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It's theoretically possible for laughs to be gouged out of this scenario, but you won't find them here: every move, every joke, every emotion is heaved lumberingly into place.

The Big Year is as glossy and inert as Martin's face, which these days seems to require more foundation than the Burj Khalifa.

If Hathaway's Andy drives the pedestrian narrative -- idealistic girl learns the value of staying true to herself and her "real" friends; snore -- then Streep is the movie's soul.

There are some must-have luxuries here, first of which is Meryl Streep's fascinating performance as the fearsome Miranda Priestly.

Sometimes, and especially on a crummy afternoon in the middle of March, it's nice to be able to switch off and settle down to enjoying the sight of middle-class families eating well and playing together in sprawling, bucolic gardens.

In the cinema, all of us tough, cynical critics had tears welling in our eyes, swallowing hard; our lips, so often curled in a cheap sneer, were now trembling, because of the same desperately sad thought: "Owen Wilson used to be really good..."