Ken Fox

It's a testament to both the timelessness and the prescience of Herman Melville's 1853 story "Bartleby, the Scrivener" that it can be so easily updated with so few changes.

One hundred and nine minutes of drama and not a single moment rings true.

The film basically follows Moore and Slater's book, but without the details that reveal the strange complexity of the Bush-Rove symbiosis.

Rae's 80-minute film isn't able to answer every question or flesh out important details of these events, and she spends more time on Trudell's artistic endeavors than on his direct political action.

Neither the appealing cast nor the bouncing, ska-inflected soundtrack can keep the party going.

John Carlos Frey's tough social drama has a slightly sensationalistic edge, but the disturbing fact is that all too much of his worthy film hews closely to the real-life experiences of undocumented immigrant workers.

Anyone unfamiliar with Chomsky's work may be unsettled by his unblinking critique of the U.S. policy at a time when patriotism is the order of the day, and while he fails to offer any real solutions, his conscientious perspectives on the questions remain invaluable.

Goldberger, who made his debut with the similarly gritty and deliberately unpolished "Trans," tries to pull the novel's concerns to the surface, but much of its subtlety is lost. Giamatti, however, delivers yet another superb performance, turning what might have been a freak show into an unexpectedly moving experience.

Actor-turned-director Campbell Scott handles this enigmatic science fiction mystery with such gloomy restraint that it barely moves. That said, it never panders to audience expectations and is exceptionally well acted. Bill Tyler.

It's overtly about provocation, set in a tony Danish suburb where a group of men and women living commune-style in an empty house are discovering their "inner idiots" by pretending to be developmentally challenged.

Director Jeff Renfroe and screenwriter Andrew Joiner's flashy psychological thriller wants to say something important about the dangers of a fear-mongering media and resultant ethnic profiling in an age of terrorism, but their warnings are undone by a tricky plot that tries to have it both ways while leaving the audience arguing among themselves as to what it all means.

Crams more subplots, minor characters and comic situations into 100 minutes than most sitcoms burn through in an entire season. And that's not necessarily a good thing.

The similarities between this film and Michael Bay's overblown "Armageddon"are too numerous to ignore; the crucial difference is that this one is actually pretty good.

It's all pretty tasteless, but surprisingly chaste and not very funny.

Think of it as a dark, suspenseful scenario penned by Joseph Conrad and designed by Toulouse-Lautrec and Auguste Renoir, and jump right in.

The overall effect of watching his film is a bit like a nerve-racking game of Russian roulette: You just know a gun is going to go off, but you don't know which of this multitude of characters it's going to hit.

This isn't your usual kiddie fare: Beneath the initial glare and blare is a quietly literate script by first-time writer-director Zach Helm that deals directly with big issues like believing in yourself and living on after a loved one passes away. But is it heavy? Not really.

A sweet, unassuming surprise.

After reminding us that the AIDS crisis in the West is far from over in "The Event," Fitzgerald widened his scope with this much-needed perspective on the global dimensions the disease has achieved. Despite the importance and seriousness of the subject, there's plenty of Fitzgerald's brand of sly humor on hand, particularly in the scenes involving the Quebecoise porn industry.

Though many of the risks she takes don't pay off, Elster's film contains a number of stylishly staged set pieces.

It's wholesome fun for the whole family.

Cusack makes a half-hearted attempt to connect with Coleman, but chemistry is fatally absent and small wonder: Dennis is a unsettlingly strange creature who could well be from another planet.

This is a creditable but disappointingly draggy war epic. It should sizzle like a fuse, but instead plods along with methodical deliberation.

This loud, overlong and thoroughly exhausting fantasy, based on Milan Trenc's slim children's book, purports to introduce youngsters to the wonders of New York City's American Museum of Natural History, but in fact aims squarely at hyperactive kids who can't sit still or stand a moment's silence.

More a reflection in a fun-house mirror than a portrait of the artist.

It hits more often than it misses, and the best parts are always the simplest, in which the stars wing it with nothing to go on but their natural chemistry.

It shares all the original's shortcomings —--it’s too long and too loud and filled with historical disinformation -- but none of the snap that made "National Treasure" fun for kids and a guilty pleasure for some adults.

Clumsy and amateurish. But it's also occasionally quite charming, and ultimately more commendable for what it ISN'T than worthy of censure for being nothing more than an inconsequential comedy.

Well-acted first-feature.

In Ducastel's and Martineau's hands all the unpleasantness blows away like a kiss on a soft summer breeze, a light wind that nevertheless leaves a vaguely unpleasant scent in its wake.

Given the serious subject matter, this adaptation of Irish writer Brendan Behan's autobiographical novel is surprisingly light and exceedingly good-natured.

The film is filled with Miike's brand of imaginatively staged violence and hints of fetish sexuality, but his sadism, which reaches its apotheosis in 2001's sickening "Ichii The Killer", is tempered by a sincere romanticism and a number of lovely touches.

