Scott Brown

Anthony, with his famished thousand-yard stare, turns in a delicate -- perhaps too delicate -- performance more informed by the shadow of Lavoe's death than the spark of his art. And his shrill domestic scenes with Lopez feel small and squalid, as we wait restlessly for the band to play us out.

Amusingly, Supercross puts up a fierce anticorporate front, lauding the self-financed ''privateer'' over the ''factory'' cyclist. If this is a joke, few will get it.

As an expat redneck, I recognize the deep, dumb need of every group for its own culturally customized minstrel show. Larry, a junker ''star'' vehicle run on arse wind and fan love, fills that niche.

Epps has a nicely beaten charm to him -- among the leads, he alone looks like he knows what a trip to the moon costs.

Sci-fi horror aficionados, however, might want to look elsewhere for their scares, as they're unlikely to find any here. Fright-wise, The Cave is a dry hole.

What might have been a rote horror exercise becomes instead a twitchy, mannered, often amusing rote horror exercise.

If you're looking for comic insights beyond the well-documented ass differential between whites and blacks, well, golly, you ought to try another carrier.

A fairly harmless fertility rite with a skewed if not downright ugly view of women.

The lushness of a Modigliani is largely absent from Modigliani.

There's nothing overtly better or worse about this sequel. But the ''kids'' look to be pushing 30 now -- an awkward age for theme-park performers.

The dialogue aims young and low, and sounds translated from comic-book Esperanto.

It's all the thrill of watching other people play Uno.

The title gives one hope.

In the ''flesh,'' Garfield himself (voiced by Bill Murray) is once again strikingly unlikable, a bloated, bingeing fascist.

For all I know, Ryan's performance could be a dead-on Kallen impression. But what she appears to be doing is an impression of Johnny Depp doing an impression of Keith Richards doing an impression of Liz Taylor.

Generic hip-hop soundtrack? Check. Aerial stock footage of milieu? Check. Hardy-har homophobia and misogyny? Check. Emasculated sub-Gump white dude played by Jay Mohr? Double check.

Too mild to be dirty, yet too dirty to be charming, and altogether too generic to be much of anything.

Running is a fevered smashup, as if Hollywood dug up Sam Peckinpah's corpse and forced it to adapt "Grand Theft Auto: Vice City" for the screen.

The main problem? Raid lacks a center. It's an exhausted sprawl with multiple story foci, none of them terribly compelling.

Some movies make love look schematic. The Trouble With Men + Women makes those films look stunningly insightful.

''Kid'' seeks to ''empower'' its target audience of recent Pokémon grads with an adult antihero desperation that feels preemptive and inappropriate.

Burns pads around Gotham, yammering yesterday's op-eds about Disneyfication and ''classic New York holdouts.'' He somehow manages to sound fogyish AND immature.

A mud-simple horror trudge set in a swamp colony of Abercrombie models.

A pretty lousy movie, which would be offensive were it not safely neutered by its own stupidity.

The big climax isn't climactic, just hysterical and incoherent. Murphy, with her bug-eyed, love-me mugging, is simply too slight and gawky to play the Everygirl.

Director Sean Ellis has a lovely eye, but he's set the film in his blind spot. Not only can't he distinguish between art and porn, savoring and wallowing, universal truths and exhausted clichés -- he doesn't even seem interested in these distinctions.

Here's a sobering thought: If every war gets the comedy it deserves, could Delta Farce, a strenuously unfunny "Three Amigos" knockoff, be our M*A*S*H?

Ultraviolet, warns someone, ''Don't overthink it.'' Sage advice for anyone masochistic enough to watch this pile of poorly pixelated vampire poo.