Peter Rainer

Hands down the funniest movie I've seen all year and also the smartest.

It all adds up to a searing portrait of social misery.

It's a truly prodigious piece of work, resembling a career summation far more than a maiden voyage.

Rarely has there been so obscenely precise a depiction of ravaged innocence. This young girl has nothing to live for--and an entire life ahead of her in which to live it.

Most of the photographs on view in The Salt of the Earth bear witness to great suffering, and what they exalt is not the photographer’s eye but the fearful humanity that binds us all.

Hartley is very adept with actors, though – or at least some of them. Posey, for her part, displays a pert quizzical quality that's very charming and very funny. And Goldblum is tailor-made for Hartley's minimalist patter.

All this gloomy masochism is made palatable because of the performers. And yet we must ask: Is this any way to show off two of our finest actors?

A comedy in the best sense--it draws its life from the pitch-perfect authenticity of its characters.

Within its limited compass, ’71 packs a punch, and the lack of political bias does give it a more encompassing feel.

One glaring question the film doesn’t raise: Why, given his history, is Tilikum still entertaining in sea parks?

Despite, or perhaps because of, these constraints, it’s one of the most cinematically alive movies of the year.

Although Gravel doesn’t make a big deal about it, Julie also represents something larger than herself. Her plight as a single working mother is far from unique. But Full Time doesn’t ennoble the working class.

What grounds the overflow of incident are the many human touches that personalize both the anguish and the stray glimpses of freedom.

The big news here is not simply that Nim was traumatized, it's that Nim was signing that he was traumatized.

The set pieces, such as an unmasked Spider-Man trying to stop a runaway subway car, are furiously scary, and compensate for all the icky mooning and moping that Peter does whenever he's questioning his gift, which is most of the time.

The documentary is, in essence, not much more than a record of what happened in Zaire, but it has been assembled with a real feeling for the historical moment. It's literally a blast from the past.

I have rarely seen a movie that better expressed the revivifying nature of music. (Many of the women, not surprisingly, grew up singing gospel in church choirs and had preachers for parents.)

If I never felt entirely transported by Avatar, it's probably because the story thudded just as often as the imagery soared. But Pandora is still a good place to park yourself for three hours.

Without Bening, whose performance is a watchful and laid-back marvel, 20th Century Women, written and directed by Mike Mills, would still be borderline worth seeing because of its supporting cast.

You may not feel like dancing after watching Pina – unless you have a thing for earth in your shoes – but you'll certainly know you've seen something.

Hugo is a mixed bag but one well worth rummaging through.

The power of “Ladybird, Ladybird” is inseparable from its weaknesses. Loach brings us up close to the misery but, in a larger sense, he stands back.

Gloria is a starting-over story that never quite picks up a head of steam. Lelio paces the action as a series of sketches, and the hit-or-miss quality of the material makes for a bumpy ride.

A kind of psychological whodunit, but without the thrills. The clue-making is rather desultory, as if Cronenberg were indulging a narrative strategy he didn’t really care for.

I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a movie that better conveys the sheer passion both performer and listener have for great music.

What gives the series its force is not just its universality but also its particularity. These grown-ups may be Everyman, but they are also singular.

This is a movie about, among other things, pain, and it's made by someone who understands its expression.

Milk is an agitprop fantasy about the selflessness of sainthood. If anybody but Penn was playing the saint, we'd probably feel as if we were being sold a bill of goods. Instead, he just about pulls it off. Such is the treachery of talent.