Gregory Weinkauf

The striking graininess of the film stock, the near-documentary style of the setups, and Michael Nyman's attentive score add up to a relatable and ultimately hopeful experience.

This astonishingly gritty film maintains its strong niche between Roberto Rossellini's "Open City" and Paul Greengrass' "Bloody Sunday" as a pinnacle of war-torn neo-realist drama.

Coppola and Murch have balanced their new edit with grace notes of sweetness, elegance and eroticism, and the payoff is grand, providing both a reprieve from the multiple blitzkriegs and a break in the monotony of the cruise up the Nung.

This film is a miracle, an extravaganza equal to its predecessors and in some ways more stunning. It is a profound testament to the extraordinary power of moving images and sound.

We're told that this new version is tweaked and enhanced, with the E.T. puppet digitally smoothed out, and the guns in the meanies' hands removed (silly, but bravo). [2002 re-release]

The film succeeds as massive, astonishing entertainment; verily, enthralling us is its chief goal.

Coppola hasn't delivered a turkey--it's a cute little movie, if not as rich as her brother Roman's similarly themed "CQ"--but when work this potentially satisfying remains flatly obvious, it's almost worse than being flat-out bad.

An animated extravaganza of Gallic wit and soul that delivers more wild humanity than many of the year's live-action features. In a word: go.

What we have here is an historical document of inestimable value, describing in no uncertain terms the terrible and beautiful times before AIDS.

Despite the presence of several sublimely cracked actors and some of the most abrasive white-trash caricatures since "Raising Arizona," Birch totally owns this movie.

Meandering but reasonably charming.

Amazingly, almost every note of every performance in Bloody Sunday rings true.

A masterful film about the magic of performance and the foibles of the artists behind it.

Smart people will relish its temerariousness, average people will smile awkwardly and comment that it's "kinda different," and dimly lit people may mistake it for the Elmo movie and drool quietly in the back rows. It's a movie for everyone.

A pensive, reflective movie, more or less equal in tone to Ang Lee's "The Ice Storm," yet, because of its temporal breadth and tight emotional focus, it packs a more intimate punch.

This is the breakout role for Sigourney Weaver, whose iconic presence still propels this ride beyond the scores of substandard imitations that followed. Why see it on the big screen? Because it's bloody brilliant.

The confusing, demanding role finally brings the actor home, and us with him.

Gleefully blurs the line between species. Vive la révolution!

In this bolder, longer new cut, characters are allowed to finish scenes previously left as DVD extras, effects are creepier, and the theories of "the Tangent Universe" are explored in greater depth. Friends and neighbors, this is a Great American Movie.

The year's greatest adventure, and Jackson's limited but enthusiastic adaptation has made literature literal without killing its soul.

One of the finest qualities of Amadeus is that it reminds us of those rare occasions when an Oscar sweep is actually merited.

While this road may contain too many potholes -- and plotholes -- to sustain an even ride, there are moments of greatness scattered throughout to remind us why Lynch is vital and why the French think he's so nifty.

It's a feel-good movie that happens to have a lot of feel-bad in it. The gratuitous violence sucks, and the pat conclusion prompts one to shout don't believe the hope!.

While much of the film is as scattershot as life itself, there are a few superb sequences involving lucid dreaming that really get down to business.

Hero keeps its characters stiffly archetypal, like chess pieces sent whizzing through outrageous maneuvers. Unfortunately, this apparent choice of spectacle over intimacy put me at a slight remove.

Sometimes the cinema is just heavenly, and this is one of those times.

An inspiring effort, lavishly lensed and featuring a spicy (if occasionally synthy) score from A.R. Rahman. Best of all, it's also something of a musical, as the characters are not above breaking into song and dance to serve their emotions.

Revelatory and disappointing.

If only the sum of this thunderously self-important "true story" outweighed its often fabulous parts, but it resorts to throwing up hollow icons in that most ignoble of losses, the expensive mediocrity.

Quills is bound to titillate some, but for most it's likely to summon little more than a few Oscars and appreciative yawns.

