Kevin Maynard

At their trenchant, tuneful best, the Barenaked Ladies take flip comic spins on serious subjects (alcoholism, heartbreak). But offstage, they have nothing of substance to reveal.

The flat, gross-out live-action bits, directed by (surprise!) Peter and Bobby Farrelly, don't jive with the zippy, Tex Avery-style animated segments, directed by former storyboard artists Piet Kroon and Tom Sito.

Despite being full of Oscar-winning talent, this is still just a better-dressed, drawn-out episode of "Touched by an Angel."

Like its accordion-filled score, it's nothing but a golden moldie.

Li's light touch and explosive fighting skills deserve a better vehicle than this overcooked pot of New Jack suey.

What's right as rain with Diary is the casting.

An enjoyable female buddy caper -- more "Outrageous Fortune" than "Thelma and Louise."

Too much of a locker-room melodrama to make for great tragedy.

The film has an unabashed romantic tone that's matched by Wenders' usual flair for visual drama.

There's really nothing more to this by-the-numbers, ailment-of-the-week fodder dressed up with a classy cast.

It's the kind of flourish that makes you smile -- that makes you believe in the power of movies.

Simply a pleasant diversion rather the paean to crazy-in-love classics it would so like to be.

Captures the embarrassment of foreplay, but it could use a few lessons in the art of seduction

Like "Pollock," Nora is a convincing portrait of the intersection between creative genius and crazy, all-consuming love.

There's nothing remotely bizarre about this boy meets girl meets boy tale.

Never the heart-wrenching emotional experience it seems intended to be.

Come Undone is the quintessential gay date at the art house.

At best a vaguely Semitic episode of "The Wonder Years."

A watery cocktail of second-rate, Ab Fab-style bitchery and shameless schmaltz.

"Footloose" meets "The Full Monty" in Bootmen, a cliché-ridden tap dance drama.

Just try not to smile while watching Jump Tomorrow.

A sleek rip-off of "The Birds" that is fast, furious, and watchable, but lacking in the two elements most essential to a silly screamfest like this: scares and laughs.

A detective story without a solution and a coming-of-ager without discernable characters.

Affectionately skewers the age of polyester pants.

Never better than middling, despite its best intentions.

Makes for compulsive viewing.

An amiable but contrived bit of blarney.

Startlingly shallow even for a summer movie.

Fans starving for some song and dance celluloid may be satiated, but this movie version really shows the material's age.

A punishing tragedy that could best be described as the anti-"Shine."

The real reason to see it is Brian Cox, best known for being filmdom's other Hannibal Lecter (he played the role in Michael Mann's "Manhunter").

For all its pretense of critiquing our tabloid culture, it amounts to much ado about nothing.

Strictly where the boys are: posing, posturing, and talking engine envy.

Ultimately too slight and opaque to inspire much ardor.

It's so plot heavy it never finds its nimble comic rhythm.

The script is pure Disney formula. Dinosaur offers next to nothing in the way of variation.

The overlapping dialogue and the comedy of famous people playing self-variations is pure Altman (Leigh, not surprisingly, has worked in three Altman films).

Only Elaine May shines, in a weird and wonderful turn. Her loopy character has such a struck-by-lightning demeanor that she's always delightfully off in her own comic orbit even in the tritest of scenes.

The rapper-ever-increasingly-turned actor -- is having the time of his life, big pimp styling in a flashy wardrobe as he guts and struts.

Shows its roots early on: Mixing the high camp of "Strictly Ballroom" with Monty's gritty milieu, the film comes off as little more than a contrived composite, despite the best efforts of pros Rickman, Richardson, and Griffiths.

The only reason to sit through On the Line is for some entertaining, if fleeting, musical moments.

It's a coffee-table movie, but what saves it are a couple of performances.Rowlands puts a spin on every line reading, Harris quietly mines regret, and Shields, assured and sexy, has never been this good.

Makes for compulsive viewing even though its noirish plot doesn't make a lick of sense.

Too much of a study in formalism to register deeply on an emotional level.

Starts as light, fluffy fun but becomes so blithely preposterous that it ceases to exist.

The more we realize that we're stuck in the company of a totally relentless loser, the drearier the entire experience becomes.

Families already know exactly what they're in for, and they're likely to leave the multiplex high on the hum of a charming cast, sunny San Francisco locations, and a suitably happy ending.

Oddly, Bully's only moments of power come at the film's end, after the crime takes place.

