The last time wrestling superstar John Cena was seen on the big screen, he was bursting through walls and diving away from rapid-fire explosions in The Marine. Three years later, he returns in 12 Rounds, another seemingly action-packed fiesta that finds him cast as another cop whose wife is kidnapped by a diamond thief. The fact that the muscle-bound jock is basically making the same movie all over again would normally be good news – until you sit down and realize that this is not the same tasty dumb ’80s throwback as before. In reality, this far-too-serious affair is Cena’s foray into thriller territory, where his fists do less talking than his mush-mouth does (which for half the film is mumbling into his cell phone on speaker). Sure, there are stabs at fiery suspense, but mostly the flick boils down to a tepid Die Hard With a Vengeance retread (which is ironic, since 12 Rounds is helmed by none other than Renny Harlin, the director of the second John McClane adventure).

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With references to House of Wax, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and George Lucas, the first 30 seconds of DreamWorks’ Monsters vs. Aliens makes it clear that the filmmakers wanted to pay homage to their favorite sci-fi films. Thankfully, the genre in-jokes aren’t the focal point — they just provide amusing window dressing so that movie-savvy parents can enjoy this elegantly simple tale as much as their kids.

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When approached with thoughtfulness, sincerity, and creativity, the fantasy/horror genre can be an ideal place to deal with such weighty, real-world issues as the loss of a child (The Orphanage) or the breakup of a family (The Shining). By occasionally breaking from reality, those genres allow talented writers and filmmakers to skillfully address issues that may be too tender to deal with effectively in a grounded dramatic setting. Then there’s The Haunting in Connecticut, a two-for-flinching frightener that lazily dusts off that tired old “Based on True Events” claim in hopes of getting under our skin before we’ve even set eyes on ye old haunted house. And while there are certainly plenty of opportunities to explore such intimate topics as death and family dynamics here, what we get instead is a haunted house yarn devoid of both atmosphere and content — a film that pays lip service to some interesting ideas, but is far too concerned with pleasing a large crowd to be anything more than another instantly forgettable fright flick.

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Paul Hasegawa-Overacker, better known as Paul H-O, has an interesting story to tell about the New York art scene of the 1990s. As one of the hosts of “GalleryBeat,” a public access program, he was on the fringes of the scene, but that gave him a surprising level of access (he got people to talk more freely because they knew the audience was small) and the uniquely skewed perspective of the outsider. These elements coalesce into an engaging document in Guest of Cindy Sherman, which offers an overview of the TV show, with particular emphasis on his relationship with the esteemed and famously reclusive photographer.

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If you know your con-game movies, then you’re familiar with the differences between short cons and long cons. The short con is all about making a quick buck — like getting a bartender to give you change for a 20, when you really paid with a 10. Long cons, on the other hand, require months, if not years, of setup, and come with a payoff to match. They also make for timeless movies like The Sting, The Grifters, House of Games, and Tony Gilroy’s Duplicity. Like those other time-tested con movies, Duplicity is about more than just lying, deceit, and trickery — the story’s mind games also serve as a metaphor for bigger issues — in this case, love. In the opening scene, Ray Koval (Clive Owen) seduces Claire Stenwick (Julia Roberts) at a cocktail party thrown by the government of Dubai. Their passionate night together ends with him drugged, and her taking pictures of some sensitive documents in his possession — and thus begins a most unusual courtship between people who inherently mistrust everyone around them. It would be just plain wrong to reveal much more about the plot, but years later, the two end up on opposite sides of some serious corporate espionage, and their time together in the past has more of an effect on their present than anyone — the characters or the audience — really understands.

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To say that Knowing is one of the worst movies Nicolas Cage has ever starred in risks making it sound way more tolerable and benign than it really is. Cage has built his career on films for which quality is not really a relevant issue — and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Not to be overly specific about it or anything, but some movie critics might have even signed up to review Knowing because they actually kind of enjoyed some of Cage’s more ridiculous work, including but not limited to Con Air, Face/Off, and National Treasure. Which isn’t to defend these films on a cinematic level. But Cage does often choose projects that aren’t just bad, they’re awesomely bad, streaked with a certain silliness and over-the-top charm that makes them inexplicably endearing, especially to viewers who like B-movies in the first place. All that being said, Knowing is a really, really terrible movie. It’s not hilariously bad, it’s not bad-but-fun, it’s just a miserable 122 minutes. And that goes for all audience types — whether they be earnest viewers, fans of camp, or woodland creatures (who are depicted, in one craptastic scene among many, on fire).

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It’s been trendy as of late to label any movie dealing with male bonding as a “bromance,” and if flicks like Superbad and Pineapple Express simply flirted with the concept, I Love You, Man finally locks down the deal officially. That’s right, I Love You, Man may be the first bona fide Bromantic Comedy, replete with extended honeymoon phase, awkward breakup, heartache, and… well, it would hardly be fair to give away the ending. Strangely enough, unlike the aforementioned examples of the newly christened comedy subgenre, Judd Apatow’s name is nowhere to be found in the credits. But while I Love You, Man may bear all the visible and thematic trappings of your typical Apatow comedy, it begins to feel more like a Woody Allen movie as the relationship between the two protagonists takes precedence over the gags and we’re drawn deeper into the dynamics of how they interact.

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One doubts that any feature film could more maturely, passionately, or elegantly evoke the madness and confusion at the heart of the early ’80s IRA conflict than Irish director Steve McQueen’s harrowing docudrama Hunger. The film unfurls in 1981, around the tail end of the IRA prisoners’ “no wash” strike against the Brits, and dramatizes the martyrdom of Irishman Bobby Sands, champion of a hunger strike within a penitentiary — and a man who led at least nine of his fellow inmates to the grave in pursuit of unascertained political status. Yet the Sands tale only occupies the second half of the picture. Long before we can identify Sands or follow his crusade, McQueen takes his time to establish the overall atmosphere of the prison and, more importantly, the profound and noble ideas at the core of his film.

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