Presents itself as a musical essay, but would certainly fall more under the category of a love letter. And ultimately, what would you rather experience anyway?

The only glimmer of actual characterization in the entire film comes – all too briefly – from Frank's old boss Inspector Tarconi (Berléand).

A Sound of Thunder is positively awash in bad hairpieces, leading one to believe that global warming is going to be the least of our problems.

Its star, who injected such life into the surprisingly unformulaic "Drumline," is adrift in a sea of cop-movie clichés, and Siega's party-to-go direction hews more closely to his music-video beginnings than to his critically noted "Pretty Persuasion."

Substantive and imaginatively filmed but is not an off-putting art movie; rather, it's the kind of solid but accessible filmmaking that prevailed in Hollywood's golden age.

Although Gilliam's bright color palette and weird camera angles lift the film, it has an overall sense of darkness, as if shot among people who have yet to see the Age of Enlightenment.

Bonuses all around, but a double one for Perabo, the only cast member to survive this dull-as-dirt Cave with her actorly integrity intact.

Some things are best left undiscovered.

The film never recovers its initial fizzy-pop charms, owing largely to pacing that turns positively molasses-slow in the second act.

The movie is tightly wound and expertly unraveled, resulting in a thriller that you'll remember – unlike the hitman Ledda.

Isn't quite a home run: The visually flat film leans on a pop culture crutch that probably won't age very well, and the finale – while terrifically funny – feels piped in from another, far sillier movie.

Red Eye's no classic, but with its smart, twisty little script and those two killer performances, it is a helluva lot of fun.

The movie makes use of every avian pun possible, a pattern that becomes quickly monotonous and predictable, if not contagious.

Hitchcock and Almodóvar this film isn't, but it's a worthwhile and fairly amusing effort.

Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance's byzantine plot appears fairly straightforward at first, but slowly, deliberately moves into uncharted waters with the fluid grace of a tiger shark bumping up against a potential meal.

Fails to kick start anything other than the urge to giggle.

True, the melodrama on display here can't compare to the likes of Larry, Moe, Curly, and the cannibals, but then this goofily charming quartet of Western outsiders is far more real than reel.

A top-notch cast was gathered and then wasted in this atmospheric but prosaic hoodoo spooker.

Not content to merely be lowbrow and stupid – there's room in the world for lowbrow and stupid mass entertainment – the film is pushy and might actually cause chafing.

This is the kind of scrappy Seventies-throwback B-movie that fits the bill when you desperately need to see regular-seeming, occasionally inept people rise up against our corrupt criminal oppressors and cudgel them with pool cues and bits of blasted-off brick.

Like the infamous Japanese water tortures of WWII, Dahl’s film is a steadily mounting series of pesky nonevents paced with all the frenetic, action-packed verve of a wounded lawn sprinkler.

The delectably atmospheric Asylum remains gothic to its morally maggoty core.

A truly provocative essay.

The film's ideas are provocative, yet vague and unfully formed. It's much like Pulse itself, which is a bit too long, despite several great sequences.

One of the most emotionally honest movies about drug addiction ever made.

How can a movie narrated by Junior Brown and backed with wall-to-wall southern rock – a movie that at one point features co-stars Nelson and Carter tied together, surely a first in celluloid history – be so uneventful? Why, it's lazier than Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane's good-for-nothing hound dog, Flash.

Broken Flowers is as elliptical as the haunting jazz music by Mulatu Astatke that permeates the soundtrack.

A riot of sight and sound that, however baffling, has an irresistible, elemental pull.