Weinstock's trump is Moreau, a natural-born charmer.

Tries to leave the impression of Escobar as a positive force whose dirty money actually saved Colombia's economy while those of neighboring Latin American countries collapsed.

Ryan is raw and remarkably good, but the film's real star is New York. Draped in post-9/11 anxiety and brimming with a free-floating fear, the city hasn't appeared this threatening since the '70s.

Broad, hackneyed and stultifyingly predictable.

The group's credo, "Live free, stay high," only confirms your worst suspicions about their real motives. And that makes it hard to feel any nostalgia for the good old days or condemn the members who came to their senses and moved on.

Cloying, immature and relentlessly cute, this grating British comedy about two London con men is every bit as shameless as its heroes.

This unusually rich film tackles not only the social structuring of criminality and sexuality but race as well, and explores the ways science has been used to justify the ruthless pursuit of market interests and, eventually, apartheid itself.

If you can get past the lips, Ryan gives a touching performance as a woman determined to battle her cancer while knowing life offers no guarantees except death -- an understanding no doubt sharpened by Kasdan's own experience battling Hodgkin's disease as a teenager.

In the end, it all remains a dramatically inert set of talking points, and not even the high-caliber cast can make much more out of it.

Surprisingly intimate, full of sly humor and, believe it or not, an odd sort of tenderness.

An appealing, if decidedly unconventional, buddy picture that seems to channel "Midnight Cowboy" while going its own quirky way.

An even sweeter and lighter whipped confection than "Legally Blonde," this hugely enjoyable sequel serves up a generous second helping of the ingredient that made the original such an irresistible hit.

The first-act crash is admittedly spectacular and the ending adequately suspenseful, but what comes between is disappointingly routine and completely lacks the kind character complexity that made the original a thrill every step of the way.

Fine performances from Sam Rockwell and Brad William Henke deserve some passing attention.

Despite its philosophical pretensions, the film is fairly lightweight, and its good-looking cast and sleek production values are more memorable than any of its heady themes.

Intelligently acted but oddly stagnant adaptation of Brian Morton's acclaimed novel.

Charming, if slight, Venus-and-Mars romantic comedy.

This smart spoof of film noir and filmmaking is very clever and riotously funny.

It's a conspiracy theory worthy of "The X-Files."

While probably not suitable for the wee ones, older kids and most adults will love this exciting and heartfelt adventure of one boy's survival during the darkest days of post-war Europe.

Corny and irritatingly simplistic though this fast-paced biography of 16th-century German religious reformer Martin Luther may be, it's undeniably entertaining.

Zombie delivers a scary horror movie immediately recognizable as his own -- something that will come as a welcome relief to fans who've diligently sat through seven "Halloween" sequels in hopes of one day reliving the original's terrifying magic.

The film's longer running time means more dead spots and the more elaborate stunts demand tighter scripting and less room to improvise, which is a shame since improvisation is the Reno's gang real strength. Forgiving fans, however, won't care a whit.

Ten tumultuous years in the history of the gay rights movement serve as the backdrop for this warm, engaging romantic comedy.

The few good lines go to Kristofferson and the ever-amusing Kier, but Snipes's considerable energy is buried under an affectless, Terminator-style demeanor.

If it's not an entirely wholesome portrait of the immigrant experience, it's certainly an entertaining one.

It's hard to believe that this oddly mesmerizing film, set in large part in the vast subway system that snakes its way through Manhattan and its outer boroughs, wasn't made by a native New Yorker.

The humor is mostly visual -- 70s relics like Pong, Shasta and men's platform shoes compete with the sight of Ferrell squeezed into tube socks and short shorts.

It's not a pretty picture, but it's an important one.

Stephens has a gentle touch and an unflagging sense of humor, but this is Rue's show: She's a natural with a million-dollar smile who deserves to escape TV land for more interesting work.

The film's potshots are perfectly aimed.

Brilliantly edited from well over 100 hours of tape, the final two-hour film recalls Michael Apted's 7 UP series.

The beautiful ice-blue landscapes are really the only reason to sit through this rambling and rather silly first feature by writer-director Sue Clayton.

Lame and inane, but a huge hit in Spain.

No matter that the setting is one of the most picturesque on the planet: cinematographer Jean-Max Bernard's camera would much rather linger all the skin and muscle Morel contrives to put on display.

Harkening back to a time when race relations in New York City were even worse than they seem today.

The action come fast and thick, and the sentimentality reaches near-operatic proportions.

A torrid and surprisingly cinematic chamber piece.

Good intentions can't compensate for crude technique or lack of insight, but Israeli director Dan Wolman's deserves credit for broaching a serious subject.

