Marc Mohan

Spielberg manages to give us a Lincoln for our times, inspiringly heroic but demonstrably human.

With gadgets, girls and globe-trotting held to a minimum, Skyfall, could, for long stretches, be mistaken for just another 21st-century thriller, albeit a well-made and intelligent one.

John Hawkes has, until now, been known primarily as the skilled character actor who brought an earthy authenticity to roles on TV's "Deadwood" and the Oscar-nominated "Winter's Bone." With The Sessions, he makes his mark as a bona fide member of screen acting's elite. And he does it while barely moving a muscle.

This film could serve as a potent tool for those trying to change 40 years of public policy.

It has laser gun fights, forbidden love, and a rollicking group breakout from a fascistic old folks' home. What more could anyone want?

As unpleasant as so many of its going-on are, Wake in Fright works both as an early instance of "Ozploitation" cinema and as a harsh critique of Australian colonialism and the absurdity of trying to bring so-called civilization to this vast arid wilderness.

War of the Buttons means well. But ultimately there's only marginally more edge to this treatment of World War II than there is to the average episode of "Hogan's Heroes."

The movie is stunningly perfunctory, soul-crushingly oblivious to its own lack of originality, and, to be blunt, just plain dumb.

The environment is one of unrelenting cruelty and misanthropy, which certainly brings out the novel's darker themes, but can be something of a slog to watch.

The period details are spotless, kindling memories of those days of yellow ribbons and nightly news updates on the fate of the American hostages.

Consistently surprising, Seven Psychopaths ultimately plays like a combination of Quentin Tarantino's self-aware, savvy ultraviolence and Charlie Kaufman's reflexive head trips. And that potentially awkward combo goes down like a chocolate-vanilla swirl cone, only with more guns.

Director Guillaume Canet, who previously teamed with Cluzet on the excellent thriller "Tell No One," capably handles the sprawling cast.

Frankenweenie seems like a genuine effort to pass along this love to the next generation, and if one kid who sees it goes home and demands to watch another movie featuring a giant turtle, it will have done its job.

This ode to indie legitimacy proves to be too cartoonish to feel real and not outrageous enough to be memorable.

While the third act inevitably bogs down a bit in gunplay and chases, there are more than enough moments of visual wonder and storytelling surprise to make it worth the trip.

More convincing are the performances from Jenkins and Allison Janney, as another of Jesse's old profs. Both these pros bring more depth to their supporting characters than either of the promising, but, alas, young, leads do to theirs.

One of the most lifeless and predictable movies you're likely to see this year.

As the action moves from Vienna to Paris to London to Denver to Phoenix and then back again, the vignettes blur into one another.

Well-intentioned but underdeveloped and self-satisfied, it feels at times like the ultimate movie for the millennial generation, or at least its stereotype.

It takes an almost bracingly explicit attitude toward issues of sexual intimacy, to the degree that just seeing this film might count as therapy for some married couples. The PG-13 rating is justified, and should be taken literally, though I can't imagine too many parents bringing their kids to this one. Talk about an awkward car ride home. 

The relationship between Trishna and Jay never rings as true as it needs to for the downbeat third act to resonate the way it was presumably intended to do.

Perhaps the most curious omission from the movie Grassroots is that there's no mention at all of the classic "Simpsons" episode "Marge vs. the Monorail."

Predictable, contrived, sappy and, ultimately, against all odds, remarkably fulfilling.

For a film that shows the folly of failing to take the female orgasm seriously, Hysteria ends up taking a silly angle on a potentially fascinating slice of secret history.

The movie shifts awkwardly from slapstick firearms training sessions to tender campfire kisses to straightforward suspense (who are those mysterious trench-coated figures?). Combined with unconvincing behavior from all of its characters, that's enough to leave this a disappointing realization of a potentially fascinating idea.

The whole thing has the feel of a fact-based dinner-table anecdote absurdly puffed up to feature length.

Graham is the most affecting character by far, having returned to India for the first time in 40 years to track down an old lover. His story unfolds in surprising, deftly handled ways, and could easily have justified a film of its own.

This being an Italian film, and Gianni being such a hapless, kindhearted aspiring Lothario, make this perhaps the sweetest movie ever made about a guy trying to cheat on his wife.

The potential for an interesting story is high. Unfortunately, Miller's autobiographical tale, as told in Blue Like Jazz, squanders this potential by failing to take place in a recognizably real world.

It's an ending that may alienate some viewers, but will jolt others out of their comfort zones and into an appreciation of genuinely brave storytelling.

Kaurismäki is a master of expressive stillness for whom inaction often speaks louder than words, and the performances he elicits are perfectly pitched, including young Miguel's.

It offers a rare look at the everyday life of a spiritual leader, so that even if Yeshi's dilemma never seems that urgent or vital, My Reincarnation remains a compelling, universal film.

The experience of psychological depression has been described with a variety of metaphors. William Styron called it "darkness visible," and Winston Churchill euphemized his bouts as "the black dog." In typically grandiose fashion, though, Lars von Trier tops them all.

This is more Errol Morris' or Truman Capote's territory than Herzog's, and his patient, determinedly respectful interviews with members of the American underclass bear a whiff of European condescension.

It's a topic that's been handled in films before, perhaps most notably in Jane Campion's "Holy Smoke," but Durkin offers the most persuasively believable peek into the psyche of such a character I've ever seen.

The performances are solid, the cinematography is stunning, and the setting is intriguing. But the whole thing feels bloodless, hitting us over the head with its understatedness. Anytime a film's soundtrack features The Shins, James Taylor, and Nick Drake, you know you're in for an overly laid back time.

A harsh self-examination of the cynicism that has crept into every cranny of the political landscape. As such, it's absolutely a story of our times.

Thanks to a slew of engaging performances and a script that finds the sweet spot between crass and curdled, it's a winner.

The only thing that could make this movie more French would be a guillotine.

Ultimately, though, this is a story about a conflicted, intelligent, flawed, moral woman making her way through her life.

The cinematography is crisp but sterile, and no one's clothes ever seem to get muddy or torn -- in short, there's no real sense of the atmosphere of a sticky, buggy, fetid jungle, and no intensity to a story that cries out for a sense of moral outrage.

There's a conflict between the film's need for some sort of closure and the messiness of the reality it depicts that leaves The Whistleblower even more unsatisfying than it was meant to be.

It's the rest of the movie, especially a grin-inducing final third, which makes "Apes" rise above the level of a typical sci-fi rehash.

Jumping repeatedly and randomly from present-day Shanghai to 1997 to 1829 and periods in between, the film has a pace that seems almost willfully tedious.

Sarah's story is harrowing and powerfully told, as she valiantly attempts to escape and return home with the key to free her brother. Director Gilles Paquet-Brenner doesn't stint on depicting the indignities and violence inflicted even on children, and Mayance's performance is exceptionally strong.

A compelling examination of a complex topic.

Weitz does it again here, turning what could have been another manifesto of liberal guilt into a genuinely moving tale of a father and son banding together in a hostile world.

Digitally shot, the film looks great, and the performances ooze charisma. The biggest star, though, may be Kinshasa itself, a roiling, barely cohesive sea of humanity that seems as if it could serve as a backdrop for some fascinating films for years to come.

It may not be the most memorable saga put on film, but as far as Miike is concerned, it doesn't have to be.

The storyline would appear trite and the message muddled even to someone who'd never heard the name Mel Gibson.

Whereas Carver writes about alcoholics, this movie is about alcoholism, which is completely different.

Thor meets the elevated expectations for superhero movies today, but doesn't exceed them. There's some sloppy plotting, which always shows a certain disregard for the audience's intelligence.

Director Martin Koolhoven doesn't take many narrative chances, but the somber, steely cinematography and convincing performances help to carry the day.

A mental workout of the most invigorating sort.

Ultimately, the story can be seen as the collision of two equally uncompromising belief systems, each its own form of fundamentalism. That neither benefits from the encounter should come as no surprise to anyone with the slightest knowledge of human history.

If you believe that, as one interviewee says, "Science is just another story," then these ideas may ring true. If you're looking for actual solutions to global problems, rather than ways to feel better about them, I Am will be a frustrating experience.

While the film is no groundbreaker, it is a paragon of elegance without austerity, and there's nothing like being in the confident hands of a master filmmaker.

It wallows in misery so much that the two-hour experience ends up being about as much fun as a real divorce.

With a self-plagiarizing premise, lifeless performances and a clunky-to-say-the-least screenplay, this star-studded flop is one of 2010's most egregious wastes of cinematic talent.

They could have made a harder-hitting, more realistic film, but then no one would have gone to see it.

The increasingly unlikely escapades culminate in a finale that's as narratively lazy as it is morally questionable, lending further credence to the voices that proclaimed Haggis absurdly overpraised for the 2004 Oscar-winner "Crash."

