Charles Taylor

If Enduring Love doesn't make sense as a thriller, it's equally nonsensical as the parable it wants to be.

What Picture Perfect sells as romance is a junior high school health class morality lecture we all got years ago. And it was a crock then, too.

Lost the friskiness and wildness and charm the movie might have had.

Just a bad movie, with more bits of good acting and flashes of director's invention than you get in most bad movies.

Isn't particularly offensive, except in its total mediocrity.

Elephant is not as bad as the National Rifle Association's decision to hold a pro-gun rally near Columbine High School shortly after the killings. Unlike the NRA, Van Sant doesn't have blood on his hands. But he shares something of its callousness.

The Loss of Sexual Innocence is a failure to be sure, but if it's not exactly a brave one, it's one whose foolhardiness deserves at least half a salute.

There's an entertainingly ludicrous movie lurking somewhere inside of the ludicrous, mediocre one this actually is.

Lacks any layers beyond its own amiable inconsequentiality. It needs the spark of the distinctively American slapstick craziness that has distinguished Frye's previous work.

James Cameron disgraces those who died on the Titanic -- again.

The Devil's Own isn't the disaster its bad advance publicity might lead you to expect. But it's a disjointed, sluggish picture.

The problem is that the charm and good spirits of Amélie feel calculated rather than natural.

When has Woody Allen ever been interested in anything besides Woody Allen? He has no interest in bringing out new sides of his actors. Jim Henson's casts had more spontaneity.

What's missing -- apart, of course, from a plot -- is any character development.

What's offensive in Bringing Down the House is the way the jokes have been calculated not to offend.

The bitterness of her new comedy, Loser, comes as a shock. It's not a mean-spirited movie.

High Crimes does offer good, often sharp and funny work from its two stars. But you can't fake excitement, and it's a lousy feeling to know that the best commercial movie I can point you to right now is this shallow, self-erasing nonsense.

Gordon's film is an art-house curio, visually ugly and emotionally and narratively dissonant. Its cheapness and poverty of imagination consistently undermines its ambitions and reduces its complexity to by-the-numbers Freudianism.

Such an inept bundle of work -- crying out for the filmmaking equivalent of Ritalin, but still sluggish as syrup -- that it doesn't even provide an opportunity to ogle properly.

The pacing is off, the emotional tone is wobbly, and none of the actors seem to be acting in the same style or the same movie.

The picture starts off slick and amusing, gets convoluted, draggy and strange round about the midway point, and ends up just plain ludicrous.

It's mostly terrible. The movie has no sparkle, no charm, nothing to sweep us off our feet.

A dreary, ludicrous thriller.

The film is a plodding, earnest adaptation that strips the source of its richness and ambiguity.

One of those movies that you continue to pull for even after it becomes clear that it isn't very good.

This alleged thriller, which might be described as "'Gaslight' Goes to College," is one of the most incoherent features in recent memory.

It's a flat, clumsy piece of filmmaking. When Phillippe and Ward are in bed, the shots are so badly matched that I believed they were having sex, just not with each other.

Stay away from this cautionary tale about the gay porn industry -- it blows.