I’m sure there will be much hullabaloo accompanying the release of Mike Judge’s “Extract,” as the film is a return to the workplace blues genre that made Judge a cult hero with the 1999 picture, “Office Space.” The comparison needlessly reduces “Extract” to an afterthought when it’s actually a sturdy, uproarious comedy that solidifies Judge’s voice as a relaxed filmmaker with impeccable timing and a valuable interest in blending the absurd with the awkwardly real.

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The screenplay for “G-Force” seems to fumble the joy of the concept, hunting for a more impactful way to tell a very silly story. This might be the reason there’s a frantic, suffocating thinking that ends up marring the picture. This is a team of super spy guinea pigs getting into all sorts of hijinks, there’s little need to add pathos or rigid character arcs. “G-Force” feels the urge to present audiences with a sympathetic portrayal of talking animals, when it’s clear that potential viewers, both young and old, would rather see these heroes in all stages of miniature combat and furry teamwork instead.

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If there’s a single sin to zero in on while watching “Nine,” it has to be the way it makes Federico Fellini feel absolutely insufferable. The Broadway musical “Nine,” a shadow of the 1963 Fellini film “8 1/2,” makes its cinematic debut after nearly 30 years of wowing audiences with its lurid behaviors and zesty Italian style. While I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing the stage show, I’ve suffered through its filmic incarnation, which douses everything plausibly irresistible about the original material (and “8 1/2”) in a sickly goo of glum behavior and dodgy characterizations, scored to a jukebox of graceless songs. A boldly chic celebration of sultry 1960s Italy and its lush cinematic persuasions this film is most certainly not, no matter how many hindquarters are thrust into the air, skinny ties are tied, or cigarettes smoked.

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The mild delights of 2007’s “Music & Lyrics” notwithstanding, it’s always cause for alarm when writer/director Marc Lawrence and actor Hugh Grant find the time in their busy schedules to make movies with each other. “Did You Hear About the Morgans?” is their third collaboration (a trilogy that includes the sour 2002 film, “Two Weeks Notice”), and holds the distinction of being not only their most disastrous duet, but also one of the worst films of the year. I’m not exactly sure why the well is poisoned every time these fellows get near each other, but “Morgans” is a fantastic reminder to institute some sort of restraining order. Make it a legal issue, guaranteeing Grant and Lawrence will never team up again.

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While encrusted with common period trappings, “The Young Victoria” is a consistent machine of scandal, heartache, and English monarchy power plays. Lavishly produced and dutifully written by Julian Fellowes (“Gosford Park”), the picture is a solid piece of drama, giving fans of the genre a ripe core of hesitation to sink their teeth into, while also bringing actress Emily Blunt to the forefront with an impressive depiction of uncertainty and immaturity thrust into the spotlight of uncontested power.

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In the 12 years since James Cameron last directed a feature film (a little art-house number called “Titanic,” heard of it?), much has changed in the growing field of special effects. His latest picture, “Avatar,” reflects a filmmaker who’s spent more time polishing his impressive new tools than scraping the rust off of his once extraordinary storytelling instincts. A gargantuan production of obscene technical achievement, “Avatar” is freakishly cold to the touch; the work of man who felt he had to leave a Godzilla-sized footprint on the face of cinema when all the public wanted was simply to have him back in the game he once dominated.

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Hilary Duff is endeavoring to stretch as an actress, but I’m not convinced the drama “According to Greta” gets the job done for her. The former tween queen takes the reins on a harsh character that’s exceptionally self-centered, suicidal, and brimming with mall chick wiseacrery — a definite change of pace for a star desperate to smother her previous bubble gum professional choices. However, “According to Greta” is a melodrama and a labored one at that, entertaining far too much tiresome formula, making the whole enterprise feel like an extended television pilot, or perhaps a fiendish “Georgia Rule” sequel.

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Fashion world titan Tom Ford switches gears with “A Single Man,” co-writing and directing a tragic tale of love lost and (briefly) found. A ‘60s period piece, the velvety aesthetic challenge suits Ford’s instincts; he rolls out an impossibly beautiful film adorned with the sort of ornate architecture, sumptuous photography, and set design detail that should have film fans salivating. Ford also displays a generous nature toward his cast, urging star Colin Firth to one of the best performances of his career.

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“Invictus” doesn’t pursue any overwhelming dramatic demands or blinding shots of glory as a sporting tale of rugby or as a political film of historical revolution; it’s Clint Eastwood directing in a manner he’s always managed quite wonderfully: understated and softly spoken, assembled with a sure hand, not a trembling one. A film based on the events of the 1995 World Cup championship run in South Africa, “Invictus” may not provide a challenging, electrifying night at the movies, but it’s sturdily constructed from top to bottom, depicting a benevolent story of racial discord and nationwide unification in an agreeably comfy, Eastwoodian manner.

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“The Princess and the Frog” represents Disney’s big comeback to feature-length, traditionally animated filmmaking. Granted, it’s only been away for five years, but a comeback is a comeback, and I’ll take any renewed interest in 2-D storytelling I can get. Playing it safe to rekindle the animated magic that once defined the Disney name, “Princess and the Frog” is a joyful lap around familiar Mouse House artistic elements, looking to help rebuild the kingdom brand name with a cushy tale of a princess, smooch-happy amphibians, and the grandeur of turn-of-the-century New Orleans.

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The devious art of grand theft movie is always a delight to witness. Walking into “Me and Orson Welles,” I was expecting a benevolent coming-of-age tale, using star Zac Efron’s dewy looks and immaculate representation of adolescent earnestness to carry the film to heartening results. But then in walked actor Christian McKay, who delivers such an immaculate impression and summarization of Orson Welles, it makes the rest of the cast and the humdrum melodrama feel like they’re blocking the view.

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