Amy Taubin

Derails toward the end, becoming platitudinous, not to mention kitschy, but, given the Cheerios wholesomeness of most gay indies, its grief-stricken delirium is a welcome relief.

A veritable Chekhov tragicomedy of provincial life.

Arik Kaplun's smart, scrappy romantic comedy Yana's Friends displays an insouciance rarely found in Israeli film.

Dorothy and Petula leave a bloodier trail than Thelma and Louise did.

What’s remarkable—and Kafkaesque—about La Sentinelle is how Desplechin grounds the phantasmagoric aspects of his tale in the details, routines, and conflicts of daily life.

Along with Raoul Coutard's radiant cinematography, what makes the film extraordinary is Karina, the pure curves of her face a contradiction to the marionette angularity of her body.

A gorefest of epic proportions.

Even more than the subtlety of the writing and acting, it's this sophisticated and emotionally potent visual strategy that suggests Barbieri's promise as a filmmaker and lifts One above the low-budget indie heap.

Owen and Mirren are fun to watch, but the film, despite the many shots of gardens in full bloom, lacks visual distinction.

This is one scary movie, not because we see ghosts or monsters, but because Kidman makes us feel her fear as our own.

There are long stretches in Sexy Beast that are so exhilarating it feels churlish to dwell on its flaws.

Downey, who radiates more energy doing nothing discernible than most other actors do when they let it all hang out, takes the film to another level.

By turns hilarious and wounding.

If Lloyd's performance is the film's near-fatal flaw, Unger's is its saving grace.

The queasiness it makes you feel is more like acid reflux than existential nausea.

Psychologically resonant despite the intermittently clunky performances...one of the only Amerindies in recent years to match intellectual with formal ambitions.

Lacks development and dramatic coherence.

The most revelatory moment is provided not by the spectacle of the Roes clinging to each other on a bungee cord, but by Julian Lennon, who pops up on the beach in Monaco to give a terse evaluation of his father.

Refreshingly direct and even courageous in its confrontation of female pleasure -- specifically orgasms and masturbation, the staple of teen-boy comedies, but hitherto off-limits for girls.

Forster not only makes this unlikely story emotionally believable, he moves you to tears. Lakeboat isn't much of a film, but for Forster fans, it's indispensable.

The relationship is touching, painful, revealing, and often funny, which is true of the film as a whole as well.

The style of the filmmaking, the freewheeling handheld camera movement, the associative editing, and the buoyant Brazilian score convey Anderson's sense that chance plays a major role in our lives and that what's happening on the periphery is often more important than what's staring us in the face.

The 7Up series is thus one of the rare documentaries to have had a positive practical effect on the life of at least one of its subjects.

An intelligent, perceptive film. It's good enough to make you wish Chen hadn't sacrificed emotional complexity for a last-minute surprise.

The three-act structure is too predictable, and at 90 minutes, feels both draggy and hacked to the bone.

A smart, realist drama -- I wouldn't be surprised if this one winds up on my 10-best list for '99.

Properly picturesque but lacks subtlety and substance in blending Chinese and Western history, ideas, and cinematic conventions.

So extremely stupid and incompetent, I doubt that even the most impartial critic could find much to praise.