Berman and Pulcini, who turned Harvey Pekar's graphic memoir into the visually inventive, Oscar-nominated "American Splendor," dress this film as an anthropological field diary and add several fabulous touches.

In the end it's simply another Chucky movie -- whether that's a recommendation or a warning is entirely up to you.

Once the excellent Rhys and Corunder are off-screen, the film's overall staginess and the inconsistent work of the supporting cast become glaringly apparent.

There are few things as imposing -- or terrifying -- as the sight of the B-52, and the film is beautifully shot with an almost fetishistic passion.

It's the supporting characters' combination of smarts and sass, not to mention an honest and positive depiction of the mentally challenged, that turns this potentially crude and heartless comedy into something that the Special Olympics actually endorses.

The film's conceits grow thin and von Trier's mocking, hectoring tone tiresome.

Given its premise, it's hard for any Hostel sequel to be little more than a rehash.

What makes the film more interesting than it might have been, however, is the warm relationship between Glenn and Peter.

Ranks among the best films ever made about the acting profession.

Odd yet thoughtful romantic comedy.

The film is a dispiriting experience.

Surprisingly, some of the best moments come from supermodel Crawford and singer Connick, two acting tyros not generally known for their dramatic skills.

Mehta says it all so articulately and with such good humor.

The surprise is how utterly original his (Woodley's) gorgeously mounted curiosity seems.

Funnier than you might imagine.

You may give up on Ian Iqbal Rashid's feature debut long before things get interesting, courtesy of a distracting conceit that shatters whatever spell the hackneyed premise might cast.

Chock full of personality and irreverent detail.

This provocative, at times languid, documentary from German experimental filmmaker Gabriel Baur is something of travelogue through this unexplored frontier, a mixed-up, shook-up borderland where nothing, especially not an individual's gender, should be ever be taken for granted.

The best thing about the whole sorry enterprise is the soundtrack, which features choice tunes by Bruce Springsteen, Starsailor and, of course, Parsons himself.

The results feel slack – sometimes funny, but slack.

Moore's film is unusually sharp looking for this sort of documentary, and comes complete with a nice soundtrack. But most important, it's as comprehensible as any "Dummies" guide, something even non-techies can enjoy.

This beautifully shot, 70-minute black-and-white film remains deliberately inconclusive.

It will certainly appeal to its target audience, and Bynes is charming enough to carry the whole film on her shoulders, which is a good thing considering that she's in just about every scene and leading man Tatum is a stiff.

Unpleasant stuff, and Clark pounces on the material with his usual relish and a discomfiting combination of moralizing and prurience.

Rather than concentrate on Ann's disappointed infatuation and providing a satisfactory reason for its failure, Minot and, one suspects, Cunningham in particular, chose to flesh out the character of Buddy.

Most of Halim's script is a laundry list of offensive remarks that he no doubt means to serve as titillating spoof, but none of it's funny or even the least bit provocative, just offensive.

This ersatz jungle adventure is really a thinly disguised Sunday School lesson in faith, charity and the savagery of life without Christ.

An enjoyably ironic rethink of a beloved fairy tale.

The film has all the pregnant pauses, exaggerated reaction shots and melodramatic scoring of an overripe telenovela, but, unlike a good soap opera, the sisters' separate story lines are clumsily balanced.

The script originally began life as a stage play, but still feels underwritten.

Of course, no creepy movie worth its salt would be complete without an appearance by Udo Kier, and Parigi doesn't disappoint: Kier appears as Kenneth's louche, hookah-smoking next-door neighbor and, as always, is a disturbing delight.

Pitch-black and bound to offend anyone who's not on its wavelength, Nick Guthe's entertainingly slick debut is a mordantly funny slice of lust, crime and sleaze life set in the world of L.A.'s industry elite: Call it 9021-noir.

Fans of 50 Cent, whose own endlessly exploited past keeps him surrounded by Kevlar and bodyguards, will probably see the film for what it is -- a weak, watered roman à clef -- while admirers of Irish director Jim Sheridan (My Left Foot, In America) will marvel that he had anything to do with such a trite variation on the venerable "Star is Born" scenario.

Hoch's very funny satire on racial stereotyping cuts both ways.

The phrase "Everything happens for a reason" is heard more than once, a risibly simplistic cliché that not only stands as this film's hackneyed theme but also as a surprisingly honest confession as to just how calculated the entire film is.

Cox, a fifth-generation Mormon whose own story isn't too far from that of Elder Davis, shows how much of Aaron's strength derives directly from his faith, while even the most homophobic of Cox's characters demonstrate a capacity for both charity and, possibly, change.

It may be a simple matter of cultural dissonance, or maybe just a bad translation, but it's hard to see why this obnoxious romantic comedy about a lifetime-long relationship between two mischievous adults locked in an ongoing game of "Dares" was such a huge hit in its native France.

Lunkheaded but entertaining action flick.

