THE 15:17 TO PARIS

for his role in the attack. These are self-serving accounts, of course, but not without their moments of truth. And as they converge and diverge, we get a more sympathetic picture of Harding than many of us would have thought possible. In fact, “I, Tonya” casts Harding, played by a terrific Margot Robbie, as something approaching a working-class heroine, a kid from a hardscrabble family whose talent and determination elevated her to the most rarefied strata of professional athletics. The problem was, Harding didn’t have the “class” to compete there. In her too-blue eye shadow and pulledback hair, Harding never seemed to belong on the same ice as American sweethearts like Kerrigan. As one judge tells her in a moment of confidence, “It’s not all about the skating, Tonya.” “I, Tonya” manages to get us almost completely on Harding’s side. For starters, there’s her bitter and joyless mother, LaVona (played by an unbelievably good Allison Janney), a tough-love type who forgot the love part. Harding’s husband, Gillooly (Sebastian Stan), was an abusive wimp who walloped her around the house and then melted into tears. And everyone will regret ever meeting Gillooly’s inept, delusional friend Shawn Eckhardt (an excellent Paul Walter Hauser). — Rafer Guzmán, Newsday PG-13, 94 minutes. Lisbon, Stonington, Westbrook. In the summer of 2015, three young American men from Sacramento, Calif., boarded a train in Amsterdam, en route to Paris, while enjoying a time-honored rite of passage: a European backpacking trip. In Brussels, another young man boarded the train, with a backpack full of guns and 300 rounds of ammunition. After tussling with American teacher Mark Moogalian and shooting him in the neck, he found himself in a car with a trio of young Americans filled up with youthful bravado, military training and a desire to not die lying down. What other heady combination could inspire a person to tackle a shirtless man cocking an AK-47 in a confined space? When these events happen, especially when the heroes are as appealingly young and attractive as these are, there is the typical fanfare — the awards and decorations, the ticker tape parades, the talk show appearances and even “Dancing With The Stars,” for Alek Skarlatos (he came in third). Perhaps a book, and maybe even a movie made about you, such as “The 15:17 to Paris,” directed by Clint Eastwood, adapted for the screen by Dorothy Blyskal. Eastwood decided to take a leap and go further in his biographical depiction, casting the major players as themselves in this blend of documentary and narrative filmmaking. It’s a risk that doesn’t quite pay off. While the three friends do have their charms on “Ellen” or a late night talk show, their performances in the feature film are essentially an argument for hiring professional actors. However, the amateur performances aren’t the biggest problem with “The 15:17 to Paris.” After a while, the awkward line readings fade away, and their natural charisma shines. But for an incident that took about a minute or two, expanding the story to feature length is a stretch, and Blyskal’s script doesn’t know where to focus, and features eye-roll inducing, plainly on-the-nose dialogue. — Katie Walsh, Tribune Content Agency

JUMANJI: WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

PG-13, 118 minutes. Stonington, Westbrook, Lisbon. Twenty-two years later — and many leaps forward in video game and movie technology — comes a sequel to “Jumanji.” “Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle,” a souped-up follow-up to the 1995 film starring Robin Williams, also shares as its source the surreal 1981 picture book by writer and illustrator Chris Van Allsburg, about siblings who open a board game that brings jungle animals careering through their house. The new film, directed by Jake Kasdan, is a genuine hoot and doesn’t take itself too seriously. It is smarter and more humorous than the first movie,