Marjorie Baumgarten

The imagery by cinematographer Michal Englert is stupendous, but the dialogue and plot by actor-turned-screenwriter Joshua Rollins, who also has a small role in the film, are a bit too minimal. Infinite Storm always shows the perils we face but never explains them.

The problem nipping at the designer heels of Confessions is not the state of the economy but, rather, the film's predictability.

Meyers has a good feel for contemporary comedy; it’s reality, however, that slips through her grasp.

Although the movie contains occasional moments of glimpsed accomplishment, Kansas City is for the most part a lame duck.

By the film's climax, following the plot movements has become merely complex rather than suspenseful.

Like the peanut butter that serves as a primary source of sustenance in the film, Adrift can be devoured in smooth and/or crunchy modes: high-seas romance or cataclysmic adventure. There are commendable aspects to recommend each approach, yet the final result is an uneasy blend.

It's a cuckoo's nest that's nicely feathered.

The relationship advice is all fairly boilerplate, much like the film itself, but these actors have made this a bankable romcom.

The amazing thing is that, despite such crass beginnings, Space Jam rises to the occasion and succeeds as an enjoyable piece of film entertainment.

The Little Hours is a farce that doesn’t really mock anything. It exists as if amusing itself were its only objective. In that, this troupe may have succeeded, but I feel compelled to throw back the film’s favorite phrase: “What the f--k?”

Intelligent and well-meaning, Rendition is nevertheless an oversimplified and uneven attempt to arouse righteous indignation among its viewers.

As Zamperini, Jack O’Connell is the film’s strongest asset. The actor holds our attention from beginning to end, making us care deeply about the man’s fate instead of becoming an empty icon of stoicism.

Stillman inserts chapter headings and written asides into the proceedings, but none of it helps explain what is before us. The authorial voice in Damsels in Distress lacks definition.

As with his previous film "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford," Dominik's ideas get the better of his creative handiwork as he throws off his pacing to follow points he has already made.

Every once in a while, a movie is more than a movie, but it’s surprising when that becomes the case with a punk-ass comedy, one that’s more puerile than pointed yet not without some good laughs.

Often impeded by ham-fisted, inspirational dialogue, The Idol is not likely to earn Assaf more worldwide admirers, but for those who are already in his fan club, this film will be received like a bonus gift.

Has little of the wit, surprise, or memorable characterizations of the original.

The performances are all strong (particularly Landau's) but, as a whole, the movie suffers from competing impulses that push and pull Mistress from comedy to drama and back again. It can't quite seem to make up its mind and as a consequence loses a lot of its steam and momentum.

Each member of the well-chosen cast not only creates a distinct character with unique and memorable resonances but also meshes these separate personalities to form as satisfying an example of ensemble acting as we are likely to see for quite some time to come.

Seeing The Terminal is like experiencing an uneventful flight: The trip was pleasant but not delightful, and you’re happy to deplane at the other end.

With all the hallmarks of a prestige picture, chief among them a great cast and creative crew and an "important" message, The Soloist plays its tune with a frequently heavy hand.

Instead of aiming for biographical overview, this film strives to capture a sense of what makes Sakamoto’s music tick. (Hint: It’s not a metronome, but rather, the sounds of nature.)

More like watching a Polaroid picture develop without ever getting to see the finished picture.

Penis-obsessed, man-child film comedies can crown a new king: the Danish import Klown.

Overall, it’s a package that will only be well-received by fans.

The result is disjointed and, ironically, even falls victim to the very thing it condemns: privileging the white family’s story while relegating the African-American family’s story to background noise.

No nectar of the gods this, but we can still be thankful that Bee Movie is a sweet morsel that's devoid of any jokes about bee farts and poop.

More honest than you might expect a promotional piece such as this to be, but less self-investigative than you might like, you come away thinking there are much greater depths for Snoop Lion to plumb.

There's a lot of truly hilarious material in The Grand.

On the whole, there are some good moments in the movie, but altogether, 2 Days in the Valley is about one day too much.

The greatest problem with The Great Buck Howard is that writer/director McGinly shapes the story with young Troy as the protagonist, when the really interesting character is the one for whom the movie is named.

The Girlfriend Experience uses nonprofessional actors, aside from lead Grey, who is the acclaimed star of more than 80 porn films and here debuts in her first "nonadult" role.

In filming this movie with such artistic precision, the movie ironically winds up objectifying Griet just as much as any appreciator of the original painting.

Although the film never fully convinces us of its characters’ cold, pain, and desperation, their brotherly sparring keeps the story interesting.

