Gregory Weinkauf

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.