is merely OK, but his character is backed by a colorful assortment of warriors who make his journey memorable. Fiennes' portrayal of Hades may not have fallen far from the Voldemort tree, but he nevertheless cuts a menacing figure. And while most of the mythical creatures (Medusa, the Kraken) pale next to Harryhausen's achievements, the monstrous scorpions prove to be an exception, and superb FX work allows their battle with the humans to emerge as the film's action highlight. Those hoping for a Harry Hamlin sighting (he played Perseus in the original) will be left hanging, but rest assured that there's a clever cameo appearance by another vet of the '81 release. It would be cruel and unfair to viewers to reveal the exact scene here (clue: it involves a non-human character), but it's an amusing gag, and it slices through the rest of the picture's glumness with the precision of a sword crafted by Zeus himself. **1/2

THE CRAZIES After a mysterious virus is accidentally unleashed on a small Iowa town and turns many of its inhabitants insane, the military arrives to quarantine the area and contain the threat. But it soon becomes clear that, to the unaffected humans, the soldiers are as hazardous to their health as their crazed neighbors. While this remake of George Romero's 1973 film is more smoothly realized than its predecessor, it's also been streamlined for mass consumption, removing all thorny sociopolitical subtext, avoiding a cruelly ironic conclusion (arguably the high point of the '73 model), and throwing in far too many cheap scares. The use of lowbrow shock effects (i.e. when someone suddenly jumps into the frame, or a loud noise suddenly fills the soundtrack; see The Wolfman for more examples) is a real shame, since the more effective moments suggest that director Breck Eisner could have built genuine suspense had he been given the chance: One character's encounter with an electric medical saw is both hair-raising and humorous, and an attack inside a car wash is effectively staged. More scenes like these would have truly goosed the proceedings, but as it stands, The Crazies is creatively too measured for its own good. **

DATE NIGHT The third time's the charm thanks to Date Night, a likable lark that just makes the cut due largely to the appeal of stars Steve Carell and Tina Fey. After suffering through the dreadful one-two sucker punch of Did You Hear About the Morgans? and The Bounty Hunter, it's nice to cozy up to a decent comedy that also centers on a marital couple trying to stay one step ahead of murderous thugs. As Jersey suburbanites Phil and Claire Foster, Carell and Fey not only bounce off each other as accomplished comedians, but they're also completely believable as a longtime married couple who love each other but worry that all excitement has been drained from their union. On one of their patented date nights away from the kids, they opt to head to Manhattan for a swanky dinner at a posh seafood restaurant. Unfortunately, their impulsive act leads to a case of mistaken identity straight out of Alfred Hitchcock, as they find themselves running from dangerous villains while trying to clear their names and escape with all vital organs intact. Shawn Levy is a mediocre director at best (Night at the Museum, ill-advised remakes of The Pink Panther and Cheaper by the Dozen), which explains why the movie grinds to a dead halt whenever the attention shifts from the leading players' personalities to the usual bouts of gunplay and vehicular destruction. But the film clicks whenever Carell and Fey are allowed to fully engage each other, and there's also a nice contribution by Mark Wahlberg as a buff security expert whose religion apparently prohibits the donning of shirts -- this macho man's perpetual refusal to cover his bulging pecs proves to be a bright running gag. Add to this some clever pop-culture references (quips involving Cyndi Lauper and Fat Albert made me laugh long and loud), and the end result is a pleasant date night at the movies. ***