The film reunites Carell with his "Little Miss Sunshine" co-star Arkin, who, as always, delivers the goods, as do most of the other supporting players. Too long by at least 15-20 minutes, Get Smart is nevertheless a giggly summer movie.

Hereafter is a consistently identifiable Clint Eastwood movie only in the sense that the prolific filmmaker shows that he still has the ability to confound our expectations of him.

Never finding its right tone, Admission uncomfortably founders between the story’s comic and dramatic aspects and leaves behind a lumpy residue that tars its likable leads.

Cars 2 makes for a decent play date but is not an especially good movie.

Intends to be a farce, not a drama. The film never quite achieves either definition.

Yet, the problem goes beyond the film's staginess (although there's plenty of that to go around). It could even have something to do with the delicate difficulties involved in the successful transfer of stage camp to the more intimate level of film.

Director Caton-Jones ("Scandal", "Memphis Belle") once again shows his flair for period detail though he never here exerts his grip on the human drama.

The performances of Mary McDonnell as the coach's ex-wife and Alfre Woodard as a ballplayer's ambitious mom raise the dramatic levels to such a degree that you might want to see the movie for their performances alone.

Uses a wraparound story to provide a hint of Glass’ deep-seated pathology, but allows no details about how it came into being.

In the sea of mediocrity that passes for children's films these days, Mr. Popper's Penguins has enough originality (and silly physical comedy) to make it stand out.

Pacing problems and shallow psychological inquiries plague this film almost as much as the overworked metaphor that supplies the film's title.

Newcomers should be advised that this is not an introductory course.

Despite good performances all around, particularly the ever-brilliant Blanchett, Elizabeth: The Golden Age is a gilded ornament, speculative and uninterested in much besides this queen's matters of heart.

The film’s historical pageantry is fascinating to observe, even though the story is mostly conjecture. Competently directed, the real pleasure in this high-grossing South Korean film lies in its performances, which lighten the regal solemnity with comic warmth.

It’s perhaps surprising that there aren’t more Linklater documentaries out there, considering how substantial, influential, and plain f---ing brilliant his body of work is. In the meantime, 21 Years will have to do.

The movie's simplistic storyline does not match its stunning visual accomplishments: Pleasantville's story is drawn from a palette that's strictly limited to black-and-white.

Lost River is a film whose reputation precedes it. Viewers have decried it as a mess or lauded it as an artistic achievement ever since it premiered at Cannes 11 months ago. Ultimately, the film is really neither. Yes, Gosling’s ambition exceeds his accomplishment, but what he’s delivered is hardly a disaster.

Cesar Chavez, though respectful and illuminating, never rises to the inspirational level of its titular subject.

Bits and pieces of the story will, on occasion, leave you scratching your head but it, nevertheless, moves rapidly enough to keep you scurrying to keep pace with the new business at hand.

The story's accumulation of scattered impressions is exactly what bedevils the film's overall impact. The story lacks focus, sustained development, and direction.

The movie's storyline is not always perfectly clear, seemingly falling into the same murky “grey zone” as everything else.

A climactic speech on the lessons Western democracy might learn from Middle Eastern despotism offers a few moments of pure brilliance. I'd say that speech is worth the price of admission if it didn't also illustrate exactly what the film is missing: barbs that aim for the comedic bull's-eye.

Stunning camera shots by ace Michael Ballhaus are lovely to look at, and the performances are all excellent.

Often seen in his crummy underwear, and almost always with a cigarette and drink in hand, McConaughey brings a knowing fleshiness to the character. Yet the film’s uneven tone leaves us with lasting uncertainty about his character and the events we have witnessed.

Deli Man needs more meat on its rye.

On a certain level, Notes on a Scandal can be fun viewing, but, odds are, you'll find you won't respect yourself in the morning.

This new movie is a trifle, a listless excursion into the luxurious problems of rich, white people.

This movie has precious little satirical edge. What is needs is more emphasis on the "vanity" and less on the "fair."

The first 15-20 minutes of this documentary are solid gold.

An article of faith for girls who just wanna have fun; only problem is that the movie doesn't go all the way.

True, this pair has more than the usual share of obstacles in their path, and watching them surmount the challenges is inspiring. I’m just not sure that Dina and Scott’s struggles with intimacy should be grist for my perusal.

Garner hasn't come across as amusing as she is here in quite some time. Despite many funny bits, Butter also, at times, seems to excoriate the blinkered Midwesterners in the flyover states.

