Megan Lehmann

The cheerfully inane comedy Connie and Carla all but suffocates beneath a high-stepping, show-stopping, ear-splitting deluge of musical theater staples, from "Cats" to "Oklahoma!," "Jesus Christ Superstar" to "Fiddler on the Roof."

The jaw-droppingly nasty second act is intriguing, but it veers into territory so dark that it sucks the air out of the bouncy chick flick that surrounds it, making for one confused -- and confusing -- comedy.

Purists will probably have a conniption at the mere idea of messing with the form, but the worst thing about Jacquot's post-modern treatment is that its incongruity wrenches you out of the story.

Chases its tail for so long, it morphs from a whodunit into a who-cares.

An earnest undertaking that unfortunately plays like a trite Lifetime movie.

Overripe dialogue and a fevered score fail to inject any real tension, and the accentless English spoken throughout a film set entirely in France is ludicrous and jarring.

An overlong melodrama-by-numbers.

A sporadically amusing curiosity that falls short of effectively satirizing the public's fixation with the minutiae of celebrity lives.

Lizzie McGuire's "Movie" doesn't try to be anything more than a superficial escapist fantasy for fans of the show.

So serious-minded it occasionally teeters on the brink of absurdity.

No light leavens the ashen wash of writer-director Tim Blake Nelson's relentlessly downbeat Holocaust drama The Grey Zone. None.

A thumping soundtrack, including David Bowie's "Rebel Rebel" and Pink Floyd's "Us and Them," fuels this high-energy look at a pack of underdogs who sowed the seeds for today's extreme sports craze.

A throwback to the kind of '80s action flicks that had titles like "Adrenaline Force," is enlivened by a raft of celebrity cameos, including a blink-and-you'll-miss-it appearance by Gibson.

A skin-deep examination of a shallow lifestyle that draws a conclusion so logical it's almost superfluous.

Despite his innate appeal and nimble line readings, Grace can't surmount the deficiencies of the underdog character screenwriter Victor Levin ("Mad About You") has saddled him with.

If it weren't for the estrogen-fueled action scenes -- choreographed by director Cory Yuen with wit and style -- So Close would be as disposable as the shampoo ad it all too often resembles.

A postcard-pretty psychological drama that's too moody and enigmatic for its own good.

Unfortunately, the vehicle chosen for the corn-rowed cutie's Hollywood coming-out party is pretty lame.

A cinematic petit four.

Many of Kampmeier's characters are either ill-defined or clichéd.

A harmless celebration of idiocy that is the cinematic equivalent of an overeager, block-headed puppy chasing its tail.

The film is too low-key to be the farcical rock-and-roll jape it sometimes seems to strive for, yet too lighthearted to be affecting.

If you've come to appreciate Hal Hartley's idiosyncratic style through films like "Flirt" and "The Unbelievable Truth," his take on the monster movie genre will intrigue you. But, ultimately, disappoint you.

The film - dimly lit and with an ominous soundtrack that verges on overkill - is largely a showcase for the heavy-lidded Renner.

There's really nothing new here, though, and lacking the drama and humor of "Fahrenheit 9/11," it is even more likely to be preaching to the converted.

An interesting addition to a genre that tends too often to disregard artistic technique.

Too unfocused to make any point worth taking with us into the 2004 presidential campaign.

Boasts a stellar ensemble cast and some priceless one-liners -- but those pearls of acerbic wit have been strung together on a cheap piece of thread which almost inevitably breaks in the third act.

The character of ZigZag is not sufficiently developed to support a film constructed around him.

Startlingly immature.

This frigid and inaccessible period piece wears its glumness like a shroud.

Can that achingly abstract thing called love be captured in a beaker or dissected like a frog splayed on a slab? That's the belabored premise of this dorky, clinically structured romance cooked up in the Sundance Institute's screenwriter and filmmaker labs.

Any one episode of "The Sopranos" would send this ill-conceived folly to sleep with the fishes.

Ryan spends much of the grubby-looking boxing drama Against the Ropes with her face screwed up in distaste, as if a dirty sock is being waved under her nose. Perhaps it's because the movie she's in stinks.

Some solid performances and pretty scenery don't do much to conceal that there's a whole heap of nothing at the core of this slight coming-of-age/coming-out tale.

It's a simple-minded celebration of speed that pretends to be nothing else, even throwing in the occasional wink to acknowledge its own silliness.

Snoozy and unconvincing.

The problem is that there's not a sympathetic character among the nasty, brutish males. And the women, except for a flashy cameo by a swimsuit-clad Paris Hilton, are given short shrift.

Indulgent, tedious documentary.

"Schindler's List" it ain't, and the whole is rendered occasionally surreal by Janusz Stoklosa's laughably heavy-handed score.

Tries to be many things -- romantic comedy, mockumentary, a satire on beauty and aging -- but ends up succeeding at none.

Lee gives his childhood hero altogether too much face time to defend himself against the numerous allegations and charges of assault, both physical and sexual.

In trying to straddle both the grown-up and kiddie worlds with this inappropriately sexualized effort - their first theatrical release since 1995's "It Takes Two" - the Olsens have lost their footing.

Self-indulgent folly.

Frustratingly superficial.

The story is so slight, a low-wattage hair dryer could blow it away.

Spun is quickly exposed as being all flash, no substance.

Beautiful Brit actress Sophia Myles ("From Hell") is so arch, canny and amusing as the posh, pink-obsessed spy Lady Penelope, it's as if she is acting in the movie this should have been.

Despite oblique references to "Psycho" and "Children of the Corn," Freddy vs. Jason lacks the knowing wit needed to keep it afloat in an age when even the horror spoofs have been spoofed.

Ben Stiller's overbearing schtick officially reaches its expiration date with the desperate and puerile Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story.

Fairly cringe-inducing, full of witless double-entendres and the requisite "gags" involving bodily fluids.

This pursuit farce is harmless (if stale) entertainment, but the sledge-hammer attempt to appeal to the country's fastest-growing movie-going demographic makes for a clunky narrative and one-note characters.

The animated, Hanukkah-themed musical is, in fact, 75 minutes worth of belching, barfing and poo-jokes braided into a Grinch-meets-Scrooge-meets-"It's a Wonderful Life" storyline that's as stale as last year's potato latkes.

Follows a narrative arc as choppy as a messy windswell, and the result is a dog's dinner of profiles, repetitive narration, safety tips and banal "insights" into the joys and dangers of cresting waves that sometimes reach 70 feet.

This Alfie has been castrated.

This one-joke comedy vehicle is flying through a laugh-free zone.

A sluggish meander through the life of the man considered by many to be a deity of golfing.

Behind the glitz, Hollywood is sordid and disgusting. Quelle surprise!

Falls far short of capturing the hedonistic spirit of this ephemeral art community. It's more like a routine home video with arty pretensions.

The biggest problem with the corny horror film Anacondas: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid is that its titular reptiles are about as scary as jellied eels.

Predictable and uninspired romantic drama fizzles like a wet squib.