Square peg, round hole. That's what the twentysomethings who drift through Margarita Happy Hour are like.

The logic of it all will be Greek to anyone not predisposed to the movie's rude and crude humor.

Winning and emotionally punchy film.

Invades theatres with its fangs bared for action. It's bloody hell and we love every minute.

A small-scale pleasure, a movie that truly stops and smells the roses.

Doesn't say much of anything at all about the Balkan conflict -- it's more concerned with MacDowell's shattered face and Brody's passionate, paranoid whinny, which, come to think of it, is just good enough.

The collective charisma of Robert De Niro, Eddie Murphy, and Rene Russo is the only reason to slap down eight bucks for this limp action/comedy, but then, it's difficult not to want to avert your eyes out of embarrassment for the trio.

Is this the future of horror or just some bizarre fluke? Don't ask me, I'm having too much fun to care.

Has a heart bursting with good intentions, something that goes a long way in dimming from memory its inherent routineness.

The unnecessary nastiness, even sadism, of much of the violence also bears mentioning if you're expecting more of the benignly cartoonish silliness of Cube's lone directing effort, "The Players Club."

Remains little more than a briefly fascinating curiosity, a travelogue for those of us who can't actually attend.

The film's two saving graces are the time machine itself -- a gorgeous, whirling array of burnished copper and blazing light -- and the CGI-created rise and fall of New York City.

Ultimately, though, We Were Soldiers fails to bring as much to the table as it at first seems it might.

Doesn't do much to further distinguish Lehmann's career. As for those of us waiting for the year's first worthwhile date movie, the wait continues.

One glance at the cast should be enough of a recommendation for any film lover -- it's Winger's first time on the screen in seven years, and Howard deserves a nod or two if only for getting his wife back in front of the camera where she so clearly belongs.

Very little here begs to be paid attention to.

The whole film suffers from a serious case of overplotting, perhaps inevitable when trying to cram two largish novels into one smallish film.

It's neither the fulfillment of our worst fears nor the surprise of the week.

So upbeat it might as well arrive on a sunbeam.

Inoffensive and sporadically engrossing.

Functions mainly as a big-screen showcase for America's No. 1 teen tease, with the story and other characters serving mainly as accessories.

The exceedingly silly Super Troopers is an earnest, mostly funny spoof.

It's hard to imagine how anyone could remain dry-eyed while watching the scene in which John Q. tries to cram in a lifetime of fatherhood advice in a goodbye speech to his son.

Bad and baffling from the get-go, probably the only good thing to come out of this Rollerball is the boon it gives the porn industry in terms of another ready-made title to spoof.

The movie scores some laughs, all of which come from the expert Giamatti.

Plays like a bad adolescent revenge fantasy on Ritalin, all jagged editorial edges and silly, pumped-up testosterone.

Still, it's worth checking out if only to see Kidman immolate everything else on screen through sheer sexy charisma. Tom who?

A singularly distasteful campus romp.

The film's closing may be less than conclusive, yet The Son's Room must be admired, at least, for its unsentimentality.

Snail-paced and ultimately dull creepy-crawl.

By the time the explosive finale arrives (with a wistful Ray Charles crooning over shots of cataclysmic destruction, no less), you'll be hard pressed to name a recent film with this much action, pathos, and smarts.

Newcomers should be advised that this is not an introductory course.

More fun than Peter Hyams' "The Musketeer," and somewhat less so than "The Man in the Iron Mask," this is middling Dumas all the way.

The film is often quietly humorous.

Takes the giant leap from your run-of-the-mill mediocrity into an alternative universe of awfulness.

Where the hell are those Hollywood Ninja Assassins when you really need 'em?

Will be of interest for anyone seeking unconventional romantic stories as well as those curious about the development of the Dogme movement.

The marketing weasels over at Disney deserve to have their beady little eyes gouged out with flaming icicles for the fast one they've pulled on audiences with Snow Dogs.

Despite an overlong running time and a punishing amount of violence and gore, it's a deeply ambitious picture, one of the most expensive and original to come out of France in many years.

Is nothing if not foreign, but not in the sense of national demarcations of language and custom. It speaks a different cinematic language, one that tosses off the usual rules of camerawork and narrative structure.

The film also inspires, if unconsciously, the viewer to rethink what exactly constitutes art.

Undone by Blanchett's dull, wooden delivery. She's the pap that kills the pulp the rest of the film is bellowing out to be.

It's a bad movie that only a parent could love.

The film is more of an old-school wartime yarn, crackling with the expected camaraderie among the hardscrabble volunteers.

Absolutely harrowing, shocking in its sudden revelatory immediacy, and very, very well done, Black Hawk Down is one of the best depictions of the outright lunacy inherent to battle I have ever seen.

It isn't about where you get, but how you get there -- and the getting there is a chewy delight.

The kind of quiet, effective film that burrows under the viewer's skin and takes root before you've had a chance to realize that it's permeated your constitutional makeup.

It's a consistently entertaining story.

Mann's film is beautiful to watch. Cinematogrpaher Emmanuel Lubezki employs a washed-out, harshly lit style that makes everything look vaguely menacing and hyper-real, which is complemented by Lisa Gerrard and Pieter Bourke's Africanized score.