It all adds up to an unfortunate misfire: a film at odds with both its source material and itself.

Fun for a while, but soon turns grating before ending on a startlingly tragic note.

Rather than portraying these girls as one-dimensional victims, Harada offers a complex portrait of teenagers who've learned to make their exploitation work for them.

While not easy to watch, and at times even harder to follow, Haas' film is an important attempt to accurately capture the confusing reality of contemporary Iraq.

Getting Irving's characteristic blend of quirky comedy and sorrow just right on screen has always been tricky, and writer-director Tod Williams' best efforts aren't enough to make the mix gel.

There's nothing particularly original about art-director-turned-filmmaker Ray Yeung's good-natured look at a pair of aging gay men in London, other than the fact that these men happen to be of Chinese descent. Beyond that, it's pretty much gay business as usual.

The mystery is terribly plotted and the satirical elements are limited and not very funny.

The scene transitions are sometimes jarring, but the story unfolds like a particularly juicy bit of small-town gossip, one that's told by a particularly vivid storyteller.

What really undoes writer-director John Keitel's admirable intentions is the general lack of artistry on virtually every level.

If Jean-Luc Godard at his most Maoist had felt compelled to make adult movies, he might have cooked up something like pop-art punk-porn auteur Bruce LaBruce's slab of revolutionary raunch.

Raoul Ruiz's absurdly overwrought phantasmagoria tries to recast the notorious Viennese artist's life as a kind of Divine Comedy: Inferno.

Strangest of all, Roman Polanski shows up to torture our heroes with a Paris phone book, then subject them to a full-cavity search. A gratuitous nod to "Chinatown"? Who knows? Who cares?

Without any deeper consideration of the matter, the film is a grueling experience, and 90 minutes is simply far too long to spend in the company of Jesse Power.

Just because it was written and directed by a woman doesn't mean the title isn't exactly the vulgar double entendre you think.

Atonal romantic comedy.

Exceptionally satisfying and enormously entertaining.

But one can only imagine how different the film might have been with, say, Parker Posey or Catherine Keener -- truly funky actresses with some real edge -- in the lead.

It's essential viewing for anyone interested in the state of post-Apartheid South Africa.

Far too long for a movie so unabashedly formulaic, Sylvain White's drama about a kid from L.A. who discovers the world of "stepping" at an Atlanta university uses a propulsive soundtrack and flashy dance sequences to draw attention away from wooden acting and a cliched plot.

The lack of opposing viewpoints soon grows tiresome -- the film feels more like a series of toasts at a testimonial dinner than a documentary.

You could hardly ask for more from a historical spectacle: Silly wigs, plunging décolletage, lavish banquets in ornate halls, a stirring score from Ennio Morricone and witty dialogue by Tom Stoppard.

Director and enfant terrible-wannabe Gregg Araki winds up his Teen Apocalypse trilogy with this loud, ridiculous mess, and not a moment too soon.

Sally Field's flawless performance as a mother whose imminent death reunites her four grown children elevates a fairly formulaic melodrama in the made-for-Lifetime mode into something considerably more memorable.

With its flashy, music-video style edits, rock-scored montages and septuagenarian cast, it’s hard to say who, exactly, is the right audience for this unusual comedic drama.

Mimics the kind of comedy that doesn't date particularly well to begin with.

Appears to be a complete about-face for Kitano, and yet it's unmistakably his, both stylistically (the film is gorgeous to look at) and thematically.

The film is merciless in its depiction of death and suffering, Pitt and Corbet are perfectly cast, and Watts, who also served as executive producer, gives a disturbingly raw performance.

Smith has changed a few plot points around to keep readers who already know the secret of the ruins guessing, and to some extent the strategy works. There was, however, no reason whatsoever to change the book's perfect endings.

Heartwarming is not always a bad thing.

Falk is as good as ever and the rest give it their all; you couldn't ask for a better cast, just better material.

All that charm is wasted in careless scenes that don't make much sense and the whole thing feels slapped to together with chewing gum and spit.

The kind of film only a mother could really love.

Whatever the project's "reality," it's insightful as well as entertaining, and the inclusion of real interviews with people both inside and outside the business means it functions as both an intelligent critique and a dire warning.

The kids are fine, the original songs range from OK to wretched, and Barney is annoying as ever -- even more so, given his big-screen size and Dolby-enhanced guffaw.

Flawed, but fascinating, this somber adaptation of David Guterson's award-winning novel is sometimes sluggish and difficult to follow, but it's also unexpectedly poetic.

Impressively stylish but curiously empty.

Despite a terribly conceived coda, Luke and his brothers have mostly succeeded, thanks in large part to sharp dialogue, a solid vintage soundtrack (Rick Nelson's "Garden Party" features prominently) and some great older actors -- Cassel is a particular standout -- from the heyday of American cinema.