Feels mostly like an audacious prank.

Not a great film, but a good one.

A nifty little war movie that defies convenient categorization.

A big gob of fun.

The songs are actually quite good--if also hideously embarrassing--but these comedians take their roles far too seriously, to their peril and our puzzlement.

One of this year's best films--a classic, even, like a C.S. Forester "Hornblower" story on steroids.

Pustules, puberty and pregnancy...seven stories tall! Mostly grand but occasionally grody

The extra-short length is puzzling -- about half an hour has been lopped off the length of the original Canadian release -- but what remains feels whole and wholly satisfying, a rare, successful merging of the obvious and the haunting.

Powerful, sensuous and thematically hokey transsexual adventure.

It's a noble work, an elegant work, a compassionate work -- and a somewhat tedious and glaringly self-important work.

Despite its lively tone and brisk editing, the project's sad epilogue -- shot two years later -- suggests that Abraham and Mohammed will be duking it out on the world's dime for some time to come.

It's Tommy's job to clean the peep booths surrounding her, and after viewing this one, you'll feel like mopping up, too.

Once in a while a film comes along that is as sound, smart, sweet and significant as can be, and Whale Rider is such a film.

His (Pawlikowski) love story, which is by turns sensuous, charming, and uniquely moving.

A beautiful and timeless achievement, Conrad Rooks' 1972 adaptation of Herman Hesse's appropriation of East Indian mythology still entrances.

The design is gorgeous, the dialogue delicious, and even the supporting characters prove resonant.

Deftly delivered and free of gratuitous gloss, yet enormously rich in its unassuming manner.

If Junge's first-hand recollections aren't always visually stimulating, they're still more illuminating than most cinematic re-creations of the era.

As a document of rockin, youth rebellion, the film lodges perfectly between "American Graffiti" and "Trainspotting."

While you think you're watching just another in a series of British gangster films, you may suddenly realize that you're watching what is, thus far, the year's best horror movie.

Without question, Shadow of the Vampire is a stately and elegant horror film, interwoven with delicious strands of black comedy.

It's best appraised as a strong ensemble piece, a darkly dreamy slab of social commentary and definitely one of the year's best films.

While the movie is frequently sharp and funny and weirdly relatable, the material feels too much like reality.

A piquant entertainment and zeitgeist reflector designed to embolden little thrashettes.

An affecting film, but it just may not be everyone's cup of cyanide.

As a thriller, The Butterfly Effect is iffy and uneven, but as a portrait of a people, it's effective and intriguing.

[Coppola] understands the crisp, oblique horror and wistfulness of Eugenides' narrative, plunking down five enchanting princesses into an environment that is anything but magical.

What's most impressive about this is that, if one didn't know better, the naturalism of the performances could be taken for that of a documentary.

Brian's brilliant, saved itself by benefactor George Harrison, who ponied up the budget of 2 million pounds...simply because he loved the script when industry bigwigs turned characteristically chicken. Its overall irreverence proves a lasting balm for the ages. Thank you, Pythons, for setting such a high and enduring standard.

The miracle here is not so much that Pray captures the DJs in peak form, but that he comprehensively captures SO MANY of them.

A very dull movie.

Manages to be both astoundingly derivative and reasonably entertaining at the same time.

This elegant vision of sexual roles is certain to make a lasting impression and is likely to provoke explosive dialogues in Denny's and sidewalk cafés from here to Monaco.

This roaring crowd-pleaser also boasts hilarious bits of business, insightful observations into the human condition, and geysers of kitschy computer-generated blood.

Very charming and funny movie.

This trifle is better approached as a suburban haunted-house attraction thrown by enthusiastically confused teenagers. It's a little bit eerie, completely disjointed and sporadically amusing--kind of like "Lost in Translation," but with wanton slaughter. Do not expect more.

Provides a smart, insightful prologue to the career of the man who continues to inspire countless people around the world.

For a general audience the entertainment factor is quite low. The project may best serve us not on the screen, but in a time capsule.

