Pure unadulterated animal fun.

Chills to the bone -- and beyond, but for pure excitement it's best not to look far beneath the surface.

Rarely have I seen a film so willing to champion the fallibility of the human heart.

90 minutes of ridiculous, silly fun. Of course, it's still a very bad movie.

Christina Applegate, of Eighties white-trash pinup fame, is a comic foil par excellence, delivering a snazzy, self-assured performance that lands the biggest laughs in a movie made mostly of hollow chuckles. She, in fact, is the sweetest thing in this sour, sucky film.

Franklin injects life into a flat format and has in the process done something nearly unheard of in Hollywood as of late: He's brought class back to the genre film.

A gleefully overplotted crime yarn that channels in sanitized form the perverse subtropical-noir sensibilities of Carl Hiassen.

The laugh-out-loud jokery is in short supply, and Reynolds and Reid's kicky charm only goes so far. Bluto Blutarsky, we miss you.

The kind of movie that gives "chick flicks" a bad reputation.

Doesn't break any new ground in the baseball movie playbook. However, it does bring it all back home with the assurance of seasoned pro.

Although little is ultimately “solved” or demystified in The Piano Teacher, the movie allows a chaperoned peek into the mind of one of civilization's “discontents.”

Faultlessly truthful in its observations.

It's good -- no, great -- to see Williams as a mean rat bastard.

Feels like a Fincher film: It possesses the same smarts, the same visual panache, the same violence. But not the same heart.

Pack the kids off to the multiplex with an easy conscience and forgiving critical sensibility.

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.