Jami Bernard

Absorbing, operatic.

Pacino is masterful as the sharp-witted, seen-it-all detective.

The stop-the-presses news from The House of Mirth is the number of fine performances from people you never knew had it in them.

Susan Tom has her hands full in Jonathan Karsh's documentary My Flesh and Blood -- she's dealing with her 13 children, most adopted, some with serious maladies. Rarely does one encounter such capable hands.

Delicious, intelligent thriller.

A journey that goes from prosaic to existential. Director Hans Petter Moland's raw drama of father-daughter reconciliation features an excellent cast.

Works on several playful levels. Most obviously, it is a horror movie in which life imitates art on a movie set.

Gives a white-knuckled, you-are-there account of a politician's dilemma, one whose repercussions are still felt in Africa.

The acting is superb, with emotions roiling beneath rigid exteriors.

Touching and saddening.

The film itself is a bit on the talking-head side, evoking none of the passion and anguish that are the music's trademarks.

Its simple, straightforward storytelling makes mincemeat of the idea that, gee, if these people just worked a little harder and got motivated, they, too, could get a piece of the American Dream.

The feel-good movie of the summer. And the song this pimp works up, about how hard it is to manage a stable of ho's, is catchy and moving.

This hunt for revenge is really a quest for self-discovery. The story, acting and brilliant directing elevate Oldboy into a human struggle to know yourself and your place in the universe, and to live with that sometimes terrible knowledge.

It's a smartly surreal little movie, and again shows why, whenever there's a role that calls for an actress who can speak volumes without much dialogue (as in "Minority Report" and "Sweet and Lowdown"), the call goes out to Morton.

The screenplay is chock-full of political and social observation tarnished by uneven ­acting and editing. The clumsy humor doesn't translate well.

If only there were a surefire way to describe Guy Maddin's films without scaring off viewers. The quirky Canadian is a genius who produces haunting, exquisitely droll movies that defy explanation.

Movies about junkies are often brutal to watch, but Jesus' Son has such a light touch, you have little to fear. Little to gain, too.

But while this terrific cast gets to strut and preen, it's difficult to make an emotional connection with most of them.

It's an amazing slice-of-life story that will make you want to rush home and hug the kids.

The overly broad martial-arts comedy Kung Fu Hustle was obviously made with skill and affection for its many cinematic sources, yet I found the tone, timing and emotional involvement off by just enough to irritate rather than enchant.

A lush, panoramic, dizzyingly portrait of the many-tentacled entrepreneur Howard Hughes. Unfortunately, though it may finally gain an Oscar for director Martin Scorsese, it is not his best work. The movie is disappointingly flat.

The combination of old-time Hollywood valor and ahead-of-its-time surprises makes this restoration a big event.

Without excusing Stevie's behavior, the film makes a compelling case for how a child molester can grow from the bitter seeds of neglect and abuse.

Has a great deal of empathy for that excruciating limbo that is female adolescence.

Harris convincingly creates one "Pollock" after another over the course of the movie.

That it all seems improvised on the spot (it was not) is testament to the power of a film that trusts its characters, its actors and its ultimate goal.

This languorous art movie is somewhat like "Memento," with its narrative fragments and memory mixups. It never explains itself, which means that the audience, like the protagonists, must take a leap of faith.