Your ultimate guide to Bangkok

First, a bit of prophecy spoken by an evil mastermind in 2004’s The Incredibles: “And when everyone’s super…no one will be.” Welcome to that endgame achieved: Marvel’s Avengers: Infinity War—an overstuffed sausage of summer entertainment—is the Ocean’s Thirteen of spandexed heroism, if you can imagine a version of that movie with two times as many Brad Pitts and no poker dealers. Combining the casts of The Avengers, Black Panther, Doctor Strange and Guardians of the Galaxy may have sounded like genius alchemy to studio scientists who think of filmgoing as one-stop shopping. But in practice, it results in a stream of in-fighting for alpha-dog dominance, everyone trying to make what amounts to a cameo stick. “There’s an ant man and a spider man?” asks Mark Ruffalo’s exasperated Bruce Banner—and that’s before you’ve made him Hulk-angry. Aptly titled, the nearly three-hour Infinity War pours on the action—some of it grandly operatic, some of it breezy and fun—but mainly, it’s about a big purple goon on a bling quest. Genocidal Thanos (Josh Brolin, ready to grumble) hopes to collect six Infinity Stones for his Pandora bracelet and thereby enact a purge of “half of humanity.” Helpfully, the script does this for him: Depopulated New York City streets and the near-abstract grasslands of fictional Wakanda are perfect settings for battles with zero collateral damage—and zero human emotional stakes. In their place, we get showdowns over tactics: Asgardian bro (Chris Hemsworth) versus S

Alfred Hitchcock used to say that if his movie was working, you could follow it with the sound off. By that same measure, he would have approved of this taciturn Chilean character piece: a quietly devastating story of prejudice that often seems powered solely via the infinitesimal nuances of its lead actor, startling newcomer (and the country’s first transgender film star) Daniela Vega. You barely need to read the subtitles to know what’s happening—it’s written all over her face. Vega plays Marina, a trans lounge singer involved with a much older man, printing-company proprietor Orlando (Francisco Reyes). Their rapport suggests a long-term relationship full of easy certainties and shared realities. But when she sings “Your love is like yesterday’s newspaper,” it’s weirdly prophetic. Before the day is out, he’s lying in the morgue, felled by chest pains and a tumble down the stairs. She’s unaware she’ll soon be stripped of her stake in their life together, right down to their beloved dog, by his grasping, disapproving family. Before that, the film toys with the cues of a traditional thriller: A female detective quizzes Marina about Orlando’s death, suspicions raised by the singer’s flight from the hospital. Will they pin Orlando’s death on her? And what’s in that mysterious locker? As Marina endures endless attempts to invalidate her identity—one cop insistently addresses her as “he” and Orlando’s odious son spits “I don’t know what you are”—she wears a mask of calm that slo

The ’80s arcade classic Rampage allowed players to inhabit the avatars of rabid mutant animals as they punched helicopters, ate people and demolished cities. That premise is a bit obvious for a major studio feature, but star Dwayne Johnson and director Brad Peyton, improving on their 2015 lemon San Andreas, have taken the title and basic thrust of the video game (smash things!) and delivered a colorful, cornball disaster spectacle. Rampage isn’t cause for wild celebration, but with its bright, coherent FX—rare in this genre—and one deliriously fun supporting performance, it’s better than it has any business being. The movie opens with a knockout action sequence, set aboard a space station that’s been overtaken by a gargantuan lab rat. (For fans of the video game, this rodent is the first of several Easter eggs.) The pathogen that’s loose in the space station, which turns animals into supersized killing machines, makes its way back to Earth and is ingested by a crocodile, a wolf and an albino gorilla named George. This simian star provides an emotional element, via friendship and sign language with primatologist Davis (Dwayne Johnson, doing his thing), and sets the story in motion when he destroys a wildlife sanctuary on his way to a rendezvous with his fellow mutants in Chicago. Johnson joins with Naomie Harris, radiating smarts as a genetic engineer, to quell George and minimize the damage. Good luck with that: The annihilation of the Windy City is a thrill to watch—cartoo

Proving once again—especially after last year’s Girls Trip and The Big Sick—that comedies are the undiscovered country for expert (if not Oscar-nominated) acting, Blockers gives the willowy, trembling Leslie Mann two bookends that are, without a doubt, her finest onscreen moments. In the first, she’s offering tame suggestions to her prom-bound, sex-minded daughter (“Mom, are you going to be okay?” the kid asks, legit concerned). In the next, the tears rain down Mann’s face like a shower with robust water pressure—is it even audible?—as she’s saying upbeat goodbyes to a child with college on the horizon. In between those two scenes comes a wonderfully crude film (we're talking Superbad levels of raunchiness), but one in which the overall vibe is sweet: kids patiently waiting for their parents to grow up already. On the occasion of their daughters' big high-school dance, three fussy helicopter parents (Mann, Ike Barinholtz and a revelatory John Cena, a hulking, teary-eyed mess) become aware of their girls' plan to devirginize. Furious at this "sex pact"—it even has its own hashtag, #SEXPACT2018—the olds decide to mount a counteraction; the movie's title once had another word before Blockers, a synonym for rooster, before advertising standards kicked in. Snappily directed by debuting director Kay Cannon (a screenwriter on the Pitch Perfect trilogy and, more substantially, TV’s 30 Rock), Blockers brews a bubbling panic among the parents, invading where they shouldn’t and brandi