Shawn Levy

Kung Fu 2 does almost NOTHING to advance the story, to deepen the characters, or to charm, amuse or entertain.

It's not that Hangover II is a notably bad movie. It's more that nothing in it seems to justify all the effort spent to add a new but nearly identical series of episodes to the original.

Incendies was likely a crackling thing to read, but it's not quite so vivid as a finished film.

There's plenty of blood and screaming and mayhem, and it's not particularly well-staged, shot or cut -- though I suppose actually caring about film craft denotes one as a spoilsport in this context.

The film feels superficial even for something set in the fashion world, and after chronicling Sassoon's unlikely ascent, it all starts to feel air-kissy and fluffy. There is a great story here, though, and Sassoon is undeniably inspirational.

At once breezy and substantial, but it could have been more powerful if it were, paradoxically, sharper and blunter.

It's lovely, truly, but so heavy-handed and slipshod that it's probably best enjoyed with the sound off -- an option they're not likely to offer at the movie theater.

It starts as clever, but it ends in real feeling.

A diabolically well-made film about a 14-year-old girl who's raped by a pedophile who grooms her with online chats and sexts.

It is, in a way, the first glimpse of the cinema, right there at the dawn of humankind. And it is utterly remarkable to see.

It's clear that Weerasethakul knows exactly what he wants to do and that he does it in his own way. And that's why his film, even if it can't be recommended to everyone, blossoms inside you the longer you allow it to.

The acting is superb across the board, and the film moves dreamily yet with razor-sharp precision, building to a sequence of deeply felt climaxes.

Even though Spurlock, a totally likeable Everyman, is in the middle of it at all times, "PWPTGMES" never feels like the work of, oh, Michael Moore.

The combination of immediacy and intimacy in Armadillo is exceedingly rare.

This isn't at the same level of quality as Yen's "Ip Man 2," which played earlier this year and was one of the best martial arts movies in a long time. But it is entertaining, even if it does ask you to suspend boatloads of disbelief.

If this sounds like cheesy melodrama, that's exactly how director Francois Ozon ("Swimming Pool," "8 Women") wants it.

Like the bits of home life its pioneers have brought with them to an alien landscape, the careful craft grounds the film in a reality that is as much felt as it is observed.

The film is as one-sided and overstacked as anything her prosecutors dreamed up. And the craft of the thing is so pedestrian as to crawl.

There simply isn't enough footage of their protagonist just being Bill Hicks the guy and not Bill Hicks the comic. Surely he had some interviews or other artifacts they could have used along with all the comedy routines.

Rubber is engaging, brisk and smart enough that the audience wins, too. It's grand, mindless fun that makes a thoughtful point.

There's some great fun in the film, and a bit of unexpected wit, and lots of action, much of it ludicrous but some quite engaging.

A gentle movie with heart, spirit and wit.

This is hair-raising, clever and winning entertainment. Even if his protagonists aren't entirely what they seem to be or think they are, Mr. Jones is, it's increasingly clear, the real thing.

It's a film that's at once too much and not enough, laughable and groovy, dead serious and a total joke. And I mean no disrespect by any of that.

Is it dreary, stingy and strained? Well, yes: it's Jane Eyre, after all. But it's also robust and full-blooded and forceful: it's Jane Eyre, after all.

It's certainly all Araki up there, and the film is handsome and swiftly paced. But it also feels terribly routine and even, strangely, for all the trangressiveness it strives for, retrograde.

If you've got the stomach for it, it's a treat.

The crudeness with which Mottola made "Superbad" suited that film; here, a similarly rudimentary technique detracts and distracts.