Heartfelt but only intermittently interesting documentary.

On a miniscule budget, Ghobadi conveys the terror of war, while the beautifully edited sequence in which Iranian villagers make bricks resembles nothing so much as a choreographed dance number.

A modest but well-done film with a little something for everyone.

Not even the high-caliber talents of Gene Hackman and Morgan Freeman can save this stagy, ridiculously over-baked psychological thriller.

This otherwise amiable family film plods whenever the action returns to dry land.

Character and plot are the main event, and the film's got both in spades.

Members of what used to be referred to euphemistically as the "raincoat crowd," will probably enjoy Winterbottom's experiment more than most.

A little like a leisurely surf through YouTube.

Zizek as a larger-than-life figure who manages to engage you even when you're not entirely sure what he's going on about.

It's a bit of 60s idealism wedged in what basically looks like a hip-hop music video.

The downtime between deaths has never been duller, and the Rube Goldberg-type death scenes are so poorly staged that it's difficult to figure out what's about to happen and to whom.

Distinguishes itself from other such projects by dealing less with the event itself than its devastating aftershocks.

Aside from some unnecessarily crude stereotypes, Eddie Murphy's least-painful comedy in years has a certain peculiar charm.

Huge in scope and beautifully shot on location in South America, this ambitious production is undone by terrible casting choices.

Yes it's as corny as Kansas in August, but this admittedly formulaic sports drama is base on a true story and has something important to say about the fate of many small Midwestern American towns whose popular sports teams fall victim to school consolidation.

Even adventurous moviegoers who are familiar with Bruno Dumont's previous features...may be taken aback by the intensity of this shocker.

The pacing is suspenseful and acting is actually pretty good, even if accents are no one's strong suit.

The film's real star is the stunning Montana landscape, beautifully captured by cinematographer Paul Ryan.

It honestly delivers the goods without all the preachy moralizing about violent entertainment and cultural ruin.

Clearly, it's not for everyone. Extra points for a great electronic soundtrack, striking widescreen cinematography and an unapologetically freaky attitude.

The ending doesn't really work, and Pla tends to overplay what's already a larger-than-life character, but Neron is perfect as the striking and cucumber-cool countess.

The cast, however, is great -- Crudup and Duchovny in particular share a fun chemistry that's just toilet-obsessed enough to be absolutely believable.

Law-abiding Americans who hand off a solid chunk of their salaries to the IRS might be interested in what filmmaker Aaron Russo has to say on the subject of income tax.

The terrific soundtrack, which includes the Only Ones' "Another Girl, Another Planet" and New Order's most excellent "Temptation," is heavily weighted towards the '80s, which is exactly as it should be.

Gutierrez keeps some of Leonard's tart dialogue, but not enough to hide the fact that the story has no momentum -- those gratuitous shots of pro-sufers shooting curls don't compensate -- and there's zero chemistry between the whiny Wilson and Foster, who has yet to make the transition from model to actress.

Moritsugu's film is really just a loose collection of encounters between characters that at times barely hangs together.

Starts with a bang and ends in a long, protracted whimper.

This solid, if familiar, neo-noir premise is nevertheless given a fresh spin by the funky NYC locales, the dubwise hip-hop soundtrack, the terrific chemistry between Brody and the underrated Seda and the one and only Pam Grier.

By the film's downbeat climax, Cerda's dread of death and uncertainty about digging too deeply into what's better left buried have become palpable, and The Abandoned lingers beneath the skin as any decent horror movie should.

Forgoing any voice-over commentary, these now-familiar images regain their original power to shock with the sheer enormity of the event.

A few funny bits float the film for a while -- it's always nice to see Peters onscreen, no matter what she's doing -- but it's really as showcase for Marcus, who also wrote the script.

While kids of all ages will want to see it, the movie is loud and occasionally brutal, and while the body count is relatively low, it's still pretty scary stuff.

The play for the heartstrings is so cold and calculated that the movie's sentimentality feels as synthetic as its hero, and the philosophy is simpleminded and lazy.

There's a lot of talent on display here: Dukakis has never been better and once again Fitzgerald proves himself to be a filmmaker of unfailing sensitivity, capable of transforming what could have been distastefully flip or overly lachrymose into something humorous but deeply heartfelt.

Misbegotten mess.

It's not nearly as funny as "The Waterboy" and has little of "The Wedding Singer's" goofy charm, but die-hard Adam Sandler fans -- whose numbers are legion -- will find plenty to laugh at.

In the final analysis it all feels very much like a successful acting exercise that while psychologically acute, doesn't really bring much more to the table than what we've already gleaned from a few episodes of "Oz."

Once the star of some of the finest movies of the '70s and '80s, Keaton has begun making just this kind of chick-flick comedy with increasing regularity at least since 1996's "The First Wives Club," and it's gotten so she's not even trying to get into character anymore.

