Scott Brown

As a documentary, Jesus Camp could lose its haunted-house score and contrapuntal Air America refrains and still deliver its message: that, here and elsewhere, fundamentalism is no longer content with a separate peace. It wants the meat.

By far, the most shocking carnage is Tilly carving up her persona. What a doll.

Having tamed one muscled man-child (Vin Diesel in The Pacifier), Disney sets its sights on The Rock. He preens winningly in The Game Plan.

Feel-good ethnocomedy.

The lushness of a Modigliani is largely absent from Modigliani.

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.

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 film is a furious full-court press, its subjects aflame with the kind of passion only youth can furnish.

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

Special kudos go to Walker, for his dead-on impression of a time-traveling 2x4, and the perpetually hysterical O'Connor, who delivers one of the most grating performances in history.

Beerfest panders shamelessly to the 15-year-old in this 30-year-old... without assuming he is a 15-year-old. It's R-rated puerility for actual immature grown-ups.

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

The flick is best in its bittier moments (watch for the stellar cameos), and there's nothing to trouble the tots.

The characters are perfectly evolved screwups and the premise has potential. It lacks only the discipline of a 30-minute episode -- or a YouTube video.

What does satisfy is the pleasantly becalming presence of "Deep" costar LL Cool J. He's fast becoming Liv Ullmann to Harlin's Bergman.

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.

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

Writer-director Alison Murray picks at a hard, true hurt in this zombie melodrama of defloration, but nothing beyond that hurt really comes into focus.

Yes, it's all a harmless lark. Which is why the only thing that could redeem this sour patch of candy-coated crud would be a final shot of Earth exploding.

Coffey, a tart comic mind who should cast his net farther from the 405, pads his story with more and more familiar degradations, and Watts plays each one to the hilt.

The plot can't be summarized: Let's just say that crazy s--- happens, and occasionally, you laugh.

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

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.

Here's yet another self-consciously ''Almodóvarian'' confection, studded with small odes to the glory of self-creation.

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

The somewhat rococo songs and earthy pop-art animation tread a very fine line between heady and headachy.

Here, he's (Damon) the ultimate enigma machine, a man willing to erase himself for his country. Does that make him a hero? The Good Shepherd is too closemouthed to let on.

The title gives one hope.