Desson Thomson

The movie’s disappointingly straightforward, with no discernible flair.

But forget the vet-cum-love interest and the fish. It's the canine (not to be confused with "K-9") stuff that really matters.

I laughed. And I laughed primarily over Heder's hilarious performance. You ain't seen nothing till you've seen Napoleon attack that tether ball.

The story that emerges has elements of romance, tragedy and even silent-movie comedy.

An absorbing, intelligent and suspense-filled film... It's streamlined and rich at the same time -- like the best of the James Bond films, but serious.

Vaughn can motormouth like a machine gun, spraying men, women and children with manic, rat-a-tat outbursts of toxic insincerity. It's often dirty, yes. But it's also manic and inspired.

The movie is bracing, bleak and funny, assuming you can appreciate the comedy in a story full of lowlifes, lushes and losers.

I can only bestow this adaptation of Joanne Harris's bestselling novel with such faint praise as "pleasant" and "mildly disarming."

A mature human farce that values characters' foibles over their firearms.

This movie may appeal to the youthful, midnight-madness crowd, but there isn't enough in it to bestow it with classic B-movie glory.

For all its visual delights, however, Coraline remains more an engaging spectacle than a connective drama. That is chiefly because of the writing. Director-writer Henry Selick doesn't reach for the kind of universality that would enrich the movie.

Until its final stumble, this intelligence thriller, starring Val Kilmer, is charged with brilliance.

A psychic journey deep into the very fabric of Iranian (and by extension, all) life.

A warm, unexpectedly moving portrait of a man on the verge of what could either be a dreadful or delightful second chapter.

The scenes unfold with such unhurried delicacy, and the characters are so intriguing, you can ignore the editorial bluntness and savor the smaller, sweeter details.

Does a masterful job of building menace until about halfway through.

Martin Lawrence is all there is to National Security. And that's about two or three points out of a possible 10

The film's not only funny and weird, it's oddly poignant. I miss Hedwig already.

It's the usual undisciplined, overextended Spike symphony: more fun than it is any good.

The movie's not heavyhanded about this coming of moral age; the revelations unfurl in subtle ways. What Bernal and this well-wrought movie convey so well is the charisma that would soon become a part of human history.

So elegantly layered and emotionally restrained, it makes the horror at its center all the more disturbing.

The scenario (written by Carl Binder, Susannah Grant and Philip Lazebnik) is disappointingly wan and obsequious.

A triumphant return to the icky, otherworldly eerieness that graced such earlier Cronenberg works as "Scanners," "Videodrome" and "Dead Ringers."

Tries -- and fails -- to evoke that whoa-did-this-really-happen edge.

Although the movie has a few interesting twists and turns, its mind-versus-mind conceit devolves into a mundane warden-versus-inmate conclusion.

Add Big Town's collection of spotty characters (with motives murkier than the cinematography), cliche'-laden dialogue (from We gotta get out of here to I can change, I can change), abruptly ended scenes, no exposition when you need it, poor sense of drama (a deep breath), and you have something that should be pitched out into the alley behind the dingiest bar in town.

The commercial transition has been remarkably successful. This is primarily thanks to Rodriguez, who not only retains the original movie's kinetic flair, but takes it further.

There's a certain midnight-movie attraction to Lowenstein's unencumbered madness in "Dogs." Until it all gets encumbered, that is. He tacks on an ending almost worthy of Nancy Reagan -- if she'd stayed this long with the movie. Suddenly there's a Just Say No consequence to this Kind of Lifestyle. It changes the whole cast of the film (suddenly we've been watching a message picture), and it doesn't conclude the movie so much as rip the plug out. [22 Jan 1998, p.N23]

Good but it SEEMS even better because of its evocative setting.

It's as pretentious and wispy as its title.

This is a compelling cautionary tale hot-wired to your gag reflex.

Between them, Clooney and Kidman would still need a third party to work up a personality. In fairness to both, they aren't given much to work with.

Above all, the movie's funny and wicked fun.

Unless you're a junkie for mediocre rejoinders and insults ("I know loan sharks that are more forgiving than you," Leary tells Johns), this is one holiday party you'll want to miss.

The humor, which made the first movie appealing to more than just TV kids, is far less adroit.

The reason for the film's success is simple. Screenwriter Richard LaGravenese and director Eastwood skirt most of novelist Robert James Waller's excesses.