Director Mike Barker has delivered a film that proves there's life left in the old genre yet, and does so with style, intelligence and surprisingly little violence.

Beneath the heavy accents, wild gesticulating, slaps to the head and garish flocked wallpaper, there's an awful lot of heart.

No doubt captures some of the horror and the chaos of the actual situation, but it makes for a loud, often confusing, and always bloody two and a half hours.

Surprisingly humor-free. Worse, with the exception of Cornwell's brilliant Bowie, the impersonations aren't particularly good, and can be found in any two-bit comedian's repertoire.

Feels more like a 90-minute pilot for a TV series than a feature film.

Anyone who understands the meaning of the title or catches all the frog references scattered through writer-director Martin Curland's feature debut will have a head start understanding this confused and confusing comedy.

Kenan and Kel share a wonderful comic chemistry that has a lot in common with the anarchic goofiness of Abbott and Costello or Martin and Lewis, leavened with a good deal more mutual affection.

Shot for next to nothing, Buck's film features some lovely cinematography, two strong performances from newcomers Monda and Kelly, and a funny bit by Nancy Daly as Roberta's sweet 'n' sour boss.

Stovall's film could have been a little shorter and a lot tighter.

No one does deranged quite like Kathy Bates (the film's running gag involving Bates and the delicacies of Cajun cuisine is hilarious).

The Sisyphean ordeal at the heart of the film strongly recalls Roman Polanksi's 1958 short "Two Men and a Wardrobe," while Lachow's loose, improvisatory approach -- as well as the occasional self-indulgence -- feels more like Henry Jaglom.

It begins with a stale Hitler joke and ends with a miraculous quick-save that demonstrates just how poorly the Holocaust is served by the life-affirming requirements of Hollywood features.

If your idea of a good time at the movies is watching two grown men go at it with fists and shivs and nasty wilderness booby-traps, then you're in luck.

In a film in which the star talks graphically about the size of her vagina and ex-lovers appear as themselves to call her a whore, there might be such a thing as too much honesty.

It's a far more interesting film; unfortunately, it's locked inside a maudlin coming-of-age story that barely registers.

Much of it will probably go right over the heads of kids who aren't familiar with classic movies or the naughtiness of Eddie Izzard.

Ichaso tells Piñero's story through a sometimes disorienting series of flashbacks and flash-forwards, fracturing the time frame to suit the film's internal rhythms, rather than any coherent time line.

However stale the material, Lawrence's delivery remains perfect; his great gift is that he can actually trick you into thinking some of this worn-out, pandering palaver is actually funny.

There are two stunning battle sequences, and that rose-tinted bloodbath is a stroke of the eccentric genius for which Stone is famous.

It's a beautifully constructed, often disturbing look at a day in the life of several down-at-the-heels denizens of Recife.

From the proposed constitutional amendment banning gay marriage and the president's opposition to the morning-after pill to his pandering to fundamentalist family groups, Cho has all things Bush-related in her crosshairs, and she's taking no prisoners.

It's not a total shock when this gay romantic comedy suddenly veers into to heavy S&M, non-consensual sex and suicide.

Unfortunately, that imagination flags early in the first sequel to the grisly 2004 sleeper hit, though the bang-up ending nearly makes it all worthwhile and it opens with a set piece worthy of its predecessor.

Supremely silly but undeniably fun sequel.

Irving's dead-serious sense of spiritual purpose is here replaced with weepy sentiment and saccharine comedy. But knee-deep in syrup, the film manages to stand on its own -- mainly due to a terrific performance from young Smith and a host of winning supporting players.

Tierney's so-serious script lacks any trace of humor, which might actually have made this depressing film feel a bit more real.

The boys' laddish catchphrase -- "Shut up!" -- is particularly irritating, especially since they never do.

For all the gushy feelings, the plight of women like Kiranjit, bound not only by domineering, often physically abusive husbands but by racism and oppressive cultural traditions as well, is poignantly portrayed.

They’re baaaaack.

The general level of mayhem, the sudden transformations that are Plympton's trademark moves and the pervasive irreverence will no doubt delight Plympton's legion of fans; others may find 80 minutes of these shenanigans exhausting.

Formulaic film recounts the tumultuous birth of Israel.

Stylish, well acted drama.

Totally daft and a lot of fun.

It's none too deep and a tad cartoonish, but also fast-paced, filled with quotable one-liners and often very funny.

This likable adventure is basically "Lassie" with scales and should appeal to the books' large audience of adolescent boys.

Throughout the film, doors slam, windows shatter and poor, battered Betsy wakes up screaming with tiresome regularity; even Sutherland appears bored by it all.

In the grand tradition of "Beerfest" and "Bladels of Glory," this insistently ludicrous -- and not entirely unfunny -- two-joke comedy satirizes an old Hollywood standby: the big-comeback sports movie.

