Robert Horton

Feels more like a backyard relaxation than a movie.

A difficult time rising above the level of a reasonably nice TV-movie.

Gibson's performance is robbed of his customary humor, and he flounders around in search of the character's core.

A very silly film.

A collection of movie situations, recognizable from the films of Coppola and Scorsese, with a less obvious debt to Kazan.

The movie itself gets scattered.

Little of this is plausible, but it is beguiling.

Sandler repeats his sweet-souled doofus routine, with nerdy Patricia Arquette as the object of his affections.

As executive producer of the film, he (Freeman) clearly sees something in Alex Cross, a man much more interesting than the cheesy plot surrounding him.

Until it backs itself into a narrative corner, Lisa Krueger's Committed is a delightfully unpredictable experience.

What keeps Stardom watchable is Arcand's droll humor.

There is a point in the movie when this mayhem crosses the line from wildly imaginative to downright insufferable.

The brainchild of English director Ben Hopkins, who takes his time getting going. Too much time, really, as the first hour passes rather antsily, without quite achieving forward motion.

When the writing is good, Go is good, and when the writing is flat, things fall apart.

Mostly this film skims by on the surface, its conflict and climax visible from the opening five minutes.

As flat as the brim of a Mountie hat.

This impeccable ghost story is utterly old-fashioned, a straightforward suspenser with no twists.

For a good 40 minutes or so in the middle of this movie, De Palma is in his element.

A weirdly stillborn experience.

There's no way out of the excruciating melodrama, and the film withers in its trap.

Everything about the movie is fine and dandy and dull.

Beginnings don't come much more lurid than this, and the rest of End of Days never quite reaches this level of flat-out wildness again.

Beautiful is a mess, but not without interest.

A generally dumb movie with a smart, appealing, gutsy leading lady.

This film, a remake of a hapless 1974 cheapie of the same title, can't even get the big chase right.

This relationship might be strong enough to carry an observational novel, but the movie feels like it's missing something.

This lightweight concoction can't justify a trip out to the multiplex, unless you're a girl between the ages of 12 and 17, but it does provide a launching pad for a group of attractive people.

Serves up the usual homilies, but it lacks the quirky density and cinematic snap.

A truly stunning technical experiment.

This director's (Winterbottom) reach is impressive, but this time it doesn't quite grasp.

Looks like a very cheerful and imaginative accident.

When the film is sexy, it's truly sexy, assuming that you believe sexiness has something to do with the exploration of a connection between people.

Exemplifies the subpar state of movies today.

So wound up in its own bungee cords, it leaves itself hopelessly tied in knots.

This fantasy-tinged romance leaves a distinctly bitter aftertaste.

Enough well-conceived jokes that the whole thing works very nicely.

Edward Norton, who created a buzz of excitement in his first year in movies, stubs his toe with Worm... It's the same guy we've seen in countless mean streets pictures, but Norton doesn't find anything new to do with him. He's Ratso Rizzo defanged.

Spacey and company deserve better.

There's something about The Woman Chaser that isn't quite thought through, in a basic way.

Hughley and Jones have an explosively comic chemistry together; her kooky, open-faced looks are a counterpoint to his whipcrack improvisations.

Eventually fizzles out badly.

She (Lopez) wipes away the unpleasant memories of "The Cell," and serves notice to Julia and Sandra that there's another girl out there who can do romantic comedy-even of the half-baked variety.

A pleasant surprise that The Crew offers up the charms it does.

I'll be damned if I can figure out how its various ingredients are supposed to blend together.

If it weren't so pushy about selling itself, The Dish might have been a very special movie.

Bulworth shoots along with great vigor, and its non-politically correct jabs are occasionally exhilarating.

The movie gives us episodes from her life, and although some of them are charming and all of them well-played, I occasionally found myself wondering why I should want to be interested in this person.

In this case, I have to say, the sense of boredom.

Not terribly enjoyable to watch.

I still feel pushed around by Darabont's mysticism, and his overbearing sense of grandness; a little bit of the Mile goes a long way.

Julia Roberts owns this sweet-natured film.

A reminder of why Bullock became a movie star in the first place.

Works best as a free-flowing essay.

The plot is convoluted.

The story of Groove... provides an ingratiating road map to a cultural phenomenon. Just make sure you drink lots of water while you're there.

The result is fantasy that wafts away.

Has its dull spots, and is unintentionally laugh-out-loud funny at times -- but isn't that what we expect?

Moss -- in her first big role since "The Matrix" -- is the main reason to see Red Planet, a badly written and visually scenic space opus.

Sometimes star power alone can keep you from walking out of a movie, and this is one of those times.

Does have its share of bona fide chuckles, but it falls shy of its possibilities.

(Tyler's) voice is still mall American, and Onegin's rejection of her is nowhere near as puzzling or as tragic as it's supposed to be.

This is basically a movie about one neurotic woman and her neurotic L.A. life. .

It's a notch above average, but Whatever It Takes can't get too far above that notch.

Good enough in spots to make you wish it could have sustained its campier inclinations.

The problem is that the motion picture around these individual stunts is patently a committee-made artifact.

The scene doesn't amount to much more than a logical extension of its lightweight premise.

The opening reels here promise something big, but the movie settles for a sour, predetermined funk -- "Lord of the Flies" as imagined by a Nintendo junkie.

The storm is the reason to see the movie.

This mild but amusing comedy wasn't written by Levinson, and the accents may be different, but the feel is similar.

There's very little here that rises above the level of a competent straight-to-video picture, except that whenever Paul Newman and Linda Fiorentino are onscreen together they create something special.

I haven't got the slightest idea whether these characters are meant as satirical targets or as a reasonably fair cross-section of Today's Youth.

It all coalesces in a TV-level pleasantness, which isn't quite enough to fill a big screen.

A Mexican film that reaches for a very weird and risky tone, and, I think, fails.

For me, Trixie finds its own peculiar groove, and-buoyed by a compulsively watchable actress-folds neatly into the off-center work of a distinctive American director.

It's only when you see the movie that you discover how completely the film misses opportunities to develop these ideas into anything like movie comedy.

It's like one of the baker's cakes, handsomely rendered on the outside but lacking flavor.

These film-making provocateurs are divided between sweet and sour, between the romance of classic screwball comedy and Mad magazine on acid.

Even on its own terms, it stays sluggish.

A skim-milk version of a yuppie romance.

Enough pep in this picture to make it rise above teen-movie expectations.

Does a lot of little stuff right, and it sparkles at times.

When it counts, this film is absolutely successful.

Worth a look, even if it doesn't quite find the internal logic it seems to be searching for.

Not a crowd-pleasing, or even audience-oriented, movie; it's a two-hour-plus mood piece.

Destined to be remembered not for its laugh-per-minute ratio, but for breaking a barrier of crudeness in mainstream movies.