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For a drama about a young couple starting a family, there’s “Revolutionary Road” and there’s “Marley & Me.” The kids exist on the sidelines in both looks at East Coast marriages. “Marley & Me” is the lighter one starring Owen Wilson as the title’s “Me,” a newspaper writer named John married to Jenny, played by Jennifer Aniston. Marley is played by twenty-two Labrador retrievers of various ages. More than a pet, Marley does double duty as a plot line to follow the first fourteen years of married life for the Grogans. They arrive in South Florida as newlyweds from snowy Michigan. They are reporters for local dailies, and acquire Marley as a pup, which supplies John with material when he is promoted to a columnist slot. There’s a splendid montage of Marley adventures narrated by John from his popular column. Children come along and Jenny quits her job. They get a nicer house. Marley loves the pool. Then John gets a job in Philadelphia where he can return to reporting. There are three kids now and Marley is getting old. Wilson and Aniston make an appealing pair. What’s most interesting about this “dog picture” is that Marley is left alone to be a dog, with far less personality than Lassie or other four-legged stars offering cute reaction shots and trained to do adorable tricks. Marley is merely a great dog, greatly loved by his owners and their children. This is a love story warmed by comedy. Director David Frankel is joined by his cinematographer and editor from his earlier “The Devil Wears Prada.” Screenwriters Scott Frank and Donald Roos draw from the non-fiction book penned by the real John Grogan about his dog Marley, his wife Jenny, their three kids and his newspaper jobs in Florida and Philadelphia, despite the film’s disclaimer that everyone and everything is “fictitious” and that any resemblances are “purely coincidental.” With Sebastian Tunney, Alan Arkin, Eric Dane and Kathleen Turner. 95m. (Bill Stamets)

Adam Sandler lets his fans down in “Bedtime Stories.” Jim Carrey did likewise in last week’s “Yes Man.” Neither star breaks new ground or matches his past comic product. Sandler’s Skeeter is another immature nice guy with a mean streak. Once again, he has a workplace issue. Another case of arrested mobility. Plus no love life. Skeeter is the handyman at a fancy hotel he ought to manage. His dad raised him and his sister at a modest comfy motel that was bought out by Barry Nottingham (Richard Griffiths), who promised the kid would one day run the glitzy hotel he planned to build on the site. Years later, it’s the snotty boyfriend (Guy Pearce) of Nottingham’s ditzy daughter (Teresa Palmer, playing a sorta-Paris Hilton) who’s in line to take over. Skeeter gets a shot at getting what’s his when he starts babysitting his sister’s kids for a week. As he makes up interactive bedtime stories, the tykes script tangents that come true the next day. So Skeeter steers the storylines to get him both the job and the girl (Keri Russell). Director Adam Shankman (“The Wedding Planner”) handles the crossover between make-believe and the real world with no wit at all. The finale is by-the-book formulaic, except for a mean-hearted humiliation inflicted on two formerly imperious schemers. This is Tim Herlihy’s eighth screenplay for Sandler. The story comes from co-writer Matt Lopez, who needed Skeeter’s inventive niece and nephew in his rewrite corner. With Russell Brand, Jonathan Morgan Heit, Laura Ann Kesling, Courteney Cox, Lucy Lawless and Carmen Electra. 95m. (Bill Stamets)

At an advance screening, local exterior shots elicited applause from a local audience. Local co-producers Robert Teitel and George Tillman, Jr. set this Christmas-time family story in wintry Humboldt Park. It’s a pleasing, good-looking feature about a Puerto Rican family that should travel with ease beyond the west side, just as “Barbershop” and “Roll Bounce,” two earlier ensemble features from Teitel and Tillman, found audiences far from the south side. Alfredo de Villa (”Washington Heights”) directs a script by Rick Najera and Alison Swan (”Mixing Nia”) that defaults to simplistic, unsatisfying revelations and resolutions in the last reel. We get the usual roster of issues for a family get-together film. Best performance comes from former Humbodt Parker and executive producer Freddy Rodriguez, who plays an Iraq war vet with survivor guilt trying to reunite with a former true love. John Leguizamo plays his older brother, a New York exec with a Debra Messing as his Jewish exec wife. These characters are fine company. They deserve better sub-plots in their stockings. With Alfred Molina, Elizabeth Peña, Jay Hernandez, Melonie Diaz, Vanessa Ferlito and Luis Guzman. 99m. (Bill Stamets)