It's neither romantic nor particularly funny.

The film looks great and makes sophisticated use of digital effects.

Though stylishly produced, this clumsy parable will probably engender more boredom than sequels.

The action has more to do with digital effects than true martial artistry, and is targeted squarely at adolescent boys too young to rent porn and gamers too lazy to yank their own joysticks.

Odd, quasi-mystical movie that’s too silly for adults to take seriously and frankly too weird for kids.

Too bad the film isn't nearly as elastic as the miraculous green goo: It can barely contain all the flubber-induced chaos and still make sense, but the filmmakers don't quit till they've run out of funny things for flubber to do.

Sacre bleu! Bumbling French police inspector Jacques Clouseau is back, and he's never been less funny.

Not everyone will be comfortable with a story that's as geared toward recruitment as any Army film, be it God's or Uncle Sam's.

Simply exhausting; it wants to be funny and sad and lighthearted and serious all at once.

Lee deserves a lot of credit for attempt the same kind of complex story structure Quentin Tarantino made look so easy in "Pulp Fiction": Like Tarantino's interlocking stories, Lee's four segments occur achronologically and come full circle in a neat twist at the very end.

If you're expecting anything resembling the beloved cartoon, you'll enjoy the title sequence and nothing else. If, however, you set your expectations just low enough, or are an easily satisfied 8-year-old, you might have a bit of fun.

Writer-director Richard Ledes' dreadfully misconceived, pitch-black, film-noir comedy seeks to find the humor in the post-WWII mental hygiene boom, and the result is way off target.

While not exactly in the same league as the visually dazzling "Excalibur" and saddled with cheap looking CGI effects, this Anglo-Italian co-production has quite a bit of fun finding a direct path from the fall of Rome to the birth of Arthurian legend.

It's really just "Rocky" in gleaming dress whites.

There's a fine line between subversively transgressive and just plain gross, and this coming-of-age-movies parody from Todd Stephens, who wrote and directed the charming and underrated "Gypsy 83," crashes right over it.

Too many musical montages break the momentum, but overall it's an engaging piece of work, regardless of which team you play for.

It now seems that style has completely replaced substance in Scott's films, and he leaves gaping holes in his heroine's character.

It's even louder and dumber than the first XXX, but if watching things fall down and go boom in a very big way makes you cheer, you're in luck.

Though it's quite possibly an even worse film than "Bruce Almighty," the sequel offers at least one consolation: The smug and increasingly unfunny Jim Carrey is replaced by the very talented Steve Carell.

A deep waste is more like it.

This is first Lee's first attempt at a war epic, but it feels like it's his very first film: What should have been an eloquent answer to the likes of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood -- with whom Lee justly took to task over the total absence of any black soldiers in "The Flags Of Our Fathers" -- is instead a patchy war-time drama.

Taylor, while perhaps a little small to become a real Vegas showboy, makes for a very charismatic hero, while Joaquin Baca-Asay's cinematography captures all the glitz and slightly tawdry glamour of the Vegas strip.

In what can only be described as a throwback to the awkward "gay" farces of the 1970s and '80s -- think "The Ritz" and "Partners -- this painfully uncomfortable buddy comedy trips all over itself to say something positive while still managing to offend. Worse still, it's just not funny.

We never see enough of the small compromises Willie Stark makes on the way up to fully grasp the tragedy of his fall. Some will undoubtedly find Penn's hamboned, spittle-lashing performance a bit much, but it's a pretty close to Warren's original conception.

An uncomfortable go at romantic comedy that belabors the same mistaken-for-gay premise as"In & Out," but without much of that film's charm.

The story's rhythm is so bogged down in unnecessary characterization that the film can hardly breathe.

It's a complicated plot, but one that leaves plenty of room for everything a fan could want: gunplay, swordfights, brutal mano a mano fisticuffs, motorcycle races, car chases, Japanese gangsters eating sushi off of topless women, and that old standby, a decapitated head in a box.

Ambling but never less than endearing.

The less said about Simpson the better; whatever her talents, she can't sell a simple reaction shot, and, perhaps sensing this, Coolidge's camera tends to drift south of her face.

With its thumping soundtrack, absence of body hair and a camera that practically pants over every bulge, curve and crack of the male form, the film is really closer to porn than a serious critique of what's wrong with this increasingly pervasive aspect of gay culture.

Gitai uses fictionalized characters to dramatize historical reality, and while minimalist in its presentation, the film becomes nearly operatic in its intensity.

Davis not only wrote and directed the film but edited it as well, all of which is no mean feat. Too bad she couldn't have lent some of her own gumption and self-assurance to her pathetic heroine.

It's all pretty rough going, but even with its microbudget there's enough blood, booty and bling to satisfy fans of the genre. It's also never dull, thanks to Silvera's restless pacing and a great reggae soundtrack.

