Kevin Maynard

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.

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.

About Lustig's direction. Badly employing all kinds of tricks like alternating film speed, jump cuts, and various color tints, she ultimately overpowers her actors and does in her own film.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's all well-acted and eerily compelling, but the shocker ending is patently implausible.

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."

For all its wit and sharp casting, State and Main is way too pleased with itself to be funny or endearing.

A seven-course melodrama.

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").

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

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

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

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

Eventually succumbs to fatal overlength.

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

Just try not to smile while watching Jump Tomorrow.

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

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

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

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

Ultimately too slight and opaque to inspire much ardor.

Billed cleverly as a comedy from the heart that goes for the throat. If only Brooks had had the guts to avoid the schmaltz.

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

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

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

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

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

This predictable romantic comedy outing has occasional flickers of ingenuity.

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.

A bit too bloodless to howl about.

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

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

Sentenced its audience to a maudlin death.

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

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

That's just not enough to recommend it, though it does have one moment of real justice: The person sentenced to jail has truly bad hair.

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

It's a wonderful reminder of the importance of music in the movies.

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

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.

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.

Beautifully performed and filmed, but tiresomely schematic episodes like this one cause us to experience major sensory deprivation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

Deserves to be applauded for not casting Freddie Prinze Jr., but this sloppy, somnolent, strung-together flick pales when compared to such other teenage riffs on classic literature as "Clueless" and "10 Things I Hate About You."

Affectionately skewers the age of polyester pants.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

Startlingly shallow even for a summer movie.

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

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

Makes for compulsive viewing.

Only really comes to exuberant life during the musical numbers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A modestly entertaining ride.

An amiable but contrived bit of blarney.

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

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

A barrage of dangling plot strands, inconsistent characterizations, and suspense-free shootouts.

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.

Considerably less fun than a marathon of Star Search episodes.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

Never better than middling, despite its best intentions.

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.

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

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