The fun of Spider-Man: Far from Home is watching the younger members of its cast agreeably interact with one another, and if the actual heroic parts of the tale could have generated maybe a third of that same intoxicating ebullience maybe I’d have found this latest MCU effort to be a bit more memorable.

Langseth lays her story out with a caring specificity that kept me wanting to learn where things would go next, and for my part I found the character-driven honesty of Euphoria difficult to resist.

Wild Rose is a universally aspirational story of retaining one’s individuality in the face of societal roadblocks that prefer conformity and the status quo over anything unique, its songs of faith, family and friendship worth singling along with.

The last third of Yesterday is an ineffectual slog that wastes the talents of its stars, and as breezy, inoffensively enjoyable and as adorably light as so much of this was to suddenly hear it hit so many sour notes was undeniably disappointing, my emotions gently weeping the more I keep thinking about it.

As much as I enjoyed that second adventure with the evil titular doll, Annabelle Comes Home is such a massive amount of sinister fun it might be my favorite entry in The Conjuring universe outside of the first film.

There are moments Child’s Play feels like the Jackson Pollock painting of modern-day horror remakes, and I can’t help but imagine Klevberg and Smith throwing general ideas, plot developments and various character interactions at a blank canvas as if they were swatches of paint.

Loosely born from co-writer/star Jimmie Fails’ own life experiences, The Last Black Man in San Francisco is at times a broad comedy, at others a searing social commentary, and in many instances a bracingly tragic melodrama

I do hope Toy Story 4 is the last of the series, if only because the bow it puts on Woody’s four-film expedition is tied with such loving perfection I have trouble imagining the filmmakers could ever do better than what they miraculously accomplish here.

But it’s all haphazardly thrown together and never coherently focused, Jarmusch allowing The Dead Don’t Die to have a disheveled lackadaisical momentum that’s too nondescript to resonate and too messily pieced together for events to emotionally matter.