The film desperately needs a stronger script; one with a few funny jokes would be nice.

Kids might find the sight of monkeys -- sorry, apes -- wrestling in outer-space funny, but unless they're unusually sophisticated, much will probably just confuse them.

True to its serial roots, this equally silly but undeniably entertaining sequel to "Underworld" (2003) picks up right where its high-grossing predecessor left off and offers more of the same.

Disco gets its due in this lightweight but entertaining look at the underground dance culture that flourished in New York City throughout the 1970s.

The entire movie is one big build-up to a twist that, while not exactly cheating, plays is an awfully cheap trick.

Sassone's hit-and-miss ethnic comedy is actually a retelling of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, with the Italian neighborhood of South Yonkers, N.Y., standing in for Verona.

Such a compellingly repulsive freak show it's hard to pay attention to any serious concerns.

There isn't enough by way of a story here to keep director Rosser Goodman and writer-star Brent Gorksi earnest but lethargic drama about a romantically stalled Angelino from petering out as well, but some decent performances from the likeable cast may be enough to hold your interest.

The cast is unusually good for this sort of film, which only makes the poor execution more regrettable.

For all the film's cleverness -- and it's often very clever -- it's as thin as its heroine.

Swank and Elba work hard for their paychecks, but Rea quite literally phones in his performance.

Cameron Diaz is the ideal guy's gal and Ashton Kutcher is, well, a guy. Together, they're a zero.

The surprise is that you won't hate it nearly as much as you expect -- thanks to a solid supporting cast, a cute cat and an even cuter Ricci -- and the manic pace will have the kids purring with delight.

The film is shamelessly presented by Miramax as "The Project Greenlight Movie," and writer-director Pete Jones's big break may ultimately prove a liability.

The film is hardly profound, but the form perfectly fits the content..

It's a real shame that the first half hour is a disorganized ramble that risks driving away the film's audience; a little artful editing would have gone a long way to fixing the problem.

The film is little more than a stylish exercise in revisionism whose point -- we create, then destroy our own monsters in order to assure ourselves we're human -- is no doubt true, but serves as a rather thin moral to such a knowing fable.

An unintentional parody of the kind of overwrought melodrama Pedro Almodovar once reworked to far better effect.

The trouble is that if you haven't seen the other entries in the cycle, or don't have all the characters committed to memory, you'll have trouble figuring out who anybody is or, in the end, what any of it is supposed to mean.

As if to prove that light romantic comedy can be just as difficult to stage as Shakespeare, Kenneth Branagh fails at both, simultaneously.

Neither very dark nor particularly funny.

The film is a gorgeous nocturne of surprisingly little substance, a sleek advert for youthful anomie that never quite equals the sum of its pretensions.

It all amounts to something less than an 80-minute Calvin Klein advertisement.

Not much to laugh about -- or shout about for that matter.

For all its shocking content, it remains a rather conventional psychological portrait of Oedipal attraction taken to a disturbing extreme.

The film is content to relentlessly scream "Boo!" behind the audience's back rather than provide any real thrills.

If it were possible for an entire state to sue for defamation of character, Iowa might have a strong case against writer, director and star Matt Farnsworth.

What's most offensive isn't the waste of a good cast, but the film's denial of sincere grief and mourning in favor of bogus spiritualism. Only devotees of Ouija boards and TV's "Crossing Over" will find anything of merit here.

There's no getting around the fact that Ross's whole cynical premise is based on the lurid male assumption that nubile, college-bound teens have few qualms about selling themselves, a fantasy as deluded as the targets of Ross's barbed arrows.

And if you can't figure out who [the bad guy] is the minute he first appears, you've either seen too few movies with mind-numbingly predictable plots or you've seen far too many.

Don't be put off: Hernandez's exquisite romance works on an emotional, as well as intellectual, level.

Well intentioned but unfocused, director John Henry Davis's debut feature tries to tackle two serious subjects at once: maintaining one's faith in a universe that's seemingly without meaning, and the ways in which scripture is used to justify anti-gay violence.

Meeske does offer insight into a way of life that may be finally gone for good.

Actually a marked improvement over the plodding and confusing original.

Dumb premises have driven some wonderful romantic comedies, but for all its vaguely mystical trappings, Prywes's film lacks the magic that makes them work.

The game cast does what it can -- it's a good thing Schreiber is naturally funny -- but the situation is hopeless. This is one wreck better left unexplored.

A coarse and unappealing black comedy.

It's a handsomely mounted but poky thriller undone by a fatally miscast lead.

The lesson -- that three into two won't go --has been learned by other improbably attractive couples in "bold" movies about youthful experimentation and its long-term consequences, but the word never seems to get around.

Compulsively watchable.

While butching up their hero, Moreton and cowriter Dennis Hensley left out one key ingredient: charisma -- for all his macho swagger, the guy's unbearable.