In the end, there's enough movie magic in The Prestige to keep you guessing, even after the film's over.

Chilling doesn't begin to describe Jonestown: The Life and Death of Peoples Temple...But the film never gets behind the chill.

Once you get past the movie's needlessly fragmented framing device and its protracted introduction to a xenophobic rural Minnesota town, the core story gains some traction in your mind.

The most refreshing thing about Man of the Year is its mingling of comedy and suspense with common decency. Levinson asks his countrymen not just to know their limits, but also to reach them.

It bears roughly the same resemblance to the Bennett Miller-Dan Futterman-Philip Seymour Hoffman masterpiece as the now-forgotten "Valmont" did to "Dangerous Liaisons."

About as clunky as a movie gets. It lurches from scene to scene with no sense of narrative grace, gives its roster of prominent actors nothing to work with and screeches to a halt with all the grace of a sprinter whose shoelaces have been tied together.

Instead of being supple and expansive like the book, this Little Children is heavy-handed and snarky.

Thelma Schoonmaker, a Scorsese collaborator for over a quarter-century, did the bull's-eye editing. The moviemaking throughout is swift, unaffected, masterly.

Shortbus is nothing if not over-the-top, replete with consummated sex acts, both gay and straight.

Mirren brings intellect, humor and romance to the role of Elizabeth II.

The Guardian is that rarest of cinematic commodities: an action movie displaying brains and heart and the opportunity for its stars to do something more than keep the narrative flowing between explosions.

This may be Thornton's most arch, least persuasive performance. With Heder he's a vacant scowl. With Barrett he's a threatening yet toothless Cheshire Cat.

Jumping off from the brilliant novel by Giles Foden and changing a key character entirely, it dramatizes and wrings humor from the way a white Western renegade can view a self-made Third World despot like Amin as a superman blowing fresh air into a fetid atmosphere.

Everyone from the ensemble appears to be acting in a different picture. Zaillian strands them all.

Forget any hope of raffish adventure if you think of seeing Flyboys.

There are moments, heaven forgive me, that left me chuckling. Not to mention eternally grateful that it's these guys doing this stuff, and not me.

Much of the film's virtue lies in its straight-ahead narrative and uncomplicated morality. That and the undeniable charisma and virtuosity of its star.

Fans of horror-comedy probably will enjoy this movie, even though chuckles outnumber scares.

This team has succeeded at making a film that opens a subculture without programming our responses to it.

The triumph of American Hardcore is that it convinces general audiences that there were vast underground reservoirs of angst and anguish to be tapped.

You have to identify pretty strongly with suffering artistes to find anything to root for in The Science of Sleep.

A spare, trembling lyric poem of a movie that uses stillness and facial blips the way melodramas use showdowns and action films big bangs.

De Palma's direction shines, but noir script doesn't match his gifts.

The final resolution is silly by just about any standard. A little grounding in reality and a larger effort to avoid the trite could have made Everyone's Hero fun and inspirational for everybody, not just the very young.

It's sad that with everything it has going for it, this movie plays like a tall tale -- something too good to be true.

The film marks Braff as a talent to watch, blessed with the sort of natural, everyman appeal that audiences eat up.

Confetti overdraws on an audience's generosity.

This movie is both sad and inspiring. It offers proof that Lennon's wit and art are everlasting.