A hollow, relentless mess.

Without proclaiming itself a wake-up call for the West, In This World cries out for some new method of achieving international trust.

Unless you think "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" was the height of genius, there's little reason to sit though another version.

Little miracles spring up throughout this picture.

Cabin Fever may not be a horror classic, but it's definitely an ideal midnight movie.

Instead of exploding, it implodes.

Needs a story.

This movie registers like a pop song that enters the mind only in fragments because, as a whole, it lacks the style or substance to be memorable.

There's a funny movie struggling inside of Dickie Roberts: Former Child Star. Too bad it never gets out.

Like its predecessor, Jeepers Creepers 2 is that rare modern horror film that remembers audiences are scared far more by what they don't see than by what they do. For that alone, horror fans should be thankful.

Too bad it doesn't deserve to fold the bedsheets of Paul Mazursky's L.A. roundelay "Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice" (1969).

The supernatural stuff is ho-hum, the dubbing is sloppy and the action will only make you pine for the younger, hungrier and more injury-prone Jackie.

The movie doesn't complete itself, in the sense of filling in our knