Maitland McDonagh

The acting is top-notch and some scenes are authentically well-observed.

The film's most fully realized performance is Chris Cooper's.

Offbeat and ravishingly beautiful.

Whether this measured exercise in romantic melancholy moves you to tears or bores you to them is probably a matter of personal susceptibility to the sting of bitter regret for love lost.

Writer-director Colin Minihan’s thriller is tightly plotted and delivers a couple of terrific shocks, shocks that are firmly rooted in character

The plot isn't what makes this movie worth watching anyway -- it's the performances and the ambiance.

You don't have to be a chem-lab wonk to be seduced by the seven scientists who discuss their work and lives in this engaging film.

This stunningly photographed documentary captures extraordinary images of ocean-based life.

The result is sometimes strained, but often fresh and funny. And the sequence in which the entire cast sings "Avenues and Alleyways," bombastic '70s crooner Tony Christie's lush ode to thug life, is worth the price of admission in itself.

A sweet-natured coming-of-age/raising-of-consciousness drama.

Broomfield's film is typically self-aggrandizing but filled with unsettling moments.

The story works, in that everything fits together, but the film feels hollow and unfinished, like a run-through for a movie rather than the movie itself.

By trying to be both a portrait of Rijker and an introduction to women's boxing, it shortchanges both subjects.

And if you never learn much about the man behind the mask, well, that's as Nomi would have wanted it.

This film's rhythms suggest nothing so much as a weirdly macho telenovela, full of family drama, isn't-it-ironic humor and maudlin twists of cruel fate.

A creepy, clever, film buff's delight of a fantasy.

It's essentially an urban variation on "The Hitcher" (1986) with nothing much going on underneath.

A murder mystery wrapped in an experimental portrait of life in a rural Hungarian town, writer-director Gyorgy Palfi's engrossing feature debut is a breathtaking feat of filmmaking.

An equally discomfiting mix of popular science and ballyhoo, serves up amazing images of the bizarre life that flourishes in the deepest ocean depths.

Togman, an associate professor in political science at Seton Hall University, paints a clear-eyed and unsentimental picture of Sheree's efforts, and there are no happy endings for her or for Mary, who's quietly battling breast cancer as she helps Sheree line up paperwork and negotiate with creditors. The film leaves them both where they started: struggling.

Rescued from its inclination to smug, celebrity-testimonial-driven hagiography by Gehry's own considerable charm and infectious enthusiasm.

The action is confined to a single set and atmosphere is appropriately claustrophobic, but the image quality is harsh and flat. This accentuates the oppressive meanness of Vince's hotel room, but makes for some unpleasant viewing.

While Rachel's story is fiction, many of its incidents are rooted in historical events carefully researched by Soeteman and the film's briskly staged action and stunning reversals of fortune ensure that its two and a half hours fly by.

This intimate, bittersweet romance is proof that a familiar story and the trappings of a done-to-death era can still seem fresh and engaging in the right hands.

Fatuous twaddle posing as a REALLY DEEP consideration of what's wrong with our crazy, mixed-up world, Matthew Ryan Hoge's slick but deeply dumb film unfolds in a picture-perfect suburb of Anywheresville, USA.

Though the film's downbeat ending was softened for U.S. release, it's still a long way from happy.

There are no laughs to be had here, though, unless you count nervous titters and frat-boy sniggers at the very thought of, you know.

A lovely homage to a charismatic star.

Shopsin is a small piece of New York history, and Mahurin's film is the portrait he deserves: small, noisy and oddly engaging beneath the bluster.

David Lynch lite.

Say what you will about feel-good films anchored by feisty old broads, the English have a knack with them and Stephen Frears' fact-based tale of a formidable, aristocratic widow who makes it her mission to put naked girls on the London stage is delightful.

Less a history of a specialty that scarcely existed before the '70s -- men habitually donned wigs and dresses to double for women -- than a portrait of two women, one beginning her career and the other in the twilight of hers.

The result is handsome and logical, but missing the spark that would make it thrilling.

So adorable you don't ever mind that the story's so slight it's in danger of shriveling up and blowing away, or that it drags a little in the middle.

Censorship, madness, social rebellion and the power of art.

The lanky, wide-eyed Tautou is so phenomenally charming -- her smile could sweeten vinegar -- as to make Amelie irresistible.

Tricky thriller relies on its smoothly unrippled surface, leisurely pacing and slightly awkward performances to create a false sense of security that sets up viewers for a shock when it takes an abrupt turn into Patricia Highsmith territory.

Affectionate, melancholy and anchored by a well thought-out performance from Sean Penn.

Familiar story, electrifying execution.

You don't have to be a Trek weenie to have a good time at this spoof cum homage to fandom and the enduring appeal of cheesy TV, but it helps.

To make the package look fresh, there's a pile of complications.

Homey but not especially interesting trips down the Ellis and Cheney family lanes.

But the movie is long and didactic, undermined by the faintly pious air of an educational slide show.

There's a terrific movie buried in Woody Allen's tale of two American girls broadening their horizons in Barcelona, and every once in a while tantalizing glimpses penetrate the twee narration and mannered performances.

Unlike most mainstream filmmakers, Ratnam doesn't try to include something for everyone, but he does deliver several handsome production numbers.

Alnoy's narrative is better suited to a trashy thriller than a vehicle for weighty political themes.

Ironically, it's most engaging when the focus shifts to Hurt's matter-of-factly amoral enabler, whose glistening suits and jewel-colored shirt-and-tie combinations suggest a particularly poisonous tropical reptile.

Kusama's impressive feature debut is an affecting coming-of-age drama whose story is familiar without being hackneyed.

De Mello's dedication is inspiring enough to speak for itself.

It's not about sex -- it's about Barbra and Bette and the Village People: That's the lesson of this cheerful, mainstream comedy about tabloid TV, Hollywood sophistry and family values that finally gets discussion about gay people out of the bedroom and into the record store, where it belongs.

Xiao's bittersweet film is superficially a swoony love letter to the cinema. But her valentine has a hidden sting, rooted in some hard truths about movie mania.

Intelligent and engaging, this documentary about rave culture overcomes the challenge inherent in its subject; rave's appeal is by nature nonanalytical and experiential, while documentary films play to the intellectual observer.

Past and present, reality and fiction blend seamlessly into each other in Satoshi Kon's dream-like animated drama.

This teen-oriented gloss on Shakespeare's tale is cute and occasionally quite funny, but it's undermined by slack direction.

The soundtrack, which relies heavily on melancholy Sinatra standards like "The Good Life," "This Town" and "Summer Wind," casts perfectly modulated warning shadows over the film's light, bright look.

Portabella has no interest in conventional biography -- it's hard not to suspect that he included the tale of Felix Mendelsson (Daniel Ligorio) discovering the score for the "St. Matthew Passion" wrapping a meat delivery precisely BECAUSE it's probably apocryphal.

If this new film seems less prescient than its predecessor, it's only because reality is rapidly catching up with Cronenberg's warped imagination.

It's a lavish entertainment that revels in lurid colors and yet more lurid emotions.

It's a show we don't see, presumably because of issues with music rights, and while "much ado about nothing" might be overstating things, after more than an hour and a half of buildup, it would have been nice to see Wu-Tang perform.

Though the film verges on hagiography, Angio unearthed a treasure trove of fascinating clips, from the bored-looking writer-director leafing through his program at the 1971 Tony Awards.

A sickly soft-swirl confection of low laughs and smarmy sentiment.

But it's also old-fashioned family drama that invites audience participation ("Don't you go making eyes at your cousin's husband, you little slut!"), and is surprisingly satisfying, in a gooey kind of way -- like macaroni and cheese or peach cobbler, perhaps.

Seeks to set the record straight. But Gere's sneaky, ingratiating presence keeps it dishonest to the last frame.

Impassioned, unwieldy and padded with celebrity interviews.

Outsourced is a sweet, good-natured surprise that takes the cliches out of an overworked genre and makes them seem almost fresh and entirely charming.

The performance sequences are in color, while the recording sequences are in B&W. Jacquot's strategy allows his cast the benefit of being able to give full performances (Raimondi is a particularly good film actor) while demonstrating vividly that the beauty and power of the opera reside primarily in the music itself.

This lushly produced, lightweight romance embraces every cliche of the genre without so much as an ironic shrug.

A sober, earnest drama about child abuse.

There's nothing subtle about Pelegri and Harari's culture-clash romp, but it's sometimes frantically funny; that it's thoroughly forgettable is an issue only if you expect it to do more than poke easy fun at the thorny issues it raises.

The horror of LaBute's articulate, self-deluded characters is that they're both sharply drawn and just vague enough that you can insert face here.

MacKinnon's film draws on his past as a youth worker and features a standout performance from first-time performer Harry Eden.

If you ever wondered why they call it "the curse," this movie will enlighten as it entertains.

It's just a clever, pointed little fable about the price of complacent conformity, slavish worship of the status quo, and trading freedom for the illusion of safety, wrapped in a sugary-sweet, Jordan-almond-colored coating that looks good enough to eat.

Hugely entertaining.

The final scenes pack a surprising melodramatic punch.

Both a biographical portrait and an exploration of the tradition of Jewish liturgical music in America.

The film's flippant style ultimately undermines its material - Rosen's decision not to immediately identify interviewees is especially irritating - and, ironically, makes the American art scene of the '60s appear as shallow and trendy as its detractors always claimed it was.

It's a hugely entertaining slice of sunbaked Gothic.

The movie opens with the dismal statistic that most teachers quit after three years. Akel and Mass see the humor in the situation, but the laughs are small and sad.

Gosling is the film's salvation: He really is good enough to make this underwritten fantasy feel as though it amounts to something. But it doesn't.

A delirious fever dream of pulp-western conventions by way of 1950s Hollywood melodrama, Thai filmmaker Wisit Sasanatieng surreal oddity unfolds in heavily manipulated colors so rich they seem ready to leap off the screen, punctuated by spasms of over-ripe dialogue, floridly dramatic songs and maniacal villainous laughter.

Shock-rocker Rob Zombie's loving homage to flat-out nasty horror films of the 1970s will leave many post-"Scream" (1996) horror fans cold because of what it's not. It's not slick or glossy. It's not funny or self-referential.

The film's underlying notion, that imperfection is the essence of humanity and the pursuit of bland flawlessness a kind of soul-killing drug, is far more compelling than its story of clichéd teen angst.

The flashy spectacle of intersecting narratives and its crosscutting and fractured chronology nearly overwhelms the film's simple message, in this case that despite divisions of language, race and geography, we're all connected.

The key to enjoying the fourth installment in this testosterone-fueled franchise is accepting that it's a live-action cartoon that makes no effort to conform to the laws of gravity, plausibility or common sense.

The wonder of it all is how bitterly funny the complications are, especially as filtered through Dedee's monstrously self-centered voice-over.

Gallo's poor, poor pitiful me routine wears very thin, very fast, but Ricci is incandescent, a softly-glowing dumpling of a dream-girl in powder-blue fishnet tights and sparkly tap shoes: She's the diamond in the dirt.

Freakies fans will swoon.

There's nothing more to it than meets the eye, but Bertino understands the mechanics of suspense and knows how to use them.

Why would anyone who wanted his or her film to be taken seriously saddle it with a cutesy title like this?