Jami Bernard

The eccentric chocolatier Willy Wonka (Johnny Depp) can't feel pleasure, even though he's surrounded by it, so it's weirdly appropriate that the movie isn't "fun," even if it's amazing to look at.

In this story of suburban teenage angst, the parents are weird and often cliché to the point of incomprehension, as if seen through the prism of ... a 25-year-old.

No picnic to watch -- Leigh's camera is unsentimental and unsparing.

Moore brilliantly unmasks the inanity of the arguments used in the debate over gun control in America. He then undermines himself by leaping into the blame game without supporting his central thesis, that the media is what makes teens like the ones at Columbine turn around and shoot up their schools.

Does an uncommonly good job of summoning all that goes into a masterpiece - erotic tension, financial considerations, even the sensual, elaborate grinding and mixing of paint colors as per 17th-century requirements.

A pitch-perfect gem.

This rousing story of the comeback colt comes close to a modern-day Frank Capra film without the pandering or mawkishness. Yes, it's a bit hokey, but if you fight the movie's gait you'll miss the excitement of the race.

Beautifully acted and exquisitely photographed, director Claude Miller's superb drama, from Philippe Grimbert's autobiographical novel, is awash with the ripples created by unlived lives.

Alamo buffs will be delighted, and everyone else will be treated to something that feels like Old Hollywood crossed with new sensibilities.

While Pfeiffer is a stickier subject, Clooney is so game he could have chemistry with a sandbox. [20 Dec 1996, p.61]

Leaves the viewer exhausted, jet-lagged from the effort of investing equally in competing story lines.

Winterbottom uses effective imagery to establish the horror and absurdity of war. [26Nov1997 Pg.39]

In the new, personal documentaries in which you pick up a camera to help get a grip on your own life, there is a queasy line between inspiration and therapy. Mark Wexler crosses back and forth over that line.

The movie is an actors' paradise, and absolutely no one disappoints.

It's a virtual clip reel of grandly comic moments that remind us what a good actress can do when parts are scarce.

Although rife with comic possibilities, The Personals develops into a somber tale of personal identity.

Turns out to be a thoughtful, beautifully acted story about feeling alive before it's too late to feel anything.

The movie turns choppy in the final third, but it is a monumental achievement nonetheless.

Seems like a genteel "Psycho."

Here's the downside, and it's not just me: You need a scorecard to keep track of the sisters, their brother, two husbands, a boyfriend, two (or three?) extramarital lovers.

This is another brilliant performance by Crowe, who is to body language what Meryl Streep is to accents.

A farce nearly as cracked as his previous "The Dinner Game."

A remarkable second feature from writer-director Yesim Ustaoglu.

What fans want are good movies. This one isn't particularly funny or romantic, but it's gripping and tragic. It asks some nasty, yet profound, questions about human desire and behavior.

It's weird and wonderful.

What has changed most dramatically over the years is the camera's ability to shoot as if it were stationed on the wall of those rolling pipelines. For some, this is the next best thing to being there.

Its leisurely pace and reliance on Ambrose's pale-lashed gaze make it more of an interior monologue. That may not please viewers who crave action, but those with patience will be rewarded.

This Canadian film is extraordinarily low-key, considering the explosive secrets the sisters unearth, but that is part of its strength.