Gregory Weinkauf

This lavish and captivating production by veteran Thai director Chatri Chalerm Yukol (Salween) transports us to another world where even the film stock seems imbued with a timeless, classic quality.

Captures David Bowie's meticulous identity quest with all the frenetic energy (read: slop) of a wildlife documentary on drugs.

If only director Walter Hill and his coscreenwriter David Giler had scribbled a punch line for all these punches, this rage-in-the-cage redux would be more than merely a limp showcase of machismo so passé as to embarrass your average Australopithecus.

Although DeSalvo performs the miracle of making these characters seem like people we actually know, occasionally her delivery definitely makes us wish we didn't.

At last Dreamworks has given us the stuff of nightmare.

Sits before us like an exquisite platter of wax fruit, colorful, flavorless, and, if you eat it, very likely to come back up.

Hallström has leavened the story's bleakness with great warmth, fashioning one of the finest films of the year.

The most life-affirming film about death to come along in ages.

Astonishing, haunting and lyrical on its own terms.

Sharp, smart and robustly engaging film.

What's somewhat ironic about Bread and Roses is that it's bound to be more interesting to people outside of L.A. than in it.

All manner of superstitions, religious conspiracies and insurrections are aired, resulting less in awe than bewilderment. However, taken as an exciting and expansive cultural bridge, the film is a roaring success.

Tamahori pumps a tremendous amount of energy into his Bond movie, and it's an electrifying ride.

Smart, wry and awesome, all at once.

You'll laugh a lot, but not without a sense of animal desperation.

Hypochondriacs and germ freaks may dig it.

It's dank, moody and sorrowful (all pros for this critic), but also tediously vague, thematically plodding and often eye-rollingly absurd in its grimness. Some may swoon; I yawned a lot.

Thoughtful and somewhat languid adaptation of Anton Chekhov's 1904 play finds its beauty in the heady performance of Charlotte Rampling.

Don't expect to be wowed by a vast spectrum of delicacies, as the buffet here is composed of entirely obvious ingredients.

As a film it's mostly top-notch work. Kiwi director Christine Jeffs has taken the poignant, thoughtful screenplay of erstwhile documentarian John Brownlow and rendered it a moving mood-piece of subtlety and ever-encroaching sorrow.

Grand entertainment in the old-fashioned sense.

A breezy romantic comedy, boasting a shameless silly streak.

Startlingly, this is not the trite beer commercial one might expect.

It's a feel-good movie for people tired of paying to feel bad. Bring it on.

This movie's just so-so, but at its heart lies a true leading lady.

When it's all over, one is less compelled to applaud than to give each "character" a sympathetic hug.

If you love the excitement of watching golf, this Damon-Smith bore is right up your fairway.

Pits good taste against rousing intellectual provocation, and, happily, allows both to win.