This is a powerhouse of a film, but not for the obvious reasons that it's about a female serial killer, scampering lesbians and whatever. The project's strength instead emerges from a sense of nobility and purpose in honoring its characters.

Finally, the man (Hanks) has delivered a moving, slightly unhappy, and ultimately hopeful story in which squishy love takes a backseat to the wondrous whirlwind of life. The season's most delightful surprise.

What makes this movie special is the meticulous attention placed on each of its characters, employing them not in the traditional "melting pot" manner that is so common, but as part of a grand mosaic that actually seems to be worth sharing.

Too bad it commits the crime of being so intensely average, because what could have been sensational turns out to be merely this week's heist movie.

As detached and unfocused as a college pothead. And about as much fun.

Philosophy imbues this inescapably self-reflexive movie with a rare compassion.

In the realm of B-movies about messing with nature, it's as enjoyable as "Frankenstein Unbound," and unlike, say, "A.I." it's intentionally creepy. It's also occasionally masterful.

Pretentious yet devoid of poetry, left-of-center yet artless, this well-intentioned trudge does not exist to be enjoyed or appreciated so much as to be coddled and patronized as one would a retarded child.

Not to be missed.

This sensuous, exotic film is more like an issue of "National Geographic" come to life, rich with cultural detail and insight.

The effects are smashing, yet there's a heart behind them.

The nuances of the performances -- in dialogue and dance -- and the rich, organic feel of the locations mark Amari as a director of significant promise.

What's wonderful about director Claude Miller's adaptation of Ruth Rendell's novel "The Tree of Hands" is its grand capacity for compassion and complexity.

It's excessively quirky and a little underconfident in its delivery, but otherwise this is the best "old neighborhood" project since Christopher Walken kinda romanced Cyndi Lauper in "The Opportunists."

Less a spiritual quest than a very self-indulgent gimmick movie that could use a strong shot of inspiration.

With a movie like this, there's no risk of spoiling the ending, because the entire plot is merely a formality trudging toward a foregone conclusion. The viewer's biggest challenge is to survive fits of yawning so violent they could disrupt ornithic migratory patterns.

Despite moments of gritty greatness that rival Scorsese's best, the movie is severely hampered by please-everyone syndrome, especially in the editing and choice of music.

The movie's diplomatic breadth compromises its thematic depth -- it basically repeats that fun conquers all -- but few movies will so generously rawk a crowd this year.

Arteta targets Middle American ennui with wit, compassion and no shortage of ornery malaise.

Once Connell finds his feet, he just may stride forth with his Important American Movie. Until then, The Opportunists is simply a whiff of great unwashedness yet to come.

If you're after some family-friendly classic lit at the multiplex, here 'tis.

Brando wanders through the movie as if he's tolerating an annoying guest, sweetly charming one minute, detached and obnoxious the next.

This may sound an eensy bit hyperbolic, but dig: Mayor of the Sunset Strip is the greatest rock-and-roll movie of all time.

For three jerks bitching in a box, Tape makes the most of its minimalism. At its best, it's Betrayal for the Breakfast Club set.

Heavy with mood and Finn's fine music, Jeffs' debut feature merely moistens us when we should be soaked. Maybe next time she'll let it all come down.

Since the narrative's destination is awkwardly obvious, and the tone occasionally melts into a sticky-sweet mess like cotton candy in the sun, the movie is most often saved by its generous helpings of clever dialogue.

Authenticity and plausibility get gunned down from the get-go, but if explosive shaky-cam ultraviolence and frequent extreme close-ups of greasy whiskers are your bag, this hyperactive wannabe may count as something of a score.

We're in for a long, unpleasant, reactionary ride.

What could have become a heinous TV movie instead delivers the moving and relatable experience of being an emotionally overburdened person stuck in a world that mostly sucks.

Audiences are advised to sit near the back and squint to avoid noticing some truly egregious lip-non-synching, but otherwise the production is suitably elegant, a fine retreat from summer cinema overkill.