Had Jim Henson simply rested after giving the world The Muppets, nobody would’ve complained. After all, that Kermit-led revolution changed the face of family entertainment and restored some needed edge to G-rated comedy world. However, Henson was an energetic, curious creator, which led to a follow-up project that ate away years of his life, severely challenged the agility of his performers, and solidified him as an absolutely dazzling filmmaking architect. The picture was “The Dark Crystal.”

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There are certain decisions a film production can make that will immediately cast doubt on the mental capacity of those in charge. Hiring irritating actors Judy Greer and Dan Fogler to play buddy roles in “Love Happens” is a terrific way to state to the audience that filmmakers have little to no imagination, looking to the routine and the tiresome to squeak by with a minimal amount of effort. “Love Happens” isn’t a horrendous picture, but it could’ve been so much more vital and textured, and it could’ve done without the wretched BFF sleepwalking of Fogler and Greer.

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Grief, death, and rusty scissors collide in Lars von Trier’s “Antichrist.” A metaphysical sojourn with cinema’s loudest spoilsport, the picture stuns and sickens, almost daring viewers to keep watching as it articulates the ravages of the unwound mind, filling the frame with demented acts of unspeakable violence and deeply considered thematic stimulation. For fans of Trier, “Antichrist” is a return to his once irresistible provocative appetites, shamelessly exploiting suffering and misogyny to generate the outrage that fuels his daydreams (and bank accounts). It’s a pitch-black torrential downpour of pain, and should only be approached by those willing to allow Trier 100 precious minutes to play his madcap mind games.

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Using Judi and Ron Barrett’s beloved 1978 book, “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs,” as inspiration, the big-screen adaptation takes off in its own special direction, mixing clever cartoon timing with an Irwin Allen valentine, emerging as one of the strongest CG-animated efforts of the year. Energetic and dripping with the sort of cutting-edge, reference-heavy humor that rules the genre today, “Meatballs” makes for a hilarious and obviously mouth-watering sit, the hunger dialed to impossible levels if viewed in a house of 3-D.

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Let’s put aside the obvious blunders of the horror comedy “Jennifer’s Body” for a moment and focus on the major howler of the picture: an emo band is selected to be the agent of Satan in the story. Not Judas Priest or Dio, but a guyliner-wearing, whimpering-vocals emo band. Now where’s the PTA-alarming fun in that? The popped-collar doomsday device is only a tiny portion of the troubles that plague this uneven, obnoxious picture, but with a script that tinkers with teens, sex, and Lucifer, peeling metal out of the mix is not a bright way to kickoff a tale that reaches for a specific tone of wickedness.

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There’s an exclamation point in the proper title of “The Informant,” but I’m not sure why. Nothing happens in the film that warrants such dramatic punctuation, but I assume it means something special to director Steven Soderbergh. It’s getting to be a private carnival for the once engaging filmmaker, who appears to be chasing a Peter-Sellers-meets-Forbes bite for his latest picture, only to bury the jokes in three feet of baffling stylistic choices and tin-ear scoring. “Informant” takes some exertion to appreciate, but the payoff doesn’t quite reward the moviegoing effort.

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There’s a not a single moment in the new musical drama “Broken Hill” that’s original or fresh. Films of this ilk, inspirational and romantic (to a certain degree), are typically judged by their storytelling fervor, and “Broken Hill” gets by with just enough enthusiasm to help block out the photocopied screenplay and the pedestrian dramatics perhaps better suited for a television series. However, there are morsels of good-natured inspirational intentions here to help the film scurry away from the chore it might’ve become without its amiable personality.

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While an update of the 1983 chiller “The House on Sorority Row,” the shortened “Sorority Row” brings its own special facepalm inanity to the party. Reducing slasher ingredients to their most flavorless appearance, “Row” is a total wash-out, a contemptible pile of malarkey that takes modern horror to new lows of boredom and sluggishness, not to mention unfettered annoyance. Imagine being trapped inside a pungent shoebox with the over-caffeinated morning shift of Forever 21 while an inept epileptic captures the small talk with a camera he lost the instruction manual for. That’s “Sorority Row,” and it’s one repellent motion picture.

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Last winter, Tyler Perry suited up inside his Madea character and made a fortune. “Madea Goes to Jail” was a box office smash for Perry, bringing his cross-dressing, slang-heavy shtick close to the 100-million-dollar barrier required for worldwide box office legitimacy. Smelling blood in the water, Perry has hastily brought back the character for “I Can Do Bad All By Myself,” though the sassy, gun-toting, breast-swinging matriarch carries more of a cameo role here (shhh, don’t tell the Lionsgate marketing squad). Without or without Madea (ideally without), “Bad” is the same old moldy dish of melodrama and misbegotten salvation, spoon-fed to the Perry faithful without much care for appealing artistic development.

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Rock superstardom is a rare achievement, never requiring actual talent, but crack timing and blind persistence to seep into the public consciousness, along with at least one passable tune. The status of rock god is an entirely inimitable designation. These men and women showcase barnstorming creativity that’s second to none, along with a unique career longevity that’s survived the worst of artistic disasters. More often than not, they also carry a guitar, wielding it with Excalibur-sized supremacy.

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