Though remaining sweet and tasty, Efron, in his first non-singing and dancing feature film proves he has an agreeable and kinetic screen presence, although his ability to convince us he's truly a 37-year-old encased in a 17-year-old's body is dramatically dubious.

It's definitely not hard to understand what the little girls see in Bieber, and this film delivers the goods. This one's for the fans, not the movie buffs.

Despite its overly familiar ring and lack of genuine suspense, there are nice touches that can be found throughout The Infiltrator. Brad Furman (The Lincoln Lawyer), however, hasn’t the stylistic chops to turn this from a routine movie into a memorable thriller.

Even this sequel, released 20 years after the original, had to up the number of poop jokes from the first film’s doozies in order to keep up with public taste.

The film seems overlong and drawn out, with variations on the same joke occurring throughout. Although the performances are good, the nostalgia for the past seems quaint in the new "have it your way" Burger King world.

It’s a frequently riveting gambit, and the actors give it their all. However, the mood and the stylized camerawork make the proceedings too arch to completely succeed.

Ultimately a creepy tale.

The film feels like a collection of sketches instead of a mad, three-day, drug-and-sex-infused whirl.

To its credit, the film doesn’t linger unnecessarily over the horrors, and quickly turns into a police procedural. As the FBI takes over the investigation from the local authorities and sets up a command center, the details of this process are fascinating to observe.

If the jingoism that permeates the latter half of The Kingdom does not sufficiently sour the experience of watching it, then the film's closing sentiments about the eternality of vengeance will surely do the trick.

There's an amiability that permeates the movie and carries it through most of the rough patches and split ends.

The Song of Names evokes a certain kind of quality film that we associate with Holocaust dramas. Laudably, the movie fully escapes lugubrious wallowing, yet, perhaps as a partial result of this, The Song of Names lacks dramatic intensity and depth.

What Sayles gives us is a jumble of ideas and stunning performances that never coalesce into a satisfying movie.

It's an interesting film, with fine acting performances. Penn acquits himself in this project, his first as a behind-the-camera talent, though The Indian Runner never quite establishes an assured rhythm or fluidity.

It makes you wonder, ultimately, how the carbon footprint created by the film will stand up to the test of time.

You have a horror movie with two strong female leads – no small thing. The movie, however, has little else going for it.

Sequences like the silly montage of Charlie on Ritalin (which just looks like the precious doodles of a former editor), grievously underdeveloped characters, and heavy heapings of sap instead of snark keep Charlie Bartlett from making the dean’s list.

Despite its narrative familiarity, the film is suffused with such contagious enthusiasm, distinctive performances, and local color that it stands out nevertheless.

Instead of skipping lightly over rough seas, Triangle of Sadness bobs to shore like a floating sarcophagus.

Come for the sophisticated charm and intoxicating wit suggested by the term “café society.” Stay for the rote charms and recycled bons mots offered up by Woody Allen’s umpteenth movie, a decidedly lesser entry in the director’s vast catalog but, as with all Allen movies, a cut above most everything else that passes for comedy these days.

Ultimately one of those sprawling epics best suited for a rainy day.

Neglects to provide the characters with enough background history to explain what makes them such original figures in the Old West.

Bogs down during several fuzzily romantic interludes.

This current film smartly adds material that keeps it up-to-date with the reality of today’s sophisticated electronic surveillance. The series may become a marker by which we come to gauge the future disappearance of all personal privacy. For the sake of the series’ endurance, I hope so, but for the sake of the rest of us, I hope not.

Though he has stepped up his game, Perry's plainspoken, unsubtle aesthetic is an uncomfortable match for the fragility of Shonge's speeches, and scenes abruptly switch between the language of Perry's scripted continuity sequences and sudden poetic soliloquies.

The movie is a strange amalgam of compelling visuals and fascinating vocational details forged with deep moral ambivalence and often hollow didacticism.

By the end, there's nothing to admire except Range's technical virtuosity.

The script is all too often downright clunky though it's saved by vigorous direction (especially in the dance sequences) and performances.

The movie's third act goes astray as the storyline shifts to Dorian's dating problems, which seem an overextended tangent to his coming-out story. Still, the film has a lot of playful dialogue and pixillated montages.

There are a lot of laughs in The Boss. The problem is that the space in between them is stagnant and shapeless. Falcone, who also directed and co-wrote "Tammy," is a dud as a filmmaker.

The filmmakers insert their own bulldozer midway through the story, rendering the metaphoric literal and the literal absurd.

Even though Stardust is not coated in gossamer, the film still has some glittery moments.

Ultimately offers some ironic amusement but wallows too long in the sins of its father.

He seems to be everything anyone might want from a pope, and this commissioned film seems to be part of the PR campaign to spread that particular gospel to the world.

What the movie lacks is spark and sizzle. There's no palpable chemistry between Lopez and male lead Ralph Fiennes, plus the script by "Working Girl" scribe Kevin Wade is workmanlike in the extreme.

It gives the creeping sensation that this is going to be a talking-heads documentary, which Greenwald delivers in spades.

This footage is essential to this film, allowing us to view Marianne as a solo human being and not just as a muse to a great man. It is she who first noticed the figurative beauty of a nearby “bird on a wire,” not he. Yet this is also how the movie fails. Praiseworthy for finally providing some three-dimensionality to the figure of Ihlen, the film doesn’t go far enough in examining the plight of the muse.

Good Burger is not fully cooked but it provides a taste of things to come.

At two hours, the movie goes on too long and resolves too little -- even though it provides some interesting moments along the way.

In the end, however, Protocols of Zion illuminates manifestations of anti-Semitism without ever really elucidating or posing solutions to the problem.

While not always dramatically successful, The Song of Sway Lake earns big points for originality. The film has a distinctive tone, look, and setting, which are supported by strong performances (one of them by the greatly missed Elizabeth Peña, who died in 2014, making this her final film appearance – somehow appropriate to this movie about how the past can impinge on the present).

Stays on its feet through all the rounds, but it never “floats like a butterfly.”

Ruby Sparks doesn't. Spark, that is. Oh, the film is sprightly and wholehearted, sweetly in thrall to its bold central conceit, and endearing as a puppy with boundless energy. You want to like it. And you do. It's just that it never, you know, it never sparks.

Never inspires more than an interested detachment.

Despite wonderful performances from all the actors, Wyler’s attempt to retell the story in a more forthright manner still seems to pussyfoot timidly around the issues.

The skating sequences are also well-thought out and fun to watch. The movie loses momentum at times with directionless subplots about Kate and her boring fiance, Doug and his family back home who think that taking up figure skating is tantamount to turning a gay blade and the manipulations of Kate's father whose vicarious attachments almost put a permanent hex on her life. Certainly, The Cutting Edge is a well-timed vehicle for those who couldn't get enough of the Winter Olympics on TV, but it pushes past simple opportunism to deliver a backstage story that works in any season.

Maybe we won't fully understand Eastwood's film until we see the second part of this project, "Letters From Iwo Jima," his companion film seen from the Japanese viewpoint expected in 2007. On its own, however, Flags of Our Fathers merely flags.

Visually arresting but dramatically rote, The Book of Life at least introduces American kids to the Mexican holiday of Día de los Muertos and should score points with families looking for kid-friendly movies that reflect aspects of their Mexican cultural heritage.

The show delivers with its corps of dancers, backup singers, elaborate runways, and a couple tunes by boy group, the Jonas Brothers, who do their thing while the fictional Hannah makes the backstage transition into the flesh-and-blood Miley.

Last Chance Harvey is so much an "actors' film" that the hand of the director seems hidden until it bursts into view with something clunky.

Neither a true concert film nor a strict behind-the-scenes documentary, This Is It is, like Jackson himself, a real hybrid.

The story is rather creaky, but who cares when the actors Clive Owen and Juliette Binoche are so sublime together? Even though the film creates an artificial construct that rings hollow, the two central characters generate great heat and interest. Their presence is enough to keep the film’s nattering foolishness at bay.

This mash-up of family drama and science fiction is a pleasant but unconvincing adventure with strong adolescent appeal and music by Mogwai.

Amounts to little more than a big, wet kiss to the group’s worldwide legions of young, female fans.

Funny and expands our background knowledge of these likable characters, but the story gets bogged down.

Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk is a hobbled parade.

Good performances give this movie a pleasant shine, but in all honesty, Thin Ice relies on too many familiar setups to feel wholly fresh.

Nemes’ subjective camera and long takes ironically make the film seem longer and lacking in any narrative substance that equals the filmmaker’s fastidious technical skills. Sunset hopefully gives rise to a new dawn for Nemes.

A must for any Deadhead and of genuine interest to any music fan, even if its documentary chops hit a few sour notes.

The movie offers glimmers of truth about the aging process, but there is always the sense that Moss only wades knee-high into this river.

The film rarely demonstrates how the ideal actually works in practice. Personally, I would have liked to see a savage breast or two being charmed.

Carla Gugino, however, energizes the film with every step of her self-assured stride. She genuinely manages to create a dimensional character who is fulsomely inspirational – and as I said at the outset, that's not too shabby an accomplishment when it comes to the world of women and sports movies.

May not be grade-A prime, but it ain't chopped liver either.

Does not go gentle into that good night.

Whether Ringer, with its mild comedy and milder messages about inclusiveness and tolerance, will be embraced by Knoxville's hardcore "Jackass" fans remains to be seen. But we can at least trust that the Farrellys will stay the course.

It would be easy to pigeonhole this as "Norma Rae" en L.A., and Padilla is at least as ingratiating and as much of a guy magnet as Sally Field was in that movie.

Maria by Callas is not the place to look if you’re in search of a biography of the star.

Although the movie's anti-war propaganda mission is clear, it nevertheless makes a strong case for asking questions and examining our country's imperialistic motives.

Although the film’s character portraits are vividly drawn, they remain largely one-dimensional.

As pleasantly amusing as Victoria & Abdul is, the film is really little more than another showcase for Judi Dench’s reigning talent.

Dragon should never be regarded as the utmost in historical veracity, though it certainly captures a great deal of the spirit and flavor of what we so fondly remember as the essence of Bruce Lee.

A quicker overall pace and trimmed dialogue might have lent the film more sparkle and zest, but it still makes it to the finish line with its decency intact.

A refresher course in the perils of celebrity and activism, but its syllabus and insights are purely remedial.

A pleasant frolic, but fairly inconsequential in terms of the overall Allen output.

There’s definitely ore to be mined in Silver City but Sayles’ pan comes up with only particles of dust.

The camerawork, which relies heavily on shots of picture-perfect vistas and not enough on human beings and their place in this world. When we do see the characters, we primarily see their beauty.

Little more than a well-written and nicely delivered feature-length sitcom.

What might happen to Alex, once removed from the spotlight, remains a black hole.

For American children, Nanny McPhee Returns may seem something like a foreign film, but the movie has enough spoonfuls of sugar to make the Britishisms go down.

Living up to its title, Rudo y Cursi is appealingly tough and corny but contains little that causes these elements to congeal into anything greater.

The film’s plot is either too much or too little, but whatever you decide, it’s best to give up on any expectations of true logic and just go with the flow because you know what, Jake: Forget it. It’s Pokémania.

Hush has a solid first half before the cat-and-mouse shenanigans begin to seem repetitive and prolonged. Still, at 82 minutes Hush is a concise and well-executed horror nightmare.

Satire without teeth is sort of a mewling entity that brings little into sharp focus. Nevertheless, the performances here are all stellar, and narrative movies that take the making of art seriously are a rare breed indeed.

Although several great speeches and hilarious one-liners goose the film, God Bless America nevertheless peaks too early and becomes rather one-note.

A moderately entertaining, mostly inoffensive piece of filmmaking.

Writer/director Lucía Puenzo (XXY) has a nice feel for her characters and, especially, the viewpoint of adolescent Lilith. But by giving away the story’s big reveal at the very beginning, it infuses the film with a potent sense of dread rather than suspense.

There are some wonderful performances and lovely unadorned moments in The Flower of Evil when the movie is not drowning its viewers in its doomed fragrance.

Despite its inadequacies, Basquiat presents a fascinating glimpse of the Eighties art scene, due in large measure to several stunning performances.

Aided by a strong soundtrack by Corbijn's friend Herbert Grönemeyer, The American nevertheless seems more like a concept in search of a movie.

Some fine comedy performances bolster this thinly plotted film.

Lost's Evangeline Lilly remains lost, however, in this film role as Charlies's too-good-to-be-true romantic interest.

Granted, femme-centered film comedies are a thing to cherish, but The Other Woman only gets it half right.

Although the plot is thin, Rock Dog nevertheless charms with its engaging central characters and unencumbered storyline.

Despite the obvious shortcomings, Echo in the Canyon should please fans of the music, as well as newcomers to the sound who are experiencing it fresh.

Thus, this indifferently shot film winds up being another in a long line of creative works by men that exploit the legacy of Marilyn Monroe for their own satisfaction and little public good.

Generally works like a drone but sometimes provides glimpses of the queens at the center

The script by Andy Stock and Rick Stempson (Balls Out: Gary the Tennis Coach) can, at times, be a nasty piece of work, and no amount of laughter will fully obscure the gag reflex that occasionally forms in the back of your throat.

Borte may have lost his way on this film, but there is one thing he has done for America: He has demonstrated the correct way of spelling the plural of the surname Jones. Grammarians, if few others, will be satisfied.

In Seagal's movies, the interesting stuff never derives from what happens, but rather from how it happens. Exit Wounds is certainly one of his best efforts, although the distinction is a dubious one at best.

Ultimately a mystery box that lacks a treasure at its core.

Although Gilliam's bright color palette and weird camera angles lift the film, it has an overall sense of darkness, as if shot among people who have yet to see the Age of Enlightenment.

Like its title implies, Chocolat tastes good in the moment but leaves behind little nutritional substance.

Having unfettered access to Armstrong during the 2009 Tour and a face-to-face sit-down with him in Austin hours after his national confession to Oprah, The Armstrong Lie comes across more a good save than a muckraking piece of journalism.

This sad, dark movie moves across the screen like a sleepwalker, aloof and belonging neither to this world or the next.

In the end, one's appreciation of My Wife Is an Actress may depend on the extent to which you like the character of Yvan and relate to his anxieties.

Overall, the movie stresses the more painful and awkward moments; moments that might be classified as "heartwarming" are rare. This results in a very cynical tone and I suspect that was not the desired effect.

Fascinating, partly because of its originality.

Suffers from Frey’s diluted multitasking. The director, writer, and star are not equally talented.

Dark Shadows seems more like a mash-up of leftover ideas from "Beetlejuice," "Edward Scissorhands," "Sleepy Hollow," and "Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street" – but they're ideas without the souls of characters.

It's all pretty involving and sweetly ingratiating in a Charlotte's Web-by kind of way.

The film’s gear change between mournfulness and madness is stuck in idle.

Up-and-comer LaBeouf (Holes) is a young actor to watch, but he's had better opportunities than this teen thriller to show what he's capable of.

There's something about that extra layer of distancing that a book can offer and the screen can't, which in this case might account for why film viewers feel vaguely discomforted by an icky fifth-wheel sensation.

As a heartwarming tribute to the courage of firefighters, Ladder 49 delivers.

Has a haunting afterglow, one that neither satisfies nor illuminates, but at least keeps the flame alive.

The transitions from performance to song and to reality are strained and awkward.

Infused with enough infectious charm to make us forget how dopey the plot is and become swept up in its breezy countenance.

Hot Rod is a stupid movie about stupid people doing stupid things.

The makers of Guess Who appear to have given more thought to targeting an audience than building a believable movie.

The familiar narrative gambits of Finding Your Feet aren’t the problem here as much as their heavy-handed execution.

More than acting, the real culprit in Malice is the script by Aaron Sorkin (A Few Good Men) and Scott Frank (Dead Again) which favors florid dramatics over plausible theatrics.

Antwan "Big Boi" Patton appears in an entertaining role as Atlanta’s weaselly mayor. Atlanta may have dibs on Youngblood Priest this time, but even though the character is still fly in this reboot, it would be a stretch to regard him as truly superfly.

Sumptuous to behold, although one will not leave the theatre with a much deeper knowledge and understanding of this great Spanish painter's career.

There’s definitely a certain fascination hovering about The Singing Detective, but after seeing the movie, that fascination turns to perverse dread.

With a surprising lack of verve, humor, and narrative tension, Shyamalan's live-action foundation film is unlikely to woo new fans to the tale.

Just as you begin settling into these science-fiction parameters and start pondering the wisdom of humanity’s vain quest for immortality, Self/less switches gears, much to its detriment, and becomes a frenzied chase thriller and shoot-‘em-up.

The abundance of talent gathered for Meet the Fockers is sadly shortchanged by the unimaginative script and directorial laissez faire. It’s more like the audience has been snookered rather than Fockered.

Uneasy blend of the extreme visuals of director Ken Russell and the bloated dramaturgy of writer Paddy Chayefsky (who disowned this adaptation of his novel).

Sylvia also makes it seem as though, even at her happiest, she never received much pleasure from life. This makes for a long, slow procession to the oven door -– so dark, somber, and lifeless is this well-intentioned biography.

The man whom the FBI described as "extremely eloquent, therefore extremely dangerous" here seems about as threatening as Mother Teresa.

My be a gearhead's delight, but its appeal to middle-of-the-roaders will be stop-and-go.

Graham maintains a casual charm throughout it all, but she lacks the kind of emotional depth that might have pulled this hodge-podge together.

There’s a naivete about the film that only a teen at heart could love.

Despite flashes of originality, is a formulaic quagmire that traps bits and pieces from all these genres without really satisfying any of their true aims.

The action can be bloody, but is mostly routine. Ultimately, the film’s most eye-catching special effects are reserved for bikini waxes and implants.

The sketchy visual traits that differentiate the many characters in this avian universe will leave viewers crying, "Who, who" along with the owls.

He's a saint in the flesh, but not one who inspires great drama.

The problem with The Bling Ring is that it feels as soulless as its young protagonists, and of course there’s little sympathy to be found either for the story’s über-rich victims like Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan.

Henkin's vision of Mona Demarkov (Olin) as a remorseless, amoral, lethal, and sexually devastating (you should see what she can do with a prosthetic limb) arch-criminal is a nightmare come to life. But perhaps like dreams, the story works best when played out in the furtive dark spaces of the mind's eye.

A real audience pleaser.

Any sincere investigation of the situation's ethical dilemmas is hampered by a plot run amok with transparently nefarious evildoers and ever-more ludicrous complications, until it sputters to a conclusion and a thoroughly preposterous epilogue in which all animosities are neatly put to rest. Somebody call a doctor.

Now that his passion project is out of the way, I look forward to seeing what Chase does next. He's sure to have his editor's pen back in hand by then.

It's neither the fulfillment of our worst fears nor the surprise of the week.

I'm sorry. I laughed...There's something pleasurable about a comedy that has no pretensions about where it's coming from.

This is director Pouliot's first film, so perhaps some of his excess cuteness can be overlooked. But then again, maybe not.

A sumptuous ride with breathtaking scenes and a soaring musical score.

Lymelife arrives with an impressive pedigree but, unfortunately, little originality.

Lovely to look at, Year of the Fish is an animated feature that pops off the screen like a goldfish leaping free of its bowl.

A well-chosen cast props up this otherwise shallow story.

Blades of Glory, although mildly amusing, has the dank odor of having gone to the well once too often: Ooh, let's dress up Ferrell like an elf – or an anchorman or a NASCAR driver – and see what happens.

Unfortunately, the actors don't all behave as though they're performing in the same movie.

A certain amount of honest, down-home flavor mixes with an excess of melodramatic schmaltz in this Texas-made movie.

Effective performances by the principals are unable to surmount the movie’s many cliches, although the actors render them more endurable. A more evocative title for this Hindu Gothic might be: "Mommies Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things."

Though the soundtrack comes on kind of heavy, the cinematography (by Enrique Chediak) has a beautiful clarity. Yorick's skull or not, Charlie St. Cloud is no Shakespearean drama, but the film should prove to be another solid stepping stone for Efron on his way to a long adult career.

If you expect That's My Boy to be the Bad Dad equivalent of Bad Santa, you'll be sorely disappointed. Sandler can't quite adopt that same cynical edge, instead favoring corny and sentimental resolutions to untenable predicaments.

Although the narrative hiccups in The Holy Land can be chalked up to the mistakes of a beginning filmmaker, they are not disruptive enough to diminish the film’s realistic impact.

Either you cotton to Zemeckis’ motion-capture aesthetic or you don’t: To me, it seems like an awful lot of effort for an insignificant payoff. But it appears that the filmmaker is stuck on the technique – at least until holographic movie technology comes along.

If the mother-child bond is the core human relationship, then this movie implies that we are an emotionally doomed species, though I do not think this was writer-director Garcia’s intent.

Moore succeeds, even though the film as a whole does not fare as well.

The entire film wants to be the retort to an idle comment uttered by a prep school lacrosse mom in the stands: "When did the Indians starts playing lacrosse anyway?"

Spacey, whose Trigger Street Productions is one of the film's producers, digs into his role as the story's snarky mastermind and lure, yet it's all the kind of stuff we've seen him deliver in so many movies before.

This time the acclaimed filmmaker tackles an entire “ism” and, much like its ambiguous title, Capitalism: A Love Story, Moore’s film is an unmethodical survey of a gargantuan topic, one that has only grown more so in the year since he began work on the project.

Gustav Klimt’s spectacular painting Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I far outshines this pedestrian movie about the legal battle waged by Maria Altmann (Mirren), the niece of the portrait’s subject, to regain possession of the work which was seized from her family by the Nazis during their takeover of Austria.

Emerges as an artful, courageous, experimental work that is as compelling as it is impaired.

Perhaps viewers of the TV show will find more depth in The Snitch Cartel than newcomers to the drama. But without character definition, the film feels like a constant swish pan from one violent event to the next.

It's a good thing this movie has been sitting on the shelf for a year or more, because, apart from the difference in release dates, there's little to distinguish this new cop drama from last year's cop drama "We Own the Night."

Experiencing Evita is like watching one uninterrupted long-form music video divided only by different arias or costume changes (of which there are untold numbers).

Neither a change of seasons nor truly wonderful performances can breathe life into the dismally enervated Winter Solstice.

Some films are saccharine, but Hop is pure sugar.

Time and again, Devor sabotages his own attempt to bring "zoos," literally and figuratively, into the light.

The artist’s intellectual and political foundations are demonstrated along with his “Thug Life” credo and lifestyle, but the result is a dualistic, rather than truly complex, portrait of the man.

Filled more with character studies than narrative intrigues, The Merry Gentleman also provides only sketchy personality details and background information.

Talks the talk but doesn't walk the walk.

The sadness harbored by all the film’s characters is evident. Their passions, however, stem from ginned-up claptrap about love and hate being opposite expressions of one overwhelming emotion which can also substitute for each other.

Never rings true. It's a dramedy whose blend of melodrama and humor is awkward and incongruous, leaping between the two modes like a fat frog jumping lilypads.

Forgotten or subject to overkill as they are here, veterans still get the shaft.

Just sputters along, albeit pleasantly, while revisiting the realm of the abundantly familiar.

The thing is, the music that Jed, Shelby, and their respective bands make is actually pretty good. The performance footage is polished enough that it looks like it could be plucked from a TV show like "Nashville."

Told from younger brother Doug's point of view, Phoenix's voiceover spans the length of the film and winds up making the images that unfold practically redundant.

The blood and gore quotients of Punisher: War Zone are extremely high and are sure to sop the appetites of the series' fans and virtual bloodlusters.

There is plenty here to enjoy for beach bums and fans of bikinis and six-pack abs, but others are likely to find themselves hopeless wet blankets.

Gray's signature long takes and overhead shots are in evidence and add to the film's fatalistic tone, and one rainy car-chase sequence is a real keeper. But, overall, it's impossible to shake the film's gloomy sense of eternal repetition.

Hope doesn't float in this film so much as it rises to the surface and then stagnates.

Even this director and the talents of three wonderful actors can't save this weak script.

The reality-show producer played by Walken is described by his assistant (Suvari) as having the attention span of a "ferret on speed." I'm sure he would love Domino.

The performances are all solid, although the screenplay frequently bogs down with the complexity of palace intrigues and plots that could have been rendered more consumer-friendly.

When Murray's around, he's the only hot dog in the room.

Bob Dylan might have been wrong when he sang that "there’s no success like failure, and failure’s no success at all." His new movie, although a complete narrative mess, is a thoroughly Dylanesque escapade.

As out-of-whack and sophomoric as all this is, the movie sustains a rudimentary action interest.

Unaccompanied Minors isn't likely to become a frequent flyer but it could strike a chord among children of divorce for many holiday seasons to come.

It's shoot-em-up action from start to finish, beginning at such a peak that there's hardly any room for the action to build or climax.

So many logical questions go unasked in The Gift, which, ultimately, is the movie's downfall. Mark this package as Return to Sender.

As a filmmaker, Meredith has a strong, if derivative, visual sense, although his screenplay is packed with too many cliches and familiar riffs.

The actresses are terrific together, and it’s nice to see Helen Mirren smiling onscreen for a change. And although Calendar Girls is resolutely pleasant, the movie never really goes much beyond that.

The film's moody, dark palette and soft, inchoate backgrounds tend to lull the senses rather than actively engage the viewer. The magic practiced by this illusionist does not extend to the screen.

Exploitative and crass, the film paints an ugly portrait of youth gone wild and the ineffectuality of the police to curb the menace.

The film is so self-referencing, however, that a running gag about Wax/Travolta craving a “royale with cheese” moves the film’s energy backward rather than forward. Perhaps instead it was a reference to the film’s nutritional value rather than its screen precedents.

Emblazoned with ambition, this throwback Seventies-style private-eye movie (think Robert Altman’s "The Long Goodbye" or Robert Aldrich’s "Hustle") seems more invested in its form than its content.

There’s no denying the poetry at work in his film, but so much of it is inchoate and fundamentally sexualized that it becomes more of a turn-off than a turn-on. Malick’s Cups is ultimately half-full.

This Earth Day release has honorable intentions, but it imbues the animals with human emotions and motives, which only muddies our understanding of these ferocious feline species.

The film may seem a bit undercooked until it gets to the staging of the ultimate battle, but Obsessed is swinging from the chandeliers by the end.