Of all ironies, "Strangers" occasionally takes a step in the direction of the after-school specials it's trying to twit; you'll catch it trying to make you feel warm and fuzzy about Jerri.

Exults in the hard-riding romanticism of classic Westerns, but it takes revisionist stock too. It dismounts at places usually left in the dust -- the oppressed lot of women, the loneliness of untended children, adult illiteracy and the horrible last moments of the dying.

Aside from the obviously Australian flavor to everything -- which can be entertaining at times -- there's no X factor to justify the whole exercise.

Despite its intelligent agenda, swollen heart and fabulously epic surface, amounts to a didactic banality: a white guy's politically correct lesson abroad.

You're left, as with certain vivid dreams, filled with memorable images but not completely able to account for what you just experienced.

The movie gradually peters out.

A charming, spirited movie for cinephiles, or those who aspire to be. It's the kind of movie every kid in film school wanted to make but didn't have the father to produce.

Never intends to be deeper than a magician's hat, and its wonderfully low-tech stop-motion technique is not only a nod to Czech animator Jan Svankmajer but a tacit rebuke to computer-graphics-heavy fantasies such as "The Chronicles of Narnia" or the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy.

The actors tend to think that everything they do in pursuit of character is great, wonderful and worthy of being shown. They're rarely accomplished enough to strut their stuff, nor assured enough to know when to hold back.

Malkovich and Sinise, who worked together in Chicago's Steppenwolf Theatre (which Sinise co-founded), are touching and pleasurable together. Malkovich's portrayal of big, simple naif Lennie will attract the most attention, yet he is remarkably restrained, skirting the dangerous fence between verisimilitude and sheer ham. But Sinise, in the quieter, caretaking role, achieves at least as much.

It is sheer brilliance and testament to the vitality of an old master.

After watching Vertigo at the Uptown, I was awestruck.

Even though this will not go down as a great Zucker comedy, he has made Rat Race funnier than it could reasonably hope to be.

It's too short, and it doesn't delve deep enough. But it's thoroughly enjoyable.

It's the feelings, the tears, the laughter, the stuff that makes Gene Shalit stand up and cheer. It's showboating time and if that's what you want, the "Magnolias" gangplank lies before you.

The racial angle becomes the tiresome basis of almost every joke.

Lacks that outrageous effrontery that might have socked it to its intended audience.

An extraordinary piece of electronic history. And a riveting movie

A picture-book French film that's pretty and trite, rather than edgy and moving.

An edgy quasi-comedy, it's very funny in places, touching in others. There is a little unevenness. But for a directorial debut, it's amazingly assured.

There's something diverting but not wildly stirring about this Italian drama.

A saga of unbearable sadness and romantic beauty.

But if the modestly budgeted film (loosely based on journalist Michael Nicholson's factual narrative, "Natasha's Story") lopes along a formulaic, often heavy-handed track, its pictures and subtext make a powerful statement. [9Jan1998 Pg. N.41]

So single-minded in its reach for fantasy, it becomes the genre's evil opposite: banality.

A modern epic that fuses myth with hard-edged reality, it's a one-of-a-kind, thoroughly engaging experience.

Brings kinetic, stylistic and even sexy dimension to the Bram Stoker legend.

Richard Linklater's satirical take on high school life in the 1970s is not only funny and entertaining. It's practically a historic document of life during the smiley-face button era.

Gives refreshing -- and bittersweet -- dimension to the age-old clash between generations.

Always entertaining. But someone seems to have thrown away the metronome into the Spanish moss outside. "Midnight," which finally draws to a halt after two and a half hours, has a lot of acting, a bit of soul and no rhythm.

Nicotina skitters between dull and forced, this despite the use of split screens, jaunty music and the personable Luna.

Savvy without being smug, cute without being saccharin, and funny without slipping into over-the-top goofiness, this is a 14th-century good time.

I sat through "Courage" with interest, but I wasn't particularly moved or riveted with suspense.

This often macabre comedy allows us to doff such civilized traits as taste and decency. We're free to laugh at anything, and we do. Oh, the shame -- and the good time.

Although it has moments of charm and poignancy -- this is one of Glenn Close's best hours -- the scheme and scope of the movie are just too darned obvious.

In keeping with the Smith rules, the movie is irreverent, self-referential, twisted, cheap and tasteless. And, of course, I mean that as the highest compliment.