Rather like a four-hour episode of "Today": painless enough, leavening superficiality with substance, allowing you to watch and still do the laundry without missing anything vital.

It isn't a lack of realism or philosophical consistency that rankles most, though, but rather the anticlimactic story and uninteresting characters that make this Hereafter not very sweet at all.

Zach Braff has come up with a charming, funny, melancholy ode to twentysomething angst.

Director Bent Hamer ("Factotum") keeps things drily amusing throughout.

Prolific documentarian Alex Gibney takes a labyrinthine, detail-laden story and crafts an attention-holding film, polemical without ranting.

A bloodless film that aims for wry but leaves you merely asking "why?"

The film paints a by now familiar picture of suburbia as a pit of dysfunction, though some nice dark-humored moments and generally fine performances make up for a lot.

The plot, as hinted, goes strictly by the "How April Got Her Groove Back" book, but it must be said that the performances push it a notch above pedestrian.

The ensemble can't bring enough, though, to overcome the unoriginal setup and predictable story arc.

Bottle Shock never quite connects. And considering the more recent transformation of Napa, the movie's triumphant ending rings a bit false.

A well-acted, convincing portrait of a successful but overworked film producer.

Whether Waddington's film comes across as hypnotic or boring, mythic or pretentious, may depend on the viewer's mood or tolerance for quasi-allegorical storytelling. But, as the women in House of Sand learn, patience can sometimes be its own reward.

Worst of all, not once does Mulder answer his cell phone to hear those immortal lines: "It's Scully. There's been another death."

The only problem is that he's been such a shallow, ridiculous figure that exhuming any real sympathy for the guy is a Herculean task.

Intense, well-acted love story.

Akin is German-born but of Turkish heritage, and his films have often been concerned with the particular clashes and conflicts between those cultures. This film, though, does so in a much more oblique way than 2004's "Head-On."

The politics of the story come to life through the vivid characterizations of a uniformly excellent cast.

Overall, the trip successfully embodies the spirit of the original Magic Bus man, Ken Kesey, whom these modern-day pranksters visit in a poignant scene filmed just months before his death.

Cop Out wouldn't be as disappointing if it hadn't been made by Smith, but for those who dig the vulgar wit of his early, funny films, it's not just stupid, it's sad. At least the worst film of the year also bears its most forgettable title.

What really separates Zatoichi from a run-of-the-mill action pic is the sense of humor -- and even more than that, the sense of fun -- that Kitano brings to it.

Moderately amusing.

A kid-meets-curmudgeon comedy that transcends its formulaic skeleton thanks both to the veteran actor's charm and a smarter-than-average screenplay.

If the two most gorgeous people in the world alternately bantering and making out isn't enough to compel the attention of the average American moviegoer, then we are truly doomed.

While these interviews are affecting, and the movie talks about suicide in a refreshingly straightforward manner, it's the images of these actual deaths that induce horrified gasps.

Nothing shakes this pathetic attempt at humor from its self-satisfied torpor.

With a level-gazed approach to its milieu, empathetic but clear-eyed, Winter's Bone practically makes up for 40 years of "Deliverance"-style hillbilly cartoons.

The halting dialogue, full of awkward pauses and restarts, seems improvised in the way that only carefully scripted material can.

The first of von Trier's efforts to be certifiably farcical.

The acting is flawless, the world feels utterly real, and the finale accomplishes the miracle of finding in the everyday world something profound.

If the title hadn't already been taken by another equally strained recent comedy, the new Kevin Costner vehicle could have been dubbed "Idiocracy."

More a collection of character vignettes than a full-blown story, Garden Party nonetheless shows as much promise for its makers as it gives to its characters.

A twisty, darkly comic story of greed, betrayal and murderous misunderstandings.

Although 2012 is what they call "critic-proof," it's not immune to analysis. It depicts a world where no one, man or God, has much say in what happens to the planet, and where the survival of one family outweighs the deaths of billions.

The film verges on hagiography as one interviewee after another testifies to Dominique's positive influence on his nation, but in this case the cynical notion that there must be another side to the story is easy to tamp down.

The movie was solidly directed by Hollywood vet Lewis Milestone [All Quiet on the Western Front], but it's the performances by the two leads that takes it to another level. [23 Mar 2001]

The movie is simple fun.

This is a movie that, off-putting as it can be at times, deserves to be seen and heard in a theater, if only to observe the reactions of others to the hilarious gutter talk coming out of Winslet's mouth.