Megan Lehmann

Instructive, cathartic or just too painful? You decide.

This wonderful party of a movie, as totally original as its hero, stamps on a smiley face that will linger for hours.

There's obviously some philosophical comment on the alienating effects of ho-hum toil buried somewhere in this weird mess, which features an irritating, theremin-heavy score. But can you be bothered stifling a yawn and searching for meaning? I would prefer not to.

Settles into an unflinchingly honest coming-of-age portrait.

Enough to give you brain strain -- and the pay-off is negligible.

Delivers one of those classic movie moments in which two screen legends go toe to toe, both barrels metaphorically blazing.

The spaniel-eyed Jean Reno ("Ronin") infuses Hubert with a mixture of deadpan cool, wry humor and just the measure of tenderness required to give this comic slugfest some heart.

The strapping Damon's lived-in performance makes us happy to follow Bourne wherever he may go.

A love letter to a New York neighborhood that is rapidly disappearing -- a tight-knit Dominican community.

It's really just about a bunch of pathetic losers whiling away the hours with their hands jammed down their pants.

One of those all-too-rare cases in which a riveting premise is expertly executed.

Ultimately, though, the lively whirl of debauched, drug-fueled parties and toffee-nosed exchanges between heiresses and aristocrats fails to mask the essential hollowness of the narrative.

It's hard to go wrong with documentary subjects as articulate and intriguing as childhood friends John Flansburgh and John Linnell.

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!

If you can overlook its TV-episode look, occasional lapses in logic and detours into lurid overkill, this old-school psychological thriller, which marries a tracking-the-serial-killer narrative with occult themes, is a creepy diversion.

Anderson gives The Machinist a sickly noirish look that contributes to the creeping horror - but it's the emaciated Bale's spectral presence that leaves the imprint.

The two leads have strong singing voices, but they're not helped by songs with titles like "It's Time to Disco."

More than a celebration of Chaplin's art; it is a thorough examination of what made this gifted artist, the world's first true celebrity, tick.

Corcuera's unflinching documentary Back of the World is a real-life horror story told in three parts.

Khouri seems never to have met a "chick flick" cliché she didn't like, from the ubiquity of emotional telephone conversations to the lachrymose (but entirely predictable and dramatically flabby) reconciliation at the end.

Part urban thriller, part unorthodox love story, this well-acted portrayal of the shadowy realm occupied by London's illegal immigrants is buoyed by stinging social commentary and a surprising twist of intelligent humor.

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 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 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.

Ironically, what's lacking in Howard's stark, often brutal, late 19th-century chase drama is emotional punch.

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.

It all falls apart when the Wendigo unleashes its fury - no doubt upset at being neutered to look about as frightening as Bambi.