A problematic movie, based on a problematic book, that's not for everyone, and that might not even be for all the people it is meant for. Hmmm. Yet there's something fascinating about it and, believe me, it ain't the sex. Perhaps it's Irons's and Richardson's haunted performances, or Binoche's highly credible weirdness. Whatever it is, compared to the likes of "Top Gun" and "Basic Instinct," "Damage" is far more compelling and far less false.

Watchable, certainly. It should have been so much more.

Instead of offering a perspective that, at the very least, laments a world where the flow of money hurts otherwise good people, Allen simply pushes the movie into an uncertain sinkhole between morality play and black comedy.

Nothing more than an over-designed lobster pot. After following the beckoning twists and turns, you're left trapped and more than a little disappointed for getting in so deep.

There are some very thought-provoking points, and the movie deserves a balanced listening-to.

Masterfully arranged for color, texture, decor and camera fluidity, The Conformist is more like a symphonic poem than a movie. (Review of 1994 Release)

Though Philip Haas's digitally shot film has the firsthand immediacy of such nonfictional docs as "Iraq in Fragments" and "Gunner Palace," its dramatic template feels disappointingly secondhand.

Stars Samuel L. Jackson in the worst role of his career -- one hopes.

Though Lust, Caution resounds with these disconcerting themes, it operates on the same principle that distinguishes all lasting romances, be they "Wuthering Heights," "Casablanca" or "When Harry Met Sally."

And if the movie's not particularly visual -- apart from the excerpted scenes from Fellini's extremely visual films -- it's entertaining for the ears. Fellini talks and talks. And like many directors, he talks a good life.

This banquet is the glorious finale of Gabriel Axel's Babette's Feast, his handsome, understated adaptation of the Isak Dinesen short story.

Refreshingly free of the hyperbole of special effects...Ong-Bak will win no scriptwriting awards, but Jaa is definitely the real deal.

As exciting for its narrative twists and turns as for its Korean textures and rhythms.

Speaking of Jane, Minnie Driver gets the big banana for top off-screen performance. She brims over with prissiness and pep, tenderness and visionary appreciation.

Kettle of Fish, starring Matthew Modine as a commitment-skittish saxophone player, is a warm-spirited romantic comedy, but it tends to have a squawky pitch.

Perhaps the ultimate "Judgment" comes from Estevez, who observes: "Nothing about tonight makes sense."

If there's any moral to this sorry story, perhaps Lee's stealth-message is it: Even when it's not about race, it is.

A jarring, mesmerizing documentary.

With a few elements drawn from classic weepers, and with fairly spirited performances from the cast, "Heart and Souls" has its moments

Unfortunately, apart from Downey's convincing contribution, the movie feels too contrived, stagy and inorganic to draw any pleasure.

Tin Cup works for viewers of any handicap.

Parents can vaguely console themselves, however, that amid the kiddie pollution available on Saturday morning TV, the Turtles rank slightly better than the rest. At least they care about each other and fight crime for other than fortress-destroying, fascistically gratifying reasons. And maybe, just maybe, this will make them curious enough, one day, to check up on the real Michelangelo.

There's something impressive and yet lacking about everything.

Although the movie is moving and even funny in many places, it's also overextended. And composer John Williams's syrupy score practically oozes from your ears on the drive home.

Its title may ring with pun and promise, but Stoned is a flat riff on Jones's short life. You'll get the highlights but no sense of what made him special -- or what really haunted him.

But it's Roberts's memorably comic performance that is the most distinguishing aspect of the movie. As the gawky professional companion, she's ticklishly appealing.

Well, it could have been good. But this goofy homage to Kiss fans gets dry mouth pretty fast.

There's not much zest here, even with Mike Myers's energetic attempts to steal the movie as a cross-eyed flight instructor.

What's truly surprising about Happy Feet is not its giddily brilliant entertainment, its intimate knowledge of the culture or its toe-tapping music. It's how commonplace these qualities have become in computer-animated movies… Happy Feet may be just one of the crowd, but what a great crowd it is.

Kid 'n Play who just lit up House Party, are practically snuffed out in Class Act. This low-burning caper spends so much time with plot business and bubblegum advice, it forgets about the funny thang. The likable rappers never get to show their stuff.

Paul Hogan has an easy plan: Simply be Mick Crocodile Dundee and the rest will follow. The rest is Crocodile Dundee II, and it doesn't follow so much as drag itself along like an alligator on dry land.

The real importance of "Earnest" is the thrill of brilliant repartee. And as we laugh, an amazing thing happens: Oscar Wilde comes alive.