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Like “JCVD,” “Bolt” opens with an outlandish action sequence. Spoiler alert: it’s not real. Just a shoot for an episode of a hit TV series starring the title dog (voiced, barked, yelped and whimpered by John Travolta) that thinks it’s all for real. Every week Bolt rescues his plucky owner Penny (Miley Cyrus aka “Hannah Montana”) from evildoers. Like “The Truman Show,” the TV show “Bolt” is shot with hidden cameras. Real-time special effects trick Bolt into believing he really does possess all his super-powers in the script. “If the dog believes it, the audience believes it,” states TV director (voiced by windbag James Lipton from “Inside the Actor’s Studio”). The target demographic wants new plots: “They’re not happy with happy,” reports a network exec. Bolt bolts and gets shipped by a mishap to New York City. He meets sassy kitty Mittens (Susie Essman) and heads back to Hollywood. She brings Bolt up to speed on his life-long delusion, as well as coaching him on how to stick his head out the window of a moving vehicle. A high-strung hamster and super-fan (voiced by Mark Walton) joins the journey. Like the movie-star dog in “Firehouse Dog,” the star of “Bolt” will rescue people in real peril. Directors Chris Williams and Byron Howard, and writers Dan Fogelman and Chris Williams unleash a treat for dog-lovers and haters of L.A. agents and network execs. Walt Disney Animation Studios superbly reproduces behavioral details of puppies and pigeons. But this Digital 3-D feature is needlessly 3-D. The only delight it brought me was second-hand: hearing the squeals of delight when the opening credits startled kids in the audience. With Greg Germann, Malcolm McDowell, Diedrich Bader, Grey DeLisle and Sean Donnellan. 95m. (Bill Stamets)

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A denizen of the Central Park Zoo escaped to visit exotic Connecticut, but only got as far as Grand Central Station before he and his pursuing zoo pals were captured. Sent back to their African birthplace, these New Yorkers got stranded on the title island in 2005’s animated feature “Madagascar.” Co-directors Eric Darnell and Tom McGrath, and their co-writer Etan Cohen, deliver an entertaining episode in the further adventures of a lion (voiced by Ben Stiller), a zebra (Chris Rock), a giraffe (David Schwimmer) and a hippo (Jada Pinkett Smith). Penguins, lemurs and chimps are the critter equivalents of character actors, sidekicks, second bananas and all-around scene-stealers. The quartet takes off from Madagascar and soon crashes land on a savannah where they find vast populations of their own kinds. This raises issues of individualism for one-of-a-kinders homesick for the accolades of their human visitors back in New York City. Cue music from “Born Free” and quips about Alex Haley’s “Roots.” Thanks to some thirty million render hours, the foursome keep busy with a lively plot set in a wonderfully detailed Africa. Another band of New Yorkers—a bunch of ambushed tourists on a SUV safari—find themselves just as lost and just as resourceful for surviving the wilds of Africa. There’s the usual affirming of family values, following one’s true path, and standing by your friends. The inventive design and warm crossover humor should make this a pleasant chore for older siblings, caretakers and parents taking the core audience to the theater. With Sacha Baron Cohen, Cedric The Entertainer, Andy Richter, Bernie Mac, Sherri Shepherd, Alec Baldwin and will.i.am. 89m. (Bill Stamets)

Sadly, not the story of a Truman Capote stalker, or even better, the stalker of a Truman Capote impersonator, “Tru Love” is instead writer-director Stuart Wade’s family-friendly tale for teens about sexual sensitivity in the form of a pansexual rom-com set in a conservative Southern California high school. Tru (Najarra Johnson) finds her world upended when her two moms leave San Francisco for the homophobic hinterland. As cuddly didacticism goes, it’s pretty sweet, and apparently is intended as much as teaching tool as entertainment. Not bad at all. 104m. (Ray Pride)

