Bill Gallo

Ryan never quite convinces us she's seen the inside of a fight gym, much less that she's worthy to be Rocky in a miniskirt. On the other hand, her director here was not Campion but actor Charles S. Dutton, whose behind-the-camera skills, developed via cable TV, tend toward the cartoonish.

Anyone who expects a little drama with their screen sex will have to go elsewhere.

Moviegoers might have preferred a little more care with the characters. As it is, Alma comes off not as a courageous trailblazer but as an indiscriminate adventuress.

There's little evidence to suggest Schneebaum was one of the great explorers of the 20th century, or even that he was particularly curious.

Runs two hours and 20 minutes and plays like 10 days in the county jail.

Means to be heavy in terms of psychology, provocation and the examination of emotion, but it sinks like a stone the minute it hits the surface.

Every situation, every bit of dialogue, comes straight out of the Big Book of Movie Clichés.

With malice for all, Drop Dead Gorgeous isn't likely to win any popularity contests.

Here is the horror-action genre at its silliest and most uninspired.

Get out your hankies and weep for the heart-tugging disaster Message in a Bottle.

Merely labeling National Lampoon's Van Wilder "sophomoric" or "vulgar" doesn't do justice to the perpetrators' dedication.

The pseudo-mystical nonsense in Brian Helgeland's supernatural thriller far outweighs its scare factor.

Say what you want about Hollywood losing its way in recent years, there's something beautiful about moviemakers who paint themselves into corners this tight.

This highly sanitized, heavily costumed, dramatically inert nonsense makes last year's dreadful golf biopic "Bobby Jones: Stroke of Genius" look like a masterpiece.

Witless, terminally irritating remake.

The moviemakers have eliminated the finer points of the novel in favor of broad strokes. Very broad strokes.

As witch movies go -- even lighthearted, supposedly comic witch movies -- Practical Magic is conspicuously lacking in supernatural phenomena.

In the little war between charm and belligerence that is the real centerpiece of Lost and Found, romantic comedy takes a beating.

The witless inanity of After the Sunset is so numbing that the sole reason for any living creature to sit through it--man, woman or household pet--is to marvel at the speed and variety of actress Salma Hayek's costume changes.

Most obvious crime is first-degree dullness, giving us a thriller without thrills and a mystery devoid of urgent questions.

Connie and Carla doesn't just do violence to the memory of Wilder's brilliant sex farce (Some Like It Hot); it's so clumsy, it might give cross-dressing itself a bad name.

It's a paint-by-numbers job of the worst sort, stuffed with more tired old baseball baloney than Harry Caray and about as dramatic as shagging flies in St. Pete.

Consistently fails to deliver the charm it presumes to have.

Loquacious and dreary piece of business.

Marsh's flat-footed recitation of Believe It or Not crimes grows tedious, and his condescension to present-day citizens of the town (implying they're as grotesque and doomed as ever) rings false.

D is for Dreadful. And Duchovny.

Billed as a comedy, this low-wattage sitcom is both ill-tempered and mean-spirited.