K.J. Doughton

I found myself in a tug-of-war between enjoying Bottle Shock as entertaining fluff, and thinking that there might be a more serious, gritty, complicated story lurking behind the grab-ass soap opera.

As he did with “The English Patient,” director Minghella performs a miraculous juggling act, balancing his epic, sweeping story with the subtleties of character and detail that make Cold Mountain breathe.

Echoes Eastwood’s previous exploration of true-life violence, “Unforgiven,” by tracing how death and depravity stain one’s life for generations, leaving seeds to take root in each branch of a tainted family tree.

While it's too smart to be shelved on the porn rack, "YPF" (a neutered acronym for Young People F**king, its original title) shoots Judd Apatow-styled raunch into previously uncharted stratospheres of frank sexual humor.

In Mrs. Henderson Presents, Bob Hoskins lets it all hang out.

Check out The Life of Reilly, for a real-life example of carpe diem energy too pure and unrefined to be silenced by discrimination or negative family vibes.

"Kill Bill Vol. 1" was a pure action movie, in love with collisions of violent movement. “Vol. 2” relaxes the pace, allowing for extended monologues. Those who lamented the first film's lack of wicked word exchanges should delight in Carradine's final soliloquy.

Leave the Visine and wrapping papers at home for A/K/A Tommy Chong, a surprisingly clear-eyed, sober account of what it’s liked to be embraced by a culture, while loathed by the Powers That Be.

Meticulous in its descriptions of well-intended individuals caught up in these ferocious waves of street crime.

Despite its handsome cinematography, slathered in thick, neo-noir shades of red and blue, the film has no one to root for. Place your bets on Hoffman’s terrific portrayal of a weasely, wisecracking pervert, however, and you’re sure to get your money’s worth.

School of Rock kicks ass. It's one movie that definitely goes to eleven.

Although this ain't Hogwarts, there's full-scale witchery being practiced behind Magdalene's locked doors.

A frozen pile of reindeer droppings. The cinematic equivalent to passing a kidney stone, Zwigoff’s unholy foray into “dark comedy” gives us a suicidal, sociopathic drunk slinging swear words with a ferocity that would make Tony Montana wince.

There are no boring, expository sequences; no depressing, grown-up politics. Instead, Rodriguez gifts us with a kaleidoscope of energy and invention.

White and The Edge appear guarded, and perhaps a bit intimidated, by Page’s Yoda-like status.

The astonishingly gonzoid fight scenes from Ong Bak 2 might be the best ever filmed.

Longtime fans of John Woo, who have come to accept operatic, lead-slinging death dances as an integral part of the director’s powerful aesthetic, will probably be unsatisfied with this neutered variation on his earlier, superior works.

It joins “Rush,” “The Onion Field,” “Serpico,” “Seven,” “The French Connection,” Traffic, and “Prince of the City” as a grimy, hyper-real exploration of the emotional and psychological prices paid by cops.

Traveling faster than a fat line of blow snorted from mirror to nose, Cocaine Cowboys is all rush and no crash.

A mesmerizing documentary that shows the vulnerability -– and brutality -– that emerge when one is showered in recognition, only to have such fame pulled out from under him.