JESUS CAMP
PG-13, 86 minutes

From the first ominous industrial drones on the soundtrack, it’s apparent what the makers of “Jesus Camp” think of their subjects. Then again, it’s probably a given that the kind of people who make digital video documentaries are not the sort who’d cotton to evangelical, home-schooling Christians who send their kids to the ominously named “Kids on Fire” Christian camp. Once there, the kids learn that not only is Harry Potter a warlock, but that warlocks are the enemy of Christ.

That said, directors Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady (whose last documentary was the heart-breaking “Boys from Baraka”) stay out of the picture as much as possible; there are no cheap cutaways and no voiceovers to tell us what to think. There’s a distressing tendency to rely on Air America radio host Mike Papantonio for commentary, but despite Air America’s tendency to invalidate whatever it touches, this documentary is powerful enough to take the hit.

Following the work of the children’s preacher, Becky Fischer, “Jesus Camp” coolly observes the lives of the combustible kids who attend her camp. Expect discomfort as 10-year-old Tory talks about her unfortunate tendency to dance “from the flesh” rather than from the spirit, and expect to be disturbed as you see children lambasted by adults for being sinners and hypocrites until they burst into tears, fall on the floor, and speak in tongues.

Guaranteed to terrify liberals, “Jesus Camp” shows where the Religious Right is coming from. They don’t want religion to co-opt political issues; to them, politics is a religious issue. Thank God these Evangelists come across as humorless nerds; otherwise all their talk of indoctrinating their children into an army to return America to Christ would be truly scary.

— Grady Hendrix

GRIDIRON GANG
PG-13, 120 minutes

A movie like “Gridiron Gang” would normally reduce me to tears, especially since I cried during the trailer. I’m a sucker for “dead-end kids from the ghetto prove they’re somebody by playing high school sports under the stern guidance of a father figure” movies, and that’s exactly what this is. It’s a good-looking flick, with every deadend ghetto street and pile of smoldering garbage beautifully photographed. Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson brings a confident physicality to his role as Sean Porter, a probation officer who creates a football team inside a juvenile detention facility. But then the movie opens its mouth and everything goes down the drain: every line of dialogue is a speech, every conversation is one to grow on, every plot twist is inspirational.

“According to the teaching staff, these kids have trouble being punctual, problems responding to authority, and they’re unable to accept criticism. What’s the one activity that can address all this?” The Rock growls.

“Uh, football?” his superintendent responds, and The Rock is off to show his charges that violence isn’t the answer by teaching them one of the most violent sports on earth. In one of many miscalculations, clips from the documentary that inspired the movie play under the closing credits, and you realize that not only are the more ludicrous lines of dialogue taken from real life, but that the actors look more like criminals than the real-life juvenile delinquents they’re portraying. With a nagging score that’s constantly tugging at your sleeve, this flick refuses to end even after the big game has been won. A helpless feeling descends on the viewer — why haven’t the credits rolled? And then you realize: It ain’t over until The Rock cries.

— G.H.

KEEPING MUM
R, 90 minutes

In the provincially paced “Keeping Mum,” the grand tradition of British black comedy decays into the feel-good formula of a Disney family caper (plus some nudity). British legend Maggie Smith stars as that indispensable figure of children’s fiction, the overachieving housekeeper/nanny/governess. This one also kills people, but director Niall Johnson lets a lame marital-resuscitation story dilute Ms. Smith’s dryly understated take on the joke.

Rowan Atkinson and Kristin Scott Thomas are the unlikely couple, a humorless vicar and his fluttery, philandering wife. By bludgeoning a yappy dog to death and whacking a few villagers, Grace (Ms. Smith) shows how small, decisive changes can make life sweet once again. She puts tea-time pressure on the lady of the house to stop bonking her golf instructor (Patrick Swayze), a horny American oaf of the sort that plays well in Portsmouth, I guess. And she encourages the vicar to try more funny-ha-ha at the pulpit (he dutifully downloads Jesus jokes off the Web).

With Mr. Atkinson (known to most Americans as Mr. Bean and Black Adder) as straight man and Ms. Thomas busy feigning lust for the leathery Mr. Swayze, Ms. Smith’s delivery provides the only fizz. The absurdly overqualified actress lobs her lines with the precision of a lazy cat batting a mouse just lightly enough to keep it alive. Like Schwarzenegger’s Terminator, she’s told she can’t go around killing people even out of altruism, and the dementedly considered tone of her reply is the movie’s highlight.

But soon enough Mr. Atkinson, his mojo rediscovered through the Song of Solomon, is clutching at Ms. Thomas, and the sodden reality of the movie sets in. At least there is slightly more of Ms. Smith to savor here than at the semi-annual costume party for British actors also known as the Harry Potter series.

