Allison Benedikt

The look and feel here is classic Hardwicke: gritty and dark, so as to fool you into thinking this film is serious business.

I've had the unique pleasure of reviewing almost all of Duff's movies, and if there's one thing to say about the girl, she's consistent: nice, sweet, blond, inoffensive and uninspiring.

Tucker has done a bang-up job, distancing and hypnotizing us with his frenzied, fragmented, sexy images. But war isn't a video game.

For awhile, the stately symphonic score, urbane setting and understated dress make Birth feel powerful--until it feels empty, lacking what Glazer so furiously exhibited in his equally stylized freshman endeavor: heart.

This is familiar clowning territory for our actors -- hypothetically well-matched here, with Carrey a far more sophisticated and energetic comic partner for Leoni than Adam Sandler was in "Spanglish."

Michael Showalter is a funny man, but … how to put this gently … not a funny movie star.

A pretty entertaining case against our current war and question the integrity of our president, but more than that, these docs manipulate imagery, music and sound bites to work their audiences into a frenzy.

Classic Bay, except it's missing the crass director's fine-tuned rhythm, his feel for adrenaline, his breakneck edits and sense of humor.

Its gorgeous black-and-white photography, dirty and matte, will almost convince you that anything this slow, small and bereft of dialogue must be important.

There's something both moving and crass in how directors Elliot Berlin and Joe Fab film these tiny paper fasteners.

Parker is pretty much a disaster here, shrill and phony and, worst of all, spineless. She reminded me of Tea Leoni in "Spanglish," her performance working against the movie, serving only as a cumbersome, opaque obstacle.

Challenging to follow, at best.

As visually stunning as it is, "DR9" is also more than two hours and contains, at best, 10 lines of dialogue, an ear-piercing Bjork score and no discernible plot.

McAvoy does his best with this subpar, heart-tugging material. At times his mix of easy charm and inner demon pulls Rory out from under the tired script, but those pesky dramatic forces keep pushing him back in for every predictable plot development.

The "comedy" part of Sex is Comedy comes intentionally from cast-crew interaction.

Walken is an odd choice for a D.C. power player, wasting his creepiness on this straight, respectable role.

Only resonates when he (Brooks) strips it all away and focuses on parent and child.

Just doesn't have the same zing.

It's hollow.

The Ice Harvest is not "Bad Santa" redux. It has comic moments - primarily from Oliver Platt, in fine drunken stupor - but Ramis' tiptoe into film noir isn't really a comedy.

Though it's hard not to play it, the expectations game is a dangerous one, especially for sequels. And Roach's original, just like his overexposed star, set us up good.

It's all neat and sweet and one-dimensional, more the moral to a story than a story.

A poor man's "When Harry Met Sally."

Not funny because it's not true.

There's really just not a lot here. I'm sure Racer's story will entertain the very wee ones -- but so do keys.

I guess there's something progressive going on when a lesbian love story gets to be just as dreadful and tacky as most straight ones.

A childish and visually repetitive movie, ham-fisted, proselytizing and overtly simplified.

This is the kind of movie that nice people call ambitious. Let's just leave it at that.