John P. McCarthy

As flat as the Carolina coastal region in which it’s set, Dear John features two gorgeous young actors playing denuded characters in search of more narrative garb.

The Father of My Children is a protean charmer just like Grégoire Canvel, the title character modeled on the late Humbert Balsan.

The romantic drama earns solid marks for atmosphere, moving shots of post-Katrina New Orleans and acting.

Further exploration of this psychological question might have made for a more substantial, less enervating artfilm. One less liable to be experienced as an approximation of cinematic waterboarding.

A beguiling cross between fiction and non-fiction, Alamar regards the relationship three Mexican males have with the sea.

How often can you see Cheech Marin nailed to a cross or Lindsay Lohan in a threesome with Trejo and the actress playing her mother?

Leon Gast's profile of the photographer is not devoid of entertainment value or unhelpful in understanding the history of photojournalism, however, the movie is as ephemeral as one of Galella's snapshots of a coked out, B-list celeb exiting Studio 54 circa 1975.

While in many respects Spoken Word is adequately specific, it's still not very deep.

Ultimately rather opaque. It lacks sufficient emotional and psychological clarity to cut through our disaster fatigue.

Warm, broad and uneven, City Island almost thrives in the lite entertainment zone where ethnic family dramedy meets mildly raucous farce.

Tirador ’s frenetic style and locale will remind many viewers of Fernando Meirelles’ much-admired City of God.

Mercy can be described as a moody picture that traffics in variations of only one mood or sentiment: self-pity.

There are a sufficient number of jolts thanks to quick edits and sound effects, plus the script's efficient structure.

After this bomb, Katherine Heigl and Ashton Kutcher may qualify as two of the most attractive and prematurely washed-up screen actors Hollywood has ever produced.

What transpires gives fresh meaning to ‘sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.'

Most of its truth (and any irony) is undercut by director Vikram Jayanti's fawning approach.

Best Worst Movie is a must-see for students of film criticism and the philosophy of art.

Listen closely, however, and amidst the zingers and world-weary chatter, Chekhov's generous humanism comes through loud and clear.

The overarching lesson is twofold: environmental issues are never as simple or as cut-and-dried as we would like, and the first order of business is to get the science right.

The compellingly awful thriller, In My Sleep--in which Melrose Place meets imitation Hitchcock--is so unselfconsciously derivative that you have to admire it…or, if you don’t admire the movie itself, than admire the jejune chutzpah of writer-director-producer Allen Wolf.

There's nothing more irritating than a piece that strains to be kooky and eccentric, yet one reason The Living Wake ultimately gets to you is that O'Connell is not trying too hard.