Dennis Lim

Stevenson's performance is at once clueless and fiercely committed, a volatile combination that pays off in the best scene: the mother of all PFLAG meetings.

There are worse crimes being perpetrated in Hollywood than The Real Cancún--an exploitation fantasy no more booby-besotted than a "Porky's" or "American Pie" installment, and certainly no more unreal.

Good-natured but labored, the film clings to its lone gimmick with increasing desperation.

Mariage takes his time and allows the film to drift in an almost ostentatiously casual manner.

Anyone expecting the decorous serenity of the Ang Lee film should be aware that Iron Monkey strives for no more or less than comic-strip thwack and thump.

Still most easily defined by its unavoidable parallels to any number of lesbian-overtone psychodramas.

S&H's chief pleasure is the spontaneous, sometimes quite touching rapport between the two stars.

It's a kick to see the Tim Robbins version of the man recently described by the Microsoft trial judge as "Napoleonic" installed in a disgustingly opulent Bond-villain HQ/pad, and the overwrought Boiler Room-meets-The Game scenario is not without its own schlocky pleasures.

Cumulatively, the echo-chamber syntax achieves a kind of atonal harmony, meshing with the themes of reinvention and self-presentation: The disjunction between the panels is tantamount to the gap between image and reality.

Solid middlebrow entertainment, a vast period epic with an almost DeMillean taste for excess.

There's plenty to enjoy -- in no small part thanks to Lau.

The central conceit is Allen's most amusing since "Bullets Over Broadway."

The cumulative effect is perversely deflationary: long before it's over, the film has flushed the paranoia from its system.

The Haases, whose previous films ("Angels and Insects," "The Music of Chance") evinced a remote, unfussy sensibility, are a poor fit for the melodramatic contortions that the story demands.

Perhaps awed by the congress of Method men, director Frank Oz stands back as his actors phone it in.

Essentially humorless, Me Without You manages some pleasing textures all the same.

If Birth succeeds more as a source of visual and aural enthrallment than as supernatural narrative, it's largely because the final third hovers uncomfortably between the mystical and the earthbound.

More exciting and truthful than most better-looking films dare to be.

The film is slight but sweetly inquisitive, and its participants are endlessly fascinating.

Game Over's brazen lopsidedness may diminish its credibility, but it taps into the essence of all conspiracy theories-the desperate desire to believe.

This is pure essence of Bay--it's big, it's loud, it has no context, and if you show up tanked, I'm sure it's really quite poetic.

The mode is hysteric-Hitchcockian, the result mostly devoid of suspense.

A flabby farce in which everyone seems to be making it up as they go along.

Seinfeld's cool professionalism is almost cruelly juxtaposed with the tortured narcissism of heel-nipping tyro Orny Adams, who illustrates the mirror-image view from below. Comedy is pain, whether you're top- or underdog.

Smitten by the symmetry of his parable, director Roger Michell crosscuts emphatically between the preening leads -- a strategy that only draws attention to the numerous lapses in logic and unpersuasive changes of heart while sidelining the lively supporting cast

Boldly engineering a collision between tawdry B-movie flamboyance and grandiose spiritual anomie, Rose's film, true to its source material, provides a tenacious demonstration of death as the great equalizer.

Despite the agreeable lead performances, it's one of Loach's more forgettable films.

The scenario is stale but the actors are faultless.