Executive Producer George Lucas adds nothing to his “Star Wars” cosmos and corpus with this CG-animated kids tale. Director Dave Filoni—and writers Henry Gilroy, Steven Melching and Scott Murphy—stick to the franchise’s fixtures: Galactic Republicans and Separatist scum, Jedi’s and Siths, mentors and apprentices, chancellors and assassins. New on the scene are “rolling death balls” and a 14-year-old Togrutan named Ahsoka Tano. This orange-creamsicle-faced knight-in-training is assigned by Master Yoda to Anakin Skywalker. Together they will free the kidnapped nephew of Jabba the Hut, and thwart intrigue by Count Dooku, Asajj Ventress and a treacherous Hut who purrs like Truman Capote. Victory means Galactic troops can access shipping routes in the Outer Rim to contain the insurgency. Mission Accomplished. The Long War. Following up a 2004-2005 Cartoon Network show about the Clone Wars period, “Star Wars: The Clone Wars” fits into the six-film saga in between Episodes II and III. “A war, by nature, is a patchwork of untold stories,” says Lucas. “We know what happens to the galaxy, but we don’t know exactly how it all came to pass. These are the stories behind the story.” There’s a badly borrowed Buster Keaton bit, and the robo-critters on the sidelines get the best quips and squeaks. “Sky Guy,” as the cheeky “youngling” tags Skywalker, is colorless. With the voices of Matt Lanter, Ashley Eckstein, James Arnold Taylor, Dee Bradley Baker, Tom Kane, Nika Futterman, Corey Burton, Kevin Michael Richardson, Samuel L. Jackson and Christopher Lee. 100m. Anamorphic 2.40 widescreen. (Bill Stamets)

Flies appear to dart and hover just beyond your arm’s reach in this animated 3-D film for kids. Set in 1969 in Florida, this adventure puns on “fly” to take a trio of young male flies—Nat (Trevor Gagnon), IQ (Philip Daniel Bolden) and Scooter (David Gore)—to the moon as stowaways on the Apollo 11 trip. The film’s mission is to rebut Nat’s overly protective mom who’s overly fond of saying “Dreamers get swatted.” Compared to another vermin adventure, “Ratatouille,” this one is unusually drab in hue. But the same kid-friendly icky bits are here. “Flyboy” grandpa (Christopher Lloyd) tells Nat about flying up the nose of Amelia Earhart to awaken the sleep-deprived aviatrix over the Atlantic in 1928. Burps are propellants for weightless flies. Didactic bits include warnings about childhood obesity. More heavy-handed is a cameo by retired astronaut Buzz Aldrin. “Hold the credits,” he commands. “No flies” and “no contaminants” were aboard his moon flight, he testifies with no detectable sense of humor. Director Ben Stassen and writer Domonic Paris do manage to teach kids a little about the post-Sputnik Cold War, though. With Kelly Ripa, Nicollette Sheridan, Ed Begley, Jr., Tim Curry and Robert Patrick. 89m. (Bill Stamets) 

This ADD adventure for boys sports 13-year-old Sean (Josh Hutcherson), his geologist uncle Trevor (Brendan Fraser) and their hot Icelandic guide Hannah (Anita Briem) on an action ride. It’s an overnight roundtrip to and from the underworld where Trevor’s brother disappeared ten years ago. Visual effects supervisor Eric Brevig (”Men in Black” and “Pearl Harbor”) makes his feature debut with kid-friendly digital 3-D effects: a yo-yo, a tape measure, spit and dino-drool are among the images that leap out of the screen. The depth-free screenplay by Michael Weiss and Jennifer Flackett & Mark Levin adapts Jules Verne’s 1864 fantasy about a two-month trek by a German geologist, his nephew and their Icelandic guide Hans. Verne dropped the names of scientific worthies of his era, such as Blumenbach, Cuvier and Davy. Likewise, “At the Earth’s Core”—Edgar Rice Burroughs’ 1914 tale about a ten-year adventure in a land where a reptilian master race used a “sixth-sense fourth-dimensional language”—lists such beasts as labyrinthodon, plesiosaur and ramphorhynchus. But this film’s dumbed-down notion of scientific literacy is one mention of Scientific American magazine. If you’re counting qualified firsts, this is billed as “the first live-action, narrative motion picture to be shot in digital 3D.” (Bill Stamets)

By Ray Pride

A plush cousin to “Idiocracy,” the latest humbling eyeful from Pixar, “Wall-E,” says that Americans are going to die for their consumption habits, except for a few fat fumblers shot out into space.

