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Ben Kingsley devours the screen as Don, a psychotic criminal who drags retired gangster Gal back toward "one last job."

Kingsley's volcanic performance is unforgettable, but also a bit dated - his stream of obscenities now feels like reheated Tarantino. The film's real strength lies in the toxic, twisted relationships rather than the heist itself.

Stylish, sharp, and mercifully short, but saddled with a gaping plot hole: the gang doesn't actually need Gal at all. Without Kingsley, it would have sunk as fast as that boulder in the pool.

If you've ever wanted to watch Johnny Depp act like a malfunctioning Alexa with a wig, this is the film for you. He takes "serious" to such robotic extremes you half expect him to say, "Does not compute."

Rebecca Hall, meanwhile, floats through the gloom with an air of smug superiority, as if she's starring in a far more intelligent movie we never get to see.

Add in cinematography so murky it makes you wonder if someone forgot to pay the lighting bill, and a plot that collapses under its own self-importance, and you've got Transcendence: less a sci-fi thriller than a two-hour tutorial in how to squander talent and budget.

The Thursday Murder Club is proof that even with a respectable cast, you can still produce a film so bland it makes a cup of lukewarm tea look edgy. Based on novels beloved in Britain (apparently Britain's taste buds have dulled), the story offers the thrilling premise of four retirees in a luxury retirement home playing at detectives. When a real body drops, they spring into action, solving the crime with the uncanny brilliance only fictional geriatrics ever possess. Consider my eyes rolled into permanent exile.

Helen Mirren, ageless and unflappable, survives with dignity almost intact. Pierce Brosnan, however, looks like he accidentally wandered onto set while searching for the next Bond reunion - too young, too smooth, and too utterly misplaced. The supporting cast is a parade of stereotypes: the bumbling white inspector (of course), neatly "balanced" by a young Black female officer (of course), all slathered in a thin glaze of manufactured inclusivity. It's not so much representation as a checklist.

But the true offense isn't even the tokenism, it's the storytelling. The plot staggers forward like it's got a walker and a bad hip, pausing every two minutes to explain itself in painstaking detail, as if the audience is presumed to have memory loss. The "Gang of Four," marketed as witty and irreverent, instead come across as meddlesome busybodies who confuse condescension with charm. They're the kind of neighbors who'd report you to the condo board for leaving your recycling bin out five minutes too long.

By the end, the only real mystery left is how so many talented actors signed up for a script this flabby. Perhaps the biggest crime of all is that it's being passed off as entertainment.