Robert Horton

Like it or hate it, Titanic lives and breathes as a piece of pure cinema.

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.

Well-crafted scenes that carry a bracingly grown-up tang: unhurried, played in a low key, with plenty of time to savor the details of character and place.

Strangely enough, this movie provides a lot of the James Bond veneer that has been missing from recent James Bond movies.

It's great that this movie exists.

An amazing compendium of dumb behavior, bad dialogue, and incoherent direction.

This fantasy-tinged romance leaves a distinctly bitter aftertaste.

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

It's like a madly inventive hybrid of "Dr. Strangelove" and "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre."

If it is never really as profound as it seems to think it is, American Beauty is consistently entertaining, and it earns points simply for acknowledging that all may not be perfect in the current boom years.

It's got both the sweeping spectacle and the keen, tactile sense of human intimacy.

A smart, engaging movie.

Dumb and irritating.

The picture has an appropriately grungy sense of place.

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.

Scott Thomas and Penn finally develop a bit of unlikely chemistry, aided by the Hitchcockian atmosphere. I found myself rooting for these foolish, pampered, naïve people, and rooting for the movie as well.

A small, scruffy, but agreeably energized comedy.

Highly enjoyable.

It's just another bad horror film with inadequate young actors chased around a big house by something.

The film is Travolta's baby, but indifference and boredom is everywhere.

There is no obvious reason for the film's meandering existence: it's a series of beautifully photographed postcards of Africa.

Forman imbues the material with exactly the right dry, satirical flavor, yet this story is still a Frank Capra little-guy-against-the-system picture.

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.