Nathan Lee

Infantile, irreverent and boorish to the max, Postal explodes with bad attitude and lousy filmmaking.

The Mother of Tears is silly, awkward, vulgar, outlandish, hysterical, inventive, revolting, flamboyant, titillating, ridiculous, mischievous, uproarious, cheap, priceless, tasteless and sublime.

Skips back and forth in time, trying to piece together who did what, when and why. The only question really worth asking here: Who cares?

As multimillion-dollar frivolities about the pets of the ruling class go, Chihuahua is reasonably diverting. As one that happens to be opening in the middle of an economic meltdown, its mere existence feels utterly insane.

Debased, infantile and reckless in the extreme, this compendium of body bravado and malfunction makes for some of the most fearless, liberated and cathartic comedy in modern movies.

The darker side of the story -- how the advent of pro surfing was taken as an act of cultural colonialism by some of the locals -- adds gravity to this otherwise lightweight, if amiable summer diversion.

Subjective or not, the movie is a bore and an eyesore.

The film dithers along with Leonardo, whose self-involved tedium -- and the movie's -- is occasionally interrupted by fantasy sequences.

Mindlessly repeats the archetypal "Chainsaw" scenario.

Fearless sustains the tradition of ethically inflected Chinese action movies.

Isn't a movie so much as a devotional object, a kind of secular fetish designed to induce rapture.

A bright, nimble diversion, a quick-witted picture that's fast on its feet.

Never quite shakes off its aura of second-rate made-for-TV movie, Save Me has a lot of heart but little nerve and no surprise.

Co-starring as Rome, the ringleader with "intimacy issues," Robert Patrick appears to be enjoying himself. That makes one of us.

An itsy-bitsy, ultra-indie, super-silly comedy packing huge laughs and unexpected heart.

Either way, it doesn’t quite go far enough as psychological study or cultural commentary.

The movie is, as these things go, enjoyably trashy.

One of the most undermotivated plots in many a moon, the zero-wit, zero-gravity misadventures of Nat, I.Q. and Scooter are embarked on merely because they're bored on their garbage dump.

Looks like a comedy, acts like a comedy and sounds like a comedy, but it isn't funny. This is a problem in a movie that aims for laughs.

The American version of Kiyoshi Kurosawa's "Pulse" mimics the plot fundamentals, but lacks any traces of Mr. Kurosawa’s creepy minimalism and conceptual rigor.

The fixation of independent movies on the arrested development of bourgeois dullards may have less to do with the relevance of the topic than the class of people who get to make movies. Whatever the case, James Burke directs from a screenplay by Brent Boyd.

Smart, resourceful indie.

An overall sense that the movie was infinitely more fun to make than it is to watch.

This sort of thing was indulgent enough the first time around; transplanted to the mumblecore milieu, it's intolerable.

It is perverse that a movie concerned with objectification would reduce its hero to an object.

There's an itch for this kind of material, and here it is scratched -- to the bone.

As a mechanical thrill ride, The Clone Wars has an uncluttered look and furious pace that make it more or less as satisfying as its wildly overdesigned predecessors.

As much a work of sculpture as of cinema, this 71-minute movie, 13 years in the making, is the handmade brainchild of Christiane Cegavske, an artist who dabbles in film but whose talents and sensibility align more naturally with those of the contemporary-art world.