Robert Horton

This overdone project dissipates its energy in strange ways (sudden shifts to black-and-white, as though hailing the spirit of Oliver Stone and that other Costner JFK movie), and makes you wish its makers had shown the same restraint the government did during the crisis.

The picture has an appropriately grungy sense of place.

The film version of this civilized beauty, captures the amusing gloss of the story but not the sense that something grave is going on beneath it all.

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.

Never less than dazzling to look at, and the scorching humor keeps it alive from scene to scene.

Has a real sense of the wonder of the early years.

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.

A clumsy and tone-deaf comedy.

It's swell when a film really does capture a book in some exactitude.

I'm not sure how elaborately I could defend Pola X, but I loved watching it.

It is thrilling to look at, and that's more than one can say for the majority of pictures out there.

Kate Hudson's accent is spot-on, and she brings her megawattage to good use on the Gershwin standard, "The Man I Love."

Nearly the perfect balance between straight-faced pulp action and amused wonder at the outlandish world of comic books.

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

Re-adjust the levels of cinematic hell, because "Porky's" just got bumped up a notch.

The plot is convoluted.

One of those hybrid projects: a major studio film, big star, homely storyline, but tempered by an indie director working in his own idiosyncratic style.

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

Highly enjoyable.

A big disappointment.

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

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.

Barrymore's sunny energy pushes the movie along, but halfway through you realize there just isn't that much to push.

Little of this is plausible, but it is beguiling.

The storm is the reason to see the movie.

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

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

The film looks horrendous, poorly composed and staged, and the rhythm staggers.