Phil Hall

The film's screenplay is thick with major lapses in logic, resulting in a story that ultimately makes little sense.

Filmmaker Hany Abu-Assad, who helmed the excellent "Rana's Wedding," missed the boat on this one. He may have hoped to give a human voice to the suicide bombers, but instead he gave them a misfired movie.

Quite frankly, the film looks terrible and moves with painful slowness, while the voice performances by both the juvenile and adult actors are so lacking in character that one could almost assume the cast performed their lines phonetically.

Achieves the impossible in taking a genuine socio-political tragedy and turning it into an anvil drama which will fray the patience of the most sympathetic audiences.

While Fryar is a charming man and his work clearly deserves recognition, A Man Called Pearl is an obvious case of building a three-story house on a one-story foundation. Really, can you make a feature-length film about a man who carves unique shapes out of trees, shrubs and bushes?

Wilson overstuffs the film with endless artsy shots of nature.

What’s a muscular guy like John Cena doing in a flabby movie like this? This connect-the-dots action-adventure may appeal to undemanding ten-year-old boys but will bore everyone else.

A compelling screenplay, to be certain. But sadly, Omarova's direction is too leisurely to wring any emotional power.

By the end of the 99 minute running time, there is a terrible sense of been-there/done-that. And for artists of the Quays' caliber, that is a huge mistake.

Even if you love all things Yiddish, there is precious little to embrace here.

Rarely has a film been cast with so many gifted performers who are either wrong for their roles or are given nothing to do.

If anything saves Elling, it is the trio of supporting performances that are closer to the real world.

A strangely inert affair. The stories devolve into one-dimensional squabbling and too many loose threads flap around the edges.

The only obvious question that Oswald’s Ghost raises is: how come Mort Sahl wasn’t in the movie? (If you don’t get that joke, you need to brush up on your Kennedy conspiracy lessons.)

Wooden, one-dimensional epic.

While I admire Bishop Jakes and I frequently watch his sermons on TV, I have to question his tactic of charging people admission to generate hosannas on his behalf.

So ham-handed and relentlessly overbaked that it is easy to see why audiences initially stayed away from it. Just when and how did anyone come to see this as a classic?

Obviously, this is one subject which may not seem to require the attention of documentary filmmakers.

This much-ballyhooed gay cowboy melodrama is an inert disappointment.

A mediocre film that presents the troubled poet Sylvia Plath as a jealous, possessive and irritating woman. It is hard to recall another biopic which is so unflattering to its subject.

By the time the film is over it is not so much a "who-done-it?" but a "why-did-we-sit-through-this?"

It's all a case of been-there, done-that, although the singing is nice. Still, do we really need another movie with thirtysomethings who ache to re-live their college years? C’mon, guys, grow up!

About as funny as a funeral.

A noisy, chaotic affair.

Small, amateurish Israeli feature.

Zhang Yimou is seriously off his game with the utterly ridiculous Curse of the Golden Flower, a new epic that feels like "Hero" meets "The Lion in Winter" meets "Peyton Place." The film is worthless as a serious work of art, but it may offer the jaded viewer a surplus source of MST3K-inspired wisecracks.

Valeria Bertucelli and Ingrid Rubio as Elena and Natalia barely register for the camera, either in their adult incarnations or as the mod teens of 1975 Argentina.

With a clumsy hip-hop score permeating every free inch of the soundtrack and ugly 16mm cinematography that would never be allowed out of Film School 101, the audio-visual experience is a wreck. The quality of Quality of Life is non-existent.