DEATH AT A FUNERAL A remake of a film that was released a mere three years ago -- wow, that was quick; what's coming out next week, a remake of March's Hot Tub Time Machine? -- director Neil LaBute and writer Dean Craig scuttle the British setting of 2007's Death at a Funeral in order to stamp this with a "Made In USA" label. The result is a perfectly pleasant piffle, a comedy that fails to produce many big laughs but knows how to parcel out its small ones at an acceptable clip. Still, this isn't half as uproarious as LaBute's ill-fated remake of The Wicker Man, a bomb whose unintentional laughs continue to delight viewers via well-spliced YouTube compilations. But I digress. Death at a Funeral focuses on the events surrounding the laying to rest of a well-respected man who leaves behind a wide assortment of friends and family members. Among the ranks of the bereaved is his oldest son Aaron (Chris Rock), who's forced to shoulder the entire cost of the funeral since he can't count on his successful yet irresponsible brother Ryan (Martin Lawrence). But Aaron's issues with Ryan take a back seat when a stranger (Peter Dinklage, reprising his role from the original) arrives at the funeral home hoping to blackmail the siblings over their father's extracurricular activities. A true ensemble piece, this suffers when humor takes a back seat to drama -- for example, the plotline involving a slick businessman's (Luke Wilson) attempts to win back the deceased's niece (Avatar's Zoe Saldana) adds nothing. But the picture is breezy enough to always get back on track fairly quick, and there are some nice comic moments from Danny Glover as a cantankerous uncle, Tracy Morgan as a perpetually nervous acquaintance, and James Marsden as Saldana's boyfriend, whose accidental ingestion of hallucinogens leads to some madcap mishaps. **1/2

HARRY BROWN Having recently returned from an extended (thanks to that volcano) vacation in London, I'm still smitten with all the lovely sights and sounds introduced to me by my girlfriend Natalie, who's attending grad school over there. It only took a few minutes of screening Harry Brown, though, to remember that every city has its slimy underbelly, and the U.K. capital is obviously no exception. Indeed, a pervasive sense of corrosion and corruption is one of the defining elements of this tough-minded movie, the other being the typically compelling performance by Michael Caine. The treasured thespian stars as the title character, a septuagenarian living in a particularly squalid London slum. Losing his bedridden wife soon after the movie opens, Harry is content to mind his own business and steer clear of the young hoodlums terrorizing the neighborhood. But after his best friend (David Bradley) runs afoul of these thugs, Harry, who long ago had suppressed memories of his military days in return for blessed matrimony, discovers that, even at his advanced age, he can still recall a thing or two about handling weapons. As the steely vet stares down these punks with gun in hand, we half expect him to growl, "Do you feel lucky?" but the character is less Dirty Harry and more Paul Kersey, the role played by Charles Bronson in the 1974 hit Death Wish. But whereas Death Wish kept its vigilante theme uncluttered, this new picture gets bogged down with distracting police business (most involving Emily Mortimer's soulful detective) and culminates with a ridiculous sequence involving a handful of copout devices (including a double-cross that's laughable rather than shocking). While director Daniel Barber gives the film a suitably grungy look, Gary Young's ragged screenplay leaves something to be desired. But Caine is able, channeling righteous indignation straight out of the Old Testament. **1/2

HOT TUB TIME MACHINE Viewers wary of getting burned in Be Kind Rewind fashion (clever premise, tepid results) would be well-advised to approach Hot Tub Time Machine in a cautious manner. That isn't to say the movie doesn't deserve its solid endorsement; it's merely to point out that, despite its irresistible hook, this isn't the ultimate 1980s tribute film that the world -- well, OK, the '80s generation -- has eagerly been anticipating. Director Steve Pink and his trio of writers create four distinct individuals to head up the picture: Adam ('80s player John Cusack), nursing a broken heart after his girlfriend leaves him; Lou (Rob Corddry), so obnoxious that even his few friends can't stand being around him; Nick (Craig Robinson), who suspects his wife is having an affair; and the much younger Jacob (Clark Duke), Adam's nerdy, couch-potato nephew. With Jacob in tow, the three 40-somethings return to the resort that figured prominently in their youth; it's there where they encounter a hot tub that transports them back to 1986, when leg warmers were the norm, C. Thomas Howell was a movie star and -- kids, you may want to sit down for this one -- MTV actually played music videos. Pink and his team could have coasted with this premise, but once viewers get past the obligatory raunch (a necessary salute, I suppose, to such atrocious 80s comedies as Private School and Porky's Revenge), they might be surprised to discover the level of genuine wit on display. As far as the '80s research goes, some sloppiness is definitely on view -- one character makes a reference to 21 Jump Street even though that show didn't premiere until April 1987. And some of the missed opportunities are too glaring to ignore: Given the abundance of youth flicks during that decade (the Brat Pack and beyond), didn't anyone think to ring up Anthony Michael Hall or Judd Nelson with the offer of a cameo appearance? Admittedly, Hot Tub Time Machine might play better to those with more than a passing familiarity with the era. More specifically, its target audience might best be summed up by this statement uttered by Lou after making a new friend: "We actually have a lot in common: We both love tits and Motley Crue." ***

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON Adults can rest assured that this is one of those smart animated flicks that needn't be reserved solely for the merriment of the young'uns. Based on the children's book by Cressida Cowell, this centers on a village wherein the Viking population is constantly at war with the neighboring dragons. Bumbling young Hiccup (voiced by Jay Baruchel), the son of the fearless Viking leader Stoick (Gerard Butler), wants to join the ranks of the dragon slayers, and he gets his chance when he wounds a feared Night Fury. But rather than go for the kill, Hiccup ends up releasing the creature, and before long, the two become inseparable -- a real dilemma, considering the lad is expected to soon complete his schooling and start slaughtering dragons. Writer-directors Dean DeBlois and Chris Sanders (scripting with William Davies) gently advance the themes of acceptance and understanding without any pushy shoving, and the animators do a bang-up job in their designs of the various breeds of dragons on view throughout the picture. As expected, they save their best work for the Night Fury (named Toothless by Hiccup), endearing him to audiences by providing him with quasi-feline features (he looks like a silky black cat in close-ups). Craig Ferguson contributes some good moments as Hiccup's trainer Gobber, and how odd is it to see Butler involved in a film that doesn't suck? ***

IRON MAN 2 Iron Man 2 doesn't quite degenerate into Transformers 3, but those of us who thought the weakest part of the vastly enjoyable original was the title hero's climactic showdown with Iron Monger will doubly wince upon seeing the battle royale chosen to end this second installment. In a variation of the axiom about too many chefs spoiling the broth, this culminates in a heavy-metal act that almost spoils the sequel. Even before this supersized slugfest, this follow-up to the 2008 blockbuster has its fair share of problems. Recommended with major reservations, Iron Man 2 serves up the larger-than-life fun we expect from our summer flicks without ever quite coming into its own. Whereas its predecessor kept its eye on the narrative ball, this one ends up all over the place, impatiently cramming in extraneous subplots and supporting characters that might have been better served by being placed in a holding pattern until the next film. On the plus side, Mickey Rourke, as Ivan Vanko/Whiplash, makes for a spectacular villain, and the film really hums whenever he's on screen. Also memorable is Sam Rockwell, who adds some salty humor as a nerdy weapons manufacturer who believes himself to be as cool as Tony Stark. Mainly, though, there's Robert Downey Jr., who once again invests himself completely in his character. Not afraid to embrace Stark's less appealing qualities, the actor repeatedly tests the limits of how much ill behavior audiences will accept from their heroes -- his Stark is at times a drunken lout, an egotistical prick and a poor friend. Downey takes the role to the edge before snapping him back into place, a high-wire act that's thrilling to behold. In fact, Downey's so good as Tony Stark that we miss him whenever he becomes the man in the iron mask. Then again, it wouldn't be a superhero movie if the superhero never bothered to show up, would it? **1/2

JUST WRIGHT From Frampton to 50 Cent, the silver screen has been littered with successful musicians who wrongly believe they have what it takes to make it as an acclaimed actor. Queen Latifah, of course, has long proven herself to be one of the keepers, meaning that Just Wright needed to function as the coming-out party for her co-star (and fellow rapper) Common. But his performance turns out to be merely OK, easily allowing Latifah to retain her royal standing. On par with the week's other imagination-free rom-com, Letters to Juliet, this one borrows from the Cinderella and Ugly Ducking playbooks to relate the tale of Leslie Wright (the Queen herself), a physical therapist who's used to seeing her best friend Morgan (Paula Patton) nab all the men while she's relegated to the status of the cool lady that guys like to hang out with but not date. This pattern continues when both women meet New Jersey Nets star Scott McKnight (Common), who connects with Leslie but ends up dating the gold-digging Morgan, the latter dreaming of nothing but becoming an NBA trophy wife. But after Scott suffers a potentially career-ending injury to his knee, Leslie steps up with the determination to get the hoops star back on his feet before the playoffs. This generic trifle, with a script that was obviously constructed and spit out by a computer -- hold on, my mistake; the press notes credit it to one Michael Elliot -- at least benefits from a typically ingratiating performance by Latifah. But a love story needs two sides to work -- and a love triangle, three -- and Common, until now only cast in small roles (he was last seen as a corrupt cop in Date Night), is simply unable to generate any chemistry with his co-stars: Awkward enough in the scenes in which he's not wooing the ladies, he's even more ill-at-ease opposite either Latifah or Patton. Certainly, Common possesses the demeanor and good looks of a leading man, but until he brushes up those acting chops, he won't ever be much more than just average. **

KICK-ASS Based on Mark Millar's popular comic series, Kick-Ass refers to Dave Lizewski (Aaron Johnson), a geeky teenager who loves comic books and wonders why no one has ever mimicked the caped crusaders seen battling evildoers in print. Even though he concedes that his only superpower is being "invisible to girls," Dave decides to don a slick scuba suit and mask and take to the streets to fight crime under the moniker of Kick-Ass. As long as the picture remains focused on Dave and his exploits in and out of costume, it remains a clever modern riff on the classic Marvel tale, like watching Peter Parker's travails reimagined for Napoleon Dynamite. But this is only half the movie. The rest involves the efforts of two far more accomplished superheroes, Big Daddy (a woefully miscast Nicolas Cage) and Hit-Girl (Chloe Grace Moretz), to take down a ruthless criminal (Mark Strong). Big Daddy and Hit-Girl are the secret identities of ex-cop Damon Macready and his 11-year-old daughter Mindy, and they're both bent on revenge. Make that bloody revenge. A glaring streak of sadism proves to be Kick-Ass's undoing, as the can-do pluck and spirit exhibited in, say, Spider-Man is ignored in favor of unrelenting violence at every turn. Equally troubling is the handling of Hit-Girl, who, taught by her father, proceeds to kill scores of people by any means necessary. One character chastises Damon Macready for turning Mindy into a pint-size killer, correctly asserting that this little girl deserves a normal childhood. Yet Kick-Ass then completely ignores this line of thought, allowing Macready to steadfastly remain a good guy and never once questioning the fact that he's turned his daughter into a soulless killing machine. And those who are already celebrating Hit-Girl as the new face of female empowerment are completely missing the point that she's been brainwashed by her father (i.e. the patriarchy) into carrying out his desires. As to the controversial matter of whether the movie turns this 11-year-old girl into a sexual object of desire, I personally don't think so. But try telling that to the pedophilic fanboys who are already posting lewd comments about what they'd like to do to her underage body. **

THE LAST SONG Steve McQueen, Sally Field and George Clooney are among the many actors who successfully transitioned from the small screen to the large one (and don't forget that fellow named Clint), but Miley Cyrus seems more likely to join the ranks of Kirk Cameron, Tony Danza and the Olsen twins, thespians who attempted to make the leap but fell short by about 10 miles. In this adaptation of the Nicholas Sparks novel, the Disney Channel product stars as Ronnie, a brooding teen who's none too thrilled that she's forced to spend the summer with her father (Greg Kinnear) at his beachside home (filming took place in Savannah and Tybee Island). Still angry at him for divorcing her mom (the ageless Kelly Preston), she shows her disapproval by turning down acceptance at Julliard, refusing to eat dinner with him, and, well, pouting whenever she's in his presence (that'll teach him!). Initially, Cyrus' character is supposed to be this anti-establishment rebel, but the actress suggests "punk" about as much as Barney the Purple Dinosaur. At any rate, she eventually mellows out after meeting local hunk Will (Liam Hemsworth), a jock from a rich family. From here, the film slogs its way through the usual hoary conventions, including Will's snotty circle objecting to Ronnie's lack of wealth and prestige and the sudden terminal disease sprung on one of the principal players. Cyrus isn't quite ready for her big-screen close-up, as evidenced by her clumsy pauses (as if she expects canned sit-com reactions after her every utterance) as well as her exaggerated enunciation that's more suited to the boob tube. But let's not be too rough on the child: It's hard to put one's best foot forward when dealing with a script that's the literary equivalent of cement shoes. *1/2

LETTERS TO JULIET Letters to Juliet immediately tips its hand that it's going to be a formulaic romantic comedy straight off the assembly line -- nothing more, nothing less. Sophie (Amanda Seyfried), a fact-checker at The New Yorker, heads to Italy for a "pre-wedding" honeymoon, a chance to spend some quality time with her fiancé before they get married. But said fiancé, a restauranteur named Victor (Gael Garcia Bernal), barely pays any attention to Sophie once they reach their destination, always rushing off to meet his suppliers, bolting to learn cooking tips from experts, and daydreaming whenever she has the gumption to tell him about her day. It's apparent from the start that Victor is 100% prime jerk, begging the question, "Why is someone like Sophie engaged to him in the first place?" The answer: Because giving Sophie a decent boyfriend, someone worth keeping, might cause audience members to feel uncomfortable when she later starts dallying with another man. It's better to saddle her with an obvious loser so viewers don't have to clutter their minds with moral quandaries or other unsavory thoughts. The rest of the picture is just as bland, with Sophie unearthing a 50-year-old love letter and attempting to unite the woman who wrote it, a Brit named Claire (Vanessa Redgrave), with the Italian gentleman who swept her off her feet all those decades ago. Naturally, Claire has a grandson Sophie's age, and just as naturally, this lad, Charlie (dull-as-dirt Christopher Egan), and Claire bicker incessantly before falling in love. Predictable? Let's just say this is the sort of movie where if a character is shown climbing up some shrubbery, you just know a branch will break and send him tumbling earthward. For all its clichés, the film isn't awful, just awfully common. As compensation, there are many lovely shots of the Italian countryside and, for her fans, even lovelier shots of the radiant Seyfried. And as someone who digested many movies starring European superstar (and Redgrave's husband) Franco Nero during my formative years, it was a kick seeing him again for the first time in years. Yet these isolated perks aren't nearly enough to earn Letters to Juliet a stamp of approval. **

A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET Lamentably, it's probably not a stretch to say that any movie at least 15 years old that's vaguely remembered by the general public is now called a "classic" whenever it comes up in conversation or print (Howard the Duck excepted). But make no mistake: The original 1984 A Nightmare on Elm Street is hardly a classic -- it wasn't even the best entry in the never-ending Freddy Krueger franchise (that honor goes to 1987's A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors). But it did contain an interesting premise as well as a new horror icon in Robert Englund's demonic dream weaver, a boogeyman who could kill people as they snoozed. This new Nightmare, in contrast, doesn't boast of a single thing it can call its own. The latest soulless horror remake from Michael Bay (who's already pillaged and plundered the likes of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre and Friday the 13th by producing needless rehashes), this film is the ultimate example of making movies on autopilot, with everyone going through the paces merely to plop something on the screen, the sole goal being to siphon lots of money from moviegoers responding to the brand-name recognition. That's the name of the game, of course -- aside from Max Bialystock in The Producers, nobody sets out to make a flop -- but couldn't somebody have had a little fun with this project? As it stands, the movie is dull more than anything, furthered hampered by unappealing teen protagonists (at least the original had a memorable heroine in Heather Langenkamp and a future star in Johnny Depp), clumsy direction by Samuel Bayer, a slack script full of risible moments (such as the clod who somehow falls asleep while swimming laps in the school pool!), cheesy CGI effects and a letdown performance by Jackie Earle Haley as Freddy (he possesses neither Englund's enervating energy nor his way with a quip). The bottom line is that it isn't just Elm Street that's affected; you'll find a nightmare on any street that's housing a theater with the misfortune to be playing this monstrosity. *

ROBIN HOOD Disregard the folk tales, the ballads and the previous screen versions. Ridley Scott's prequel Robin Hood purports to take us behind the legend, offering a fanciful look at the people, places and events that shaped the outlaw archer before he made a name for himself crossing swords with the Sheriff of Nottingham, repeatedly outwitting the simpering King John, and, of course, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. But really, were that many people clamoring to see what's basically X-Men Origins: Robin Hood? About as useful as Hannibal Rising the now-forgotten Butch and Sundance: The Early Years, Robin Hood gives us not the maverick Ridley Scott who directed such unique gems as Blade Runner and Thelma & Louise but the self-important Ridley Scott who helmed such lumbering duds as 1492: Conquest of Paradise and Kingdom of Heaven. Scott suddenly seems intent on stripping movies of their mythmaking, preferring to ground them in some semblance of what passes for "realism" on celluloid these days: grainy battle sequences, troubling family issues (as in Iron Man 2, our hero believes his father didn't love him), wholesale use of CGI to paradoxically convey verisimilitude, and the habit of allowing every noble character to speak and act in a PC manner more suitable for the next Democratic National Convention than the medieval ages. The definitive screen Robin will forever remain Errol Flynn, whose 1938 The Adventures of Robin Hood merely ranks among the two or three greatest action-adventure films ever made. Yet even the miscast Kevin Costner (in 1991's Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves) was more fun to watch than Russell Crowe, who gives a technically sound performance that nevertheless is too one-note to stir audiences in the tradition of the best movie heroes. The same fate befalls Cate Blanchett, whose humorless Marion is a far cry from Olivia de Havilland's comparably headstrong but more engaging Marion opposite Flynn's Robin. As for the Merry Men, they're so thinly fleshed out that they might as well be Huey, Dewey and Louie. Too many royal-court scenes involving the tensions between England and France only serve to drive the focus of the picture away from its central player even more, and most of the action is chaotic and ill-conceived. **

SHUTTER ISLAND Just how obvious is the big "twist" that concludes Shutter Island, Martin Scorsese's adaptation of Dennis Lehane's novel? So obvious that some folks who haven't read the book are figuring it out simply by watching the trailer. But just how accomplished is the picture anyway? Enough that viewers will happily be led down the rabbit hole by a director with the ability to distract them with every technique at his disposal. Delivering yet another topnotch performance that might help him win some sort of lifetime achievement award before he even hits 40, Leonardo DiCaprio stars as Teddy Daniels, a U.S. federal marshal who, with his new partner Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo), travels to a mental asylum located on a remote island off the Massachusetts coastline. The year is 1954, and the lawmen are there to investigate the disappearance of one of the inmates. But although the head of the facility (Ben Kingsley) assures them that they'll have the full cooperation of the entire staff, it soon becomes apparent that everyone has something to hide, and Teddy must suss out the truth even while plagued by debilitating headaches, gruesome flashbacks to his World War II years, and disturbing hallucinations involving his deceased wife (Michelle Williams). Scorsese's in pulp fiction mode here (see also Cape Fear and The Departed), which essentially means that this is one of those pleasing instances when "B"-movie material is given the "A"-list treatment. The screenplay by Laeta Kalogridis is packed with so much intriguing incident that it's easy to not even notice the plotholes until post-movie reflection, and all the craftspeople who won Oscars for Scorsese's The Aviator are back on board, resulting in an immaculate presentation that fully engages the senses. And while the major plot pirouette will disappoint discerning viewers, it's followed by an ambiguous coda that insures all moviegoers will exit the Island with at least something to ponder. ***