Phil Hall

Where Song of the South errs badly is in its regurgitation of the horrible myth that black slaves were always singing and happy and just loved working on massah’s plantation.

The one lesson learned from watching this film is that Canadians can make movies just as badly as anyone else.

With a stronger actress who could have been in greater command of the character, Freeze Me would have been a cold-hearted masterpiece rather than the okay thriller it turned out.

A diverting and delightful visit with two unheralded indie cinema veterans with a surplus amount of anecdotes and zany film clips.

Fans of prison flicks would do better to catch the HBO series "Oz" or the five millionth rebroadcast of "The Shawshank Redemption."

Unfortunately, Brooks errs badly by having his film centered in India. Yes, India - which, as most people know, is not a predominantly Muslim country. Rather than look for comedy in the Muslim world, Brooks uses this film to make fun of contemporary Indian society.

A pleasant diversion which mixes snatches of Wilde's waspish humor with a stylish Art Deco environment. The result is amusing to the ears and easy on the eyes.

More of a curio than a classic and it takes the strongest of constitutions to endure this film without entertaining notions of matricide

Has a terrible air of been-there/done-that.

This amazing tour-de-force presents Huppert in a role, which is equal parts abrasive and vulnerable, exasperating and pathetic, monstrous and saintly.

Theaters showing Mad Cowgirl should install seatbelts, because audiences are in for the ultimate wild ride.

A raw, brutal, hypnotic journey into the world of seven heroin addicts who barely survive on the streets of New York City. It is a film of great sadness and pain.

Typical of too many films produced in Israel: plodding, verbose, badly-made and completely monotonous.

There is a wealth of smaller dramatic triumphs of sly gestures, body language working at odds with spoken words, and minor goofiness (such as repeatedly blowing the rim of an opened beer bottle to create a rough whistle) which makes Home more humane (not to mention more human) than the vast majority of today's movies.

An original and highly memorable comedy, and mention should be made of Ebiri’s work beyond filmmaking: he is also a film critic for New York Magazine, thus giving proof that those who review films for a living can also turn around and make a damn fine movie.

A minor and forgettable bore.

An Italian-British-French-Spanish-Romanian co-production. A better argument against multinational cooperation cannot be imagined.

Okay, this isn’t a great film. Maybe it’s not even a good film. But for 1954, “The Last Time I Saw Paris” filled the bill with enough mindless silliness to keep people amused for two hours. Even today, it’s good for a cynical laugh.

This sounds an awful lot like "Memento." But unlike that movie, the French-Swiss-Spanish-Italian co-production Novo opts for a Eurotrash sex comedy approach instead.

Such a hopeless mess that there's no fun in tossing insults at its endless shortcomings.

The results are either darkly comic and tragic, depending on the viewer's mindframe. But McElhinney's route to these results, as with the Bertolucci, is nothing short of stunning.

Something of a surprise: a gay-oriented feature that is genuinely touching and sincere.

A style-rich, substance-weak B-level gangster movie which is noteworthy for two unusual reasons: it is one of the very few films from Thailand to gain international release and it is the perhaps the only film of its genre to feature a love story between a hit man and a pharmacist.

If Stalin's Wife doesn't provide solid answers, it nonetheless offers a fascinating tapestry of love, madness, politics, suspicions and jealousies.

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!

A small, no-budget, seemingly unsophisticated film that creates a minor energy miracle by fueling its running time on pure raffish charm.

The ultimate rarity: a sequel that is miles ahead of its predecessor in every imaginable department.

A mild but diverting farce about misperceptions involving gays and goombas.