While less profane, “Wall-E,” directed by Andrew Stanton (”Finding Nemo”), is more pessimistic than Mike Judge’s dark mess. Its protagonist is the titular rusty robot that no one bothered to turn off 700 years earlier when the survivors of a ruined Earth leave for a luxury cruise ship, the Axiom, deep in outer space. The tableaux of a ruined Manhattan are thrilling, drawing from myriad influences: “Blade Runner” tempered with ideas from artists like Jodorowsky, Mobius and Jacques Tardi, among other hands from the Metal Hurlant era of comics. Wall-E becomes a Sisyphus building and ascending ziggurats of consumer waste that would appeal to Philip K. Dick in this post-human Metropolis, spending each day compacting and constructing step-at-a-time towers of Babel, with the watercolor look of Bruce McCall’s inventive apocrypha atop a Breughel canvas without human figures.

For the first forty minutes or so, there’s no dialogue and the eye wanders through an inventive tapestry of the remnants of a lost civilization. Stanton et al. make the most of silence (along with Ben Burtt’s terrific sound design). No brand names are given pride of placement, only the “Buy N Large” megacorp that seems to have absorbed all before the fall, including the government. Fred Willard makes a cameo as Shelby Forthright, the cheerleader CEO, using the memorable phrase, “Stay the course.”

Wall-E’s daily routine includes collecting things he likes: he’s a dogged packrat assembling a curiosity cabinet of technology and junk. He owns a single videotape (of “Hello Dolly”!), on BetaMax, which he watches through a contraption that includes an early iPod. It’s reminiscent of Los Angeles’ Museum of Jurassic Technology, as if civilization were a long-gone myth, an invented legend collated by a robot from scraps. When Wall-E’s solar panels are filled each morning, it’s signaled by the Mac start-up chime, which in one of its iterations, while rushing through the rings of Saturn, is strangely touching. (What’s he running? Mac OS MMDCCLXXV?)

Where “Cars” erred on the side of trying to make 1950s-style internal combustion engines into a thing of shiny love to dazzle the most prehensile of animation watchers, “Wall-E’”s anthropo-dwarfism goes the opposite direction, toward an eco-fable that’s more than majestic in its detailing while keeping its characters exceedingly small. (Wall-E’s sidekick is a resilient cockroach.) Stanton has said words to the effect that most of the Pixar projects to date were sketched out on a napkin over lunch more than fifteen years ago, and while the napkin has grown many terabytes larger, the idea of “the last robot” remains.

And there’s a lot of “last” to go around. After meeting a sleek female robot, EVA, that’s been dispatched to find vestiges of vegetation in the barren, windblown topsoil, further destruction ensues, including the nuking of a rank of tankers that at once is apocalypse and invokes the image of ship-cutters in India and other countries who take disused ships apart piece by piece. EVA’s intense minimalism suggests a universal remote that Apple design guru Jonathan Ive—listed in the end credits—might well have had a hand in. Cinematographer Roger Deakins (”No Country For Old Men”) was a consultant, too, and the textures of ruined Earth, including a scene between Wall-E and EVA at brick-red sunset seen from a bench on the Brooklyn Heights promenade, looking across an empty river bed to the dead lands of the island of schist and shite that Manhattan became, are haunting in their densely detailed grimness.

When EVA finds a plant that Wall-E had stowed in a Chaplin-style boot, a race to space follows. (A skyful of fallow space trash against a clean, bright star field joshes the opening of “Star Wars.”) The style shifts radically when the pair arrive on Axiom, with its thousands of blubberous passengers, grown lazy from generation upon generation of pampering in the 700 years onboard. They’re like inflatable Incredibles, ponging around on levitating air chairs. (Another keen homage: as the robots emerge into the corridors of Axiom, they’re hit with a crush of people just as the characters in Lucas’ “THX-1138″ are just outside the expanse of white infinity they believe they had been trapped in.)

Just past forty years since the debut of “2001″ and HAL, “Wall-E’”s pastiche of Kubrick’s notions of space stations and cold computers has a few tickles, including Sigourney Weaver’s voicing of the onboard brain. Jeff Garlin’s voice work as the stupefied captain of the ship amuses, too. But nothing trumps a finely detailed apocalypse. And how do you get a happy ending from the end of the world? It is possible, and when you do, you have Peter Gabriel sing atop it, backed by the Soweto Gospel Choir.