There's nothing terribly wrong with Kate & Leopold -- it's just an awfully conventional upmarket romantic comedy.

So many things come together so beautifully in this movie based on the life of John Forbes Nash Jr. that you're likely to find yourself willing to benignly overlook its occasional biographical lapses and narrative sweetening.

Meets the required minimum dosage of feature-film attributes, and then nods out when it comes to going any further.

Should be required viewing for prospective parents still sitting on the spermatazoan fence; after all, you're going to need a good sense of humor, aren't you?

This is high fantasy of the best kind.

The story is simple and true-to-life, and the technique is naturalistic, using nonprofessional actors, photography that emphasizes the characters' environment, and deliberate narrative pacing that mimics real-time events.

While viewers who expect a conventional suspense film may be disappointed in Lantana overall, it does succeed on a smaller, more intimate scale.

Not a man, but the romanticizing of him. A lot of jive-shit.

Iris is difficult to watch, given that it requires you to witness the transformation of the title character from a literate, vibrant woman to the ghost of her former self.

Aiming to break the land speed record for poop 'n' piss jokes.

A big generational saga that woos the audience with its humor, spirit, style, and ability. Genius here is an evolutionary thing.

It's a film that you can take home and chew over later, both abrasive in its loudness and reflective in its fleeting, feminine moments of silence. Well done.

After two hours of Vera's pretty but wet-blanket direction, it's too late to ignite any fireworks, even in the hands of such capable actors.

A concept executed with bravura style, intelligent curiosity, and playful wit.

The temporal jumps between the present and varying points in the past deprive the film of a sense of completeness; the transitions from scene to scene are largely disorienting, leaving you struggling to find your bearings.

It's a kick, it's a gas, and it gives the Rat Pack itself a run for its money.

There's not much spunk here.

Goofily funny, oddly tenderhearted mock-documentary.

You get the feeling the filmmakers didn't want to make anyone think too hard about what's going on here behind the scenes of the main storyline, and that's more than a little insulting.

Something haunting is going on here, but it's as difficult for the viewers as it is for the characters to sink their teeth into anything truly satisfying.

The actors, as a powerful and convincing ensemble, are equally understated and just as devastating.

There's precious little to like about the witless and decidedly tedious Black Knight other than the fact that it's unlikely to generate a sequel.

Wispy, cosmopolitan slice-of-life.

Is nothing if not exquisitely detailed: It's like a blood orange that del Toro spends the film seductively unpeeling, revealing layer upon layer of meaning and pathos.

A dead-chamber misfire, a hollowpoint dud.

What can you say about a movie that includes its outtake bloopers reel before the closing credits?

It's a great set-up, and for the first two-thirds or so of the film it works exceptionally well as a jaundiced satire on the world of gay porn.

Given his lackluster performance, even Martin, who is no stranger to sardonic humor, seems unsure about the film's tone.

Columbus' film version is fine, and it's bound to make kids happy while simultaneously generating untold box office, but if you haven't yet picked up a copy, don't let the film override the novel; set aside a weekend, dive in, and then head off to the cineplex to take in this well-done companion piece.

Next time, Pooh, why not do the work it takes and give your drowsy-eyed meal tickets some of the (as it were) good shit?

It's 99 and 44/100% pure Mamet all the way.

When a human joke like Tony Robbins is the only one who comes away from your movie smelling like a rose, there's a real problem in Farrellyland.

A clever idea that never stretches beyond just that -- a caterpillar that never blooms into a butterfly.

This is what great dialogue -- and by extension great movies -- is made of.

It's likely there's going to be some “viewer disturbance” going on after audiences catch a whiff of this routine and thrill-less suspenser.

The spirited interplay between Goodman and Crystal is both wacky and, dare I say, charming.

A film that wants you to get happy.

A “thrill ride” movie with all the predictability, brevity, and industrial efficiency that cliché implies.

Never mind the fact that romantic comedies about gay African-American and Latino men aren't exactly plentiful, let alone ones this good-natured.

It's the best-looking film of the year, hands down, and Thornton is dazzling, a dull diamond in the gutter rough.

Instantly forgettable.

While nowhere near as mawkish at the abysmal "Pay It Forward," K-PAX nevertheless seems somehow unfocused and meandering; it's Spacey-light.

This family melodrama is as subtle as a load of bricks and occasionally as painful, but it offers two of the most finely tuned acting performances yet this year.

Little more than a constant and occasionally pretty imaginative sex show.

Sad, sorry remake.

So much here is equally befuddling and beguiling; I caught myself leaning in toward the screen repeatedly, trying to somehow get closer to the gorgeous impenetrability of the story, of the boy.

Dogg has the makings of a genuinely great actor. When he's on screen the film crackles, and even when he's not it's a trippy, funhouse ride.

A provocative documentary that shines light on a little-explored dimension of the international debate regarding homosexuality and religion: that of gays and lesbians who also wish to belong to the Orthodox and Hassidic Jewish communities.

A movie worth viewing. Besides, it's the only movie to boast NYC millionaire mayor-elect Michael Bloomberg as its executive producer.