F. X. Feeney

The Messenger may be a caricature of theology, but then Besson is a cartoonist of genius.

You come away from Boiler Room eager to see what Younger will do next.

Seen in the bowl's metaphoric reflection, Nolte's Adam, with his patronizing wish to build a great art museum to "give something back" to the poor laborers who built his fortune, is a complex American monster.

The Japanese title means chaos, and that is what is let loose when a powerful king foolishly tries to release the reins of power, in the hopes of enjoying a peaceful old age.

A happy vulgarity still reigns.

A labor of love -- a swan song repaying a lifetime of happy debts to the theater, by grace of two terrific performances.

It's fitting, then, that Dinner Rush boasts Hawks-ian virtues: fiery energy, swift, character-driven chitchat and a tough, upbeat sense of how the world works.

Whaley successfully balances his scenes on a knife-edge of tenderness and anger that was Truffaut's trademark.

Above all, you've got Jennifer Grey, as a rich girl summering in the Catskills and falling for her working-class dance instructor, played by Patrick Swayze. The chemistry between them is red-hot, and they're wonderful dancers.

Has such perfect pitch in small matters that, as it builds, it proves no less capable in tackling bigger issues--and what begin as chuckles become deep belly laughs.

Zhang's work is always worth watching, but this is the first of his films in which the sorrows are so heart-rending, its many comic moments so laugh-out-loud human.

The Proposition is a very hard and harsh movie, but it also has a hypnotic, lyrical velocity. As Arthur, Huston exudes dead charisma.

A cleverly plotted, cleanly crafted matinee item -- pure entertainment on a romping continuum with Frankenheimer's "Ronin."

As an audience member, you end up feeling like a sucker for even having tolerated that sickly sweet notion about a father, a son, and their silly radio.

What Harris extracts from himself is nothing less than a psychological nude scene, sustained across two hours.

Among the pleasures the film evokes, as few films have, is the bliss of conversation.

The Godfather traces the arc of this doomed idealism with a beauty that is still fresh.

Writer-director Hans Petter Moland (The Last Lieutenant, Zero Kelvin) has a fine eye for landscapes, but an even surer touch with actors.

Less a movie about stepfamilies than a PSA about how cancer makes everyone behave themselves at Christmas.

This bright farce is spun from interlocking coincidences that only seem far-fetched.

Leonard Schrader adapted the screenplay from the novel by Manuel Puig, and his fearless willingness to explore every corner of human nature serves what is greatest and sweetest in the performances of William Hurt and Raul Julia.

The interactions between the realms of the magical and the everyday are carried off with an easygoing charm.

A smirky black comedy that, like its John Lurie score, is jazzy, dry, and light on its feet.

Funny and light, all the more potent for seeming so effortless.

Chilean-born actress Leonor Varela (TV's Cleopatra, a few seasons back) plays Chavo's mother, who, in her rage to see her children survive, powerfully embodies the film's moral center.

One of the best films of the year thus far.

A superb film by any measure, as deep and harsh as the sin Dillon committed to become great.

This lightweight thriller has an enjoyable premise.