Charles Taylor

Airy and enchanting, this romantic comedy works overtime to sprinkle moonlight and stardust over itself.

This Saint is a glum piece of post-Cold War paranoia, and director Phillip Noyce approaches it with the same plodding earnestness he brought to his Tom Clancy adaptations ("Patriot Games," "A Clear and Present Danger").

Lean, fast and undeniably entertaining.

You need a pair of huge, hairy ones to make a picture this bad and call it Flawless.

Conspiracy Theory doesn't know whether it wants to be a comedy, a political thriller, a romance or a satire.

Todd Solondz's newest debacle drips with contempt for his audience, his characters and his critics.

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.

Hoary epic of British Empire valor and cowardice, remade for seventh time, remains rot, old boy.

A pretty good example of how the studios have taken over the junk that used to be left to the exploitation hacks. The hacks here have millions to work with and the end result isn't nearly as much fun as a cheap, gross horror movie can be.

Put Bruce Willis and this bewildering World War II movie in front of the firing line.

The good-natured silliness of it all kept me laughing.

What keeps the movie going, besides Softley's intelligent direction and Mathieson's inventive cinematography, is the actors' duet between Spacey and Bridges.

This adolescent comic-noir trounces Shakespeare's "Macbeth," but Maura Tierney sizzles as a vengeful Lady Frycook.

Lush, even juicy entertainment.

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.

Chan is still one of the most amazing -- and one of the most charming -- physical performers the movies have given us.

I walked out of Scary Movie feeling as if I'd been whacked around with a two-by-four for an hour and a half.

Wants to be a dizzy, precarious thrill ride. Glenn provides the only gravity that doesn't seem dull, literal and earthbound.

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.

Everything the first "Mummy" was fun for not being. It's loud and chaotic, jammed with effects that don't wow us precisely because they are trying so hard to wow us.

Delightful screwball comedy.

It could be funnier, sharper, more probing, but at its best it is sexy, and that's always something to celebrate.

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

Legally Blonde was content to tickle you. The new one is something akin to a band that has a surprisingly successful debut deciding to rerecord all their originals and release a "Greatest Hits" collection for their second CD. It's both familiar and off.

Mirkin hits just the right note between naughty and raunchy.

Spacey mucks up an otherwise pretty and pleasantly vague take on E. Annie Proulx's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel.

The movie feels choppy and rhythmless. And he's (Chelsom) rather hopeless at dance sequences.

Blade in no way resembles a good movie, but its combination of music-video bombast, goth-rock sensibility, high-tech industrial production design, cold-blooded glossy magazine visuals, high-fashion club culture, horror movies, blaxploitation movies, Hong Kong movies and comic-book nihilism make it diverting trash.