There’s a moment in director Elizabeth Banks’ Cocaine Bear when said bear, having gone a little too long without cocaine, passes out atop a dude who then reveals that the bear is a she. He knows this, he says, because “her vagina is pressing against my face.” It’s a telling moment, for a number of reasons. First, because the film loses its oomph at this point right along with the bear, slipping from a story that puts numerous parties — a lusty park ranger, a drug runner, a recent widower, a decent cop, a couple of latchkey kids, a worried mom, a trio of delinquents, etc. — on a collision course with a coked-up black bear and lets mayhem reign, to a plodding tale of good moms and bad dads, with the murderous bear on the appropriate side. Second, because it’s delivered like a joke, but it just isn’t funny, partly because it’s impossible: the bear’s pelvis is lined up roughly with that of the dude she’s smothering. Third, because that little detail is indicative of the movie’s deep laziness when it comes to things like character and motivation — even when it comes to a coked-up bear. (Why does it kill everyone it meets during its drug rampage except for the one person it decides to kidnap? Why don’t people with guns shoot the bear when they have the chance? Because the movie needs to happen, that’s why!) Fourth, because why is this kind of goofy, aimless conversation happening in a movie outfitted with the ironclad premise of a bear that happens upon a massive quantity of hastily airdropped cocaine? Why indeed. And the premise isn’t the only thing that’s wasted: this movie makes misuse of Keri Russell with a Southern accent, O’Shea Jackson’s effortless charm, Ray Liotta’s final appearance, and Margo Martindale as the badass minor character who should have been the star — after the bear, of course. (2023) — Matthew Lickona