Charles Taylor

Lush, even juicy entertainment.

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

A little more flair and polish could have made Girlfight a terrific movie instead of just the decent one it is.

Assayas' triumph here is in making sense of confusion and emotional drift -- bringing his characters gently forward into life, and making the film feel full and rounded while still resisting easy resolution.

A slack, tepid picture stuck in a no man's land between satire and drama.

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.

Happy Together feels joylessly fussed over.

Klapisch wants his characters shiny bright, and winds up making them excruciatingly dull in the process. Watching L'Auberge Espagnole is like seeing the young Maoist revolutionaries of Jean-Luc Godard's 1967 "La Chinoise" body-snatched by the international touring company of "Up With People."

It's an impressive, intelligent, compact piece of filmmaking...But Téchiné might be one of those directors whose work is best appreciated by critics and other filmmakers.

LaBute is some kind of find: an auteur for people who don't like movies.

The type of comedy the Farrellys love requires dizzy, pell-mell pacing. If There's Something About Mary were tightened up by about 20 minutes, it would be much funnier.

Kubrick's much-anticipated final film boils down to the most elaborate monogamy lecture ever.

A delight from top to bottom, packed with romance, adventure, beautifully executed swordplay and a sumptuous period look.

From moment to moment, O Brother, Where Art Thou? is a pleasure. But when the Coens are really cooking, when the acting and the conception and the music all come together, it's something more -- Dogpatch rapture.

Jane Horrocks saves the annoyingly noisy Little Voice.

Live Flesh isn't terrible. It's accomplished and watchable.

It isn't an entirely successful or satisfying film, but it's far from dismissible.

Millions of people read Harr's gripping bestseller, but Steven Zaillian may be the only one who didn't understand it.

Watching it is a little like stumbling upon a frayed valentine you put away years ago and then laughing with pleasure at how much it still means to you.

Entertaining, handsome and gripping, The Bourne Identity is something of an anomaly among big-budget summer blockbusters: a thriller with some brains and feeling behind it, more attuned to story and character than to spectacle.

This long shot pays off -- in spades. Not only has Jordan made a movie that's looser, hipper, freer and -- abetted by his great cinematographer, Chris Menges -- more sheerly beautiful to look at, he's also made the best movie of his career.

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

It's nearly impossible to tell whether Williams thought he was making a family tragedy or a sex farce.

Follows a consistently predictable arc. In some sequences, you can tell not just what's going to happen next, but what shot is coming next. And the movie's weird mixture of moralism and affectlessness cancel each other out.

Stettner must be one of the luckiest and unluckiest debut directors in years, blessed with actors who both take the focus away from his limitations and wind up shining a spotlight on them.

It doesn't take Rea long to decide that he's more interested in extending his record for Longest Acting Career Sustained on One Expression, and he's back to his baggy-eyed, hangdog look.

The real surprise of Private Parts is that it isn't very funny. It's a flat piece of work with long, slack stretches.

It's a consistently exciting piece of moviemaking, but it's not a pleasant experience; it's one of the few recent movies that have the power to leave you genuinely shaken up.