A big disappointment. It's toe-tappin' tripe aimed squarely at the undiscerning Britney Spears set.

Badly photographed, clumsily edited, and lacking any discernable cinematic style.

For the most part, it's when the women do the singing -- that Songcatcher really comes alive.

One more attempt to pass off chopped liver as foie gras.

Covers some bases, but it feels like the Cliffs Notes version of a grander epic.

It's dull, two-dimensional, and totally toothless.

Despite the film's impressively epic look and an interesting cast of young and old actors, it ringingly sounds the same dour note over and over again.

Too often, the movie is more forced and frantic than actually funny.

Writer-director Harmony Korine seems more interested in churning your stomach than in warming your heart.

A mockumentary about small-town beauty pageants that's so confidently unfunny it's DOA.

This predictable romantic comedy outing has occasional flickers of ingenuity.

The movie's still thinner than a supermodel's waist. It's not just that the results are less than heavenly; it's that we don't know what the hell they are.

On the whole, this documentary is best-suited to hardcore fans.

It plays out like an endless series of scenes we've seen before.

Considerably less fun than a marathon of Star Search episodes.

It's amiable enough, but the only real opportunity here is to see Walken step out of the shadows.

Its emotional sweep is ultimately undercut by murky characterizations and generic plotting.

If you're looking for refuge from summer movie bombast, it's frequently intoxicating.

This fictionalized, frequently stomach-churning biography of Australian criminal Mark Chopper Read features the most bloody ear-severing scene since "Reservoir Dogs."

Engagingly silly sub-"Moonlighting"-style banter.

An audacious but underconceived blend of fiction and documentary that questions the idea of race and identity in America.

There's no spirit of adventure to separate this one from the pack.

A modestly entertaining ride.

But jaw-dropping trailer aside, there isn't much movie here.

This one's all labor pains, and, in the end, nothing gets delivered.

This bed-swapping crime story is ultimately too protracted, but Piñeyro's direction is richly atmospheric, full of noir shadows and strong period detail.

The wrap-up's pretty charming, as are the performances, but the film's too heavy for its soufflé-ready ingredients.

This avenging cat gets no action whatsoever. Neither does the movie, despite a terrific cast and a heap of street style.

This is nothing more than one more run-of-the-mill, surprise-free, suspense programmer.

All of the interviewees are compelling, whether proudly showing off bruises and bullet holes from on-the-job scuffles, or voicing their opinions about how the profession has changed.

Reitman has truly lost his gift for comic rhythms, cluttering up the film with running yuks that aren't that funny the first time and certainly don't improve with repetition.

The movie is as schmaltzy as I'd feared, and yet De Salvo does elicit some nice performances from her ensemble cast.

By the time Rock Star reaches its cop-out, "All About Eve"-ish ending, the only thrashing that should be going on is of the filmmakers, for bungling such a promising premise.

Born Romantic feels less like it was born than assembled, in a kooky Britcom factory. It's no "Four Weddings and a Funeral," but it's certainly a happier conception than last month's "Maybe Baby."

As classic romantic comedy goes, it ain't no "Tootsie."

All that this really amounts to is a lot of hot-headed, hairy men threatening each other -- whenever they're not dancing on table tops, that is.

Every frame of Scott's film is gorgeously lurid and baroque, but it just hangs there like bad art, even during the gore-spilling, Grand Guignol climax.

The most obvious casualty ends up being Jennifer Jason Leigh, an actress known for her fearless choices, who is literally pissed on for her trouble.

Despite good performances and moments of spectacle, it seems to go on longer than the Cultural Revolution.

Good old-fashioned romantic entertainment, just restrained enough to skirt schmaltz.

A matted hairball of a kiddie flick that's alternately maudlin and slapstickishly violent.

Game boys and girls will be disappointed by this fast-paced but shockingly dull adaptation.

Offers nothing but tired "Red Shoe" Diaries-style sexploitation for the art-house crowd.

A bit too bloodless to howl about.

In its attempts to chart a young girl's journey from innocence to experience, The Invisible Circus ends up having all the heft of a Nancy Drew mystery decked out in a tie-dyed T-shirt and peasant skirt.

Hits the wall and runs off the rails. They should've stuck to shtick.

Only really comes to exuberant life during the musical numbers.

Relevant message aside, there's no good reason to sit through photographer Neal Slavin's directorial debut.

Wholly predictable and implausible plotting, thin characterizations, and stilted dialogue.

Ultimately, Grateful Dawg will only be of real interest to musicology students and diehard Deadheads.