— Nicolas Rapold

CONFETTI
R, 94 minutes

What’s funny (or horrifying) about weddings is how sane individuals turn into bridezillas and whatever is the equivalent for men (frankengrooms?). The British mockumentary “Confetti,” finding that delicate metamorphosis wanting, pits three couples in a wacky magazine contest for most unique wedding. The desperately overdone premise flummoxes even the cast of British sitcom stars and feels like boardroom high concept: weddings plus realityshows plus 20-something talent equals comedy gold!

It doesn’t, and the level of comic ambition is marked by the themes of the three weddings: Busby Berkeley musical, tennis (tennis?), and, incredibly, nudist. Assisted by gay planners with predictably outsized tastes, the couples quibble and sulk their way through the preparations and rehearsals. Gags include meddlesome inlaws and one bride’s capacious nostrils.

All the performances are supposedly improvised, but typically disappointing is the musicals couple. Martin Freeman, the cute average Joe in the original version of “The Office,” is promisingly paired with Jessica Stevenson, whose cheery decency and touch of oblivion lit up the cult sitcom “Spaced.” Here they’re so half-hearted that the requisite mockumentary embarrassment might be a little too true to life.

They at least get to keep their pants on. Naturists Robert Webb and Olivia Colman (both alums of the innovative first-person comedy “Peep Show”) show enough fullfrontal nudity to last a career. Perhaps liberated, Mr. Webb proves the nimblest and funniest of the cast. His impossibly well-adjusted character refuses to compromise with the magazine editors, who, like his fiancé, admire the idea of nudism more than the practice.

The third couple (played, somewhat creepily, by Stephen Mangan and Isabelle Fontaine) bloom only in the absurd experimental theater that is their wedding ceremony, which renders the vows an amusing chair-umpired pantomime. But “Confetti” ironically turns out to be a good argument for more and better planning — before filming, that is.

— N.R.

EVERYONE’S HERO
G, 88 minutes

‘Everyone’s Hero” is a throwback to a time when boys spent their afternoons playing baseball in sandlots and aspiring to be Babe Ruth.

The cartoon is set in 1940s New York, where little Yankee Irving (Jake T. Austin) eats, sleeps, and breaths baseball. His father (Mandy Patinkin) works at Yankee stadium and Yankee knows all the ins and outs of the game. Unfortunately, he’s not very good with a ball or bat.

After a particularly embarrassing pick-up performance, Yankee tries to denounce the game, but ends up finding a talking baseball (Rob Reiner) under a dilapidated truck in the sandlot. Later on, he goes to visit his father during his shift at the stadium, and a glimpse of Ruth’s famous bat Darlin’ (Whoopi Goldberg) also helps to renew his faith in the game.

But when the bat vanishes from the locker room one evening and Yankee’s dad is fired for letting it happen on his shift, the youngster takes matter into his own hands. Many “Home Alone”-type escapades ensue, and Yankee proves that for a little kid he has a lot of resources. He’s a cute, sweet protagonist, but neither his talking baseball nor the primadonna bat is endearing enough to carry the film’s magical realism.

It is refreshing, though, to see a children’s film both aimed toward its intended audience and attempting to revitalize the dwindling traditions of baseball’s heyday. Young children may take to the protagonist and his struggle to be taken seriously. And who knows, maybe they’ll even go outside and play baseball.

— Meghan Keane

AURORA BOREALIS
R, 110 minutes

Duncan (Joshua Jackson) is an underachiever who lost his father at a young age and never got around to growing up. He dropped out of high school, has never left Minneapolis, and has trouble holding down a job. Mr. Jackson combines the best traits of his characters from “Dawson’s Creek” and “The Mighty Ducks” to make Duncan a modern slacker with a heart of gold. The character is not much of a stretch for him, but he handles it well.

When Duncan visits his grandparents and realizes how quickly the health of his grandfather (Donald Sutherland) is deteriorating, he gets a job doing maintenance in their building, where he meets health provider Kate (Juliette Lewis).

Although Mr. Jackson has a natural ease on camera and Mr. Sutherland seems to truly enjoy the quirks of his ailing character, the film has trouble hitting its stride.

Director James C.E. Burke is so focused on the turmoil of Duncan and his grandfather that he mostly ignores the rest of the cast. Ms. Lewis’s character is supposed to be a sexy and positive force for Duncan, but her Kate has a skittishness that is more perplexing than endearing.

Most of the additional cast members are used as foils to show Duncan’s past immaturity, but they are often irrationally mean. His brother, who uses Duncan’s apartment to bed his mistresses, has seemingly no redeeming qualities, his sister-in-law seems to think Duncan is a maid, and Duncan’s friends are less interested in his welfare than in humiliating him.

At times, “Aurora Borealis” comes close to becoming a moving family portrait, but the film is so intent on hitting that mark that it lets it slide right by.

— M.K.