Johnson, so recently in the jungle for Jumanji, remains a truly indefatigable movie star capable of carrying even the most half-baked of premises with colossal charisma. Rampage would surely sink a less sturdy action star, yet even here the wayward mishmash of monster-movie tropes only seem to ping off him like bullets deflected by Superman.

It might drift out of the memory just as easily as it drifted in, but there’s a goofy likeability to Pacific Rim: Uprising, a primal thrill to be had, and a confident slickness behind it that means, despite a nearly two-hour running time, it doesn’t outstay its welcome. DeKnight has already hinted that a cinematic universe could be on the way and given the wafer-thin structure of the plot, that seems like a mistake, so before the waters get muddied once again, switch off and enjoy.

Game Night isn’t perfect, and an electric first hour gives way to a slow third act that’s handicapped by the gimmick wearing thin and a too-earnest side plot about Max and Annie’s shifting plans to have a kid. But it kind of redeems itself by the end with a series of twists and turns fitting of the absurd premise.

At the end of the day, representation is a powerful force and more people need to see themselves in the content they spend their hard-earned money for. Hopefully, more studios and directors will grab onto the momentum that Black Panther will unquestionably create, and not let us wait another lifetime for a story like this.

The wrenching tale of a woman’s love for a man and a man’s love for his work. A dry, comic study of the asymmetries and conflicts at the heart of a marriage. A refined gothic nightmare in the manner of Henry James. A perverse psychological fable of unchecked ego and unhinged desire. That’s a partial catalogue, and one that can’t quite capture how bizarre this movie is. Or how bizarrely true to life — to art, to love, to itself — it feels.

The old equation of man-plus-locomotive has been a dependable one for the movies since Buster Keaton rode the rails in The General. (See also: Burt Lancaster in The Train, and Denzel Washington in Unstoppable.) The Commuter isn’t in that class, but there are worse tickets to punch, especially in January. Such a woeful time of year for new releases warrants repeating the old warning: If you see something, say something.

Where the previous films painted the Bellas as scrappy underdogs, here they’re kind of sad sacks who can’t cope with adult life. That’s a real challenge for anyone after college, but fans of the Bellas know they have their friendship to fall back on. In the Pitch Perfect world, that’s what a cappella competitions are all about.

If there’s an eleven-o’clock number, it’s got to be This Is Me, ably sung by Broadway belter Keala Settle, a motivational anthem that seems meant to stop the show but sounds too familiar to really stir the spirits. “I’m gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out,” the bearded lady sings, and alas, it’s an apt description of what this movie seems to be doing: Drowning us in pizazz and feel-good emotion, but not making us think, or learn. In the end, not much is happening under that circus tent.

Ultimately, it may not be a fitting tribute vehicle to the late Robin Williams, but works as a fun watch if you’re a huge Johnson or Hart fan.

The Last Jedi is not a film for the faint of heart. But courage, a sense of wonder, a resounding faith in the strength of love, and a healthy dose of hope will take you far.