When “Big Momma’s House” was released in 2000, I can’t imagine there was any honest expectation of a sequel. An undemanding drag comedy merging action and antics from star Martin Lawrence, the original picture fulfilled whatever need there was to see the comedian rock an enormous fat suit and channel the child-rearing sass of his grandmother. Well, there actually was a sequel in 2006, straining the concept to a breaking point. And now, 11 years later, we’re faced with a third installment, providing Lawrence an opportunity to flex his atrophying box office muscle and reinvent the “Big Momma” brand, bringing in rising star Brandon T. Jackson to carry on the glorious cross-dressing cause.

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Devouring a steady diet of horror pictures and charged thrillers over the course of the moviegoing year, a film critic becomes unavoidably accustomed to witnessing random acts of violence. That’s not to say bloodshed doesn’t retain its frightening qualities, but after a while, a certain numbness sets in with anarchy that is more artless. The medieval saga, “Black Death,” honestly scared the stuffing out of me, in a way I haven’t felt from a movie in a very long time. Brutal, austere, and ultimately an effective educational tool, the picture is an unflinching, haunting dissection of fundamentalism, translating the rigors of faith into a grotesque poetry of pain and suffering.

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“Brotherhood” is more of a slick directorial exercise than a substantial feature film. Packed with shaky-cam tension, screaming performances, and near-comical turns of plot, the picture doesn’t make much of an impression past a few visceral flashes of conflict, with the majority of the film a frustrating sit that seems to drag on far longer than its 70-minute-long running time.

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It was bound to happen sooner or later. With “I Am Number Four,” Hollywood attempts to branch out to other genres to find a new “Twilight” — something with heavy romantic and superhuman overtones that could be massaged into a brand new franchise to take over the hearts and wallets of teens when the sparkly vampires take a bow in 2012. Though dealing with intergalactic invasion, corporeal powers, and laser guns, “I Am Number Four” is a relatively tame creation, lacking a thunderous, textured cinematic quality that would separate it from the average ABC Family movie.

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“Unknown” doesn’t know when to quit. Traditionally, relentlessness is a positive attribute for any thriller, but “Unknown” kicks off with an inert concept for suspense and proceeds to hog pile on the plot with total abandon, slapping on the whoppers and clichés like a maniac. In fact, the only thing missing from this Liam Neeson thriller is a cameo by Liam Neeson. Everything else is pretty much accounted for.

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One has to accept “The Resident” as it is, otherwise there’s just no fun to be had. A mindless horror/chiller that preys upon numerous single lady fears, the picture is generally well crafted and supplies a few satisfying jolts. Logic and editing aren’t the movie’s best friends, but accepted as a modest creep-out with a few semi-salacious touches and “The Resident” delivers the icks and scares, permitting star Hilary Swank a chance to relax her intense method approach and explore her lung power.

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One could look at “Just Go with It” as a semi-remake of the 1969 comedy “The Cactus Flower” (itself adapted from an Abe Burrows play) or as a chance for Adam Sandler to take a paid Hawaiian vacation for a few months, mingling with pals and flirting with his gorgeous co-stars. It’s a relief to report that some of the old Sandler magic is back for this farcical romantic comedy, but his aim remains crooked, leaving the film eager to please but not always consumed with providing first-rate goofballery.

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Technically, we’ve already been here, and recently too. Last summer, Neil Marshall’s blood-drenched “Centurion” took viewers into the mystery of Rome’s legendary Ninth Legion, a group of soldiers who disappeared into Northern British territory after encountering ferocious Pict warriors. “The Eagle” doesn’t exactly replay these events, instead it lurches ahead a few decades to study the aftermath, only here there’s more of a slack poetic edge instead of merciless slaughter, with director Kevin Macdonald unable to secure a riveting pace as he struggles to depict profound stances of honor and absolution.

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Stepping in the substantial cinematic footsteps of titans Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers, pop starlet Justin Bieber assumes command of her own big screen 3D concert film. Actually, “Never Say Never” more of a sweet sixteen birthday celebration for the adolescent singer, showcasing Bieber commemorating her ascent into adulthood, surrounded by screaming hordes of blushing tween girls ready to pledge their everlasting allegiance to the Beeb, at least until something hotter comes along. Somehow, I doubt that’s ever going to happen.

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Even by animated filmmaking standards, “Gnomeo & Juliet” is a strange picture. Imagine William Shakespeare’s immortal classic of love and death acted out by a society of garden gnomes, scored to the music of Elton John. And the voice cast includes Hulk Hogan, Dolly Parton, Ozzy Osbourne, and Maggie Smith. Feeling a bit dizzy? While thoroughly bizarre, “Gnomeo” is a vibrant bit of cheeky entertainment, a beautifully animated romp that plays better cute than clever, offering miniature merriment and cheerful blasts of classic rock while pantsing the Bard.

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“Glorious 39” has the proper ambition and a gifted cast to transform into a spellbinding British WWII thriller, working out a stimulating story of paranoia and bleak family ties. It’s maddening to find the film stubbornly refuse to attempt soaring beats of intrigue, preferring to remain in a melodramatic coma while stupendous locations and a range of expressive faces do all the heavy lifting. Despite a few convincing turns, the feature is disappointingly winded, eventually going off on a few needless tangents that derail the whole production.

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“The Roommate” is a dreadful motion picture, but do you really need me to tell you that? From top to bottom, the film is an unimaginative, unbearable moviegoing event, playing directly to easily startled teen girls who have nothing better to do with their allowance money. There once was a time when trashy thrillers could be counted on to deliver trashy thrills. Now we have Minka Kelly and Leighton Meester. Blah. Crazy bitch, PG-13-o-nized cinema deserves a more captivating representation than these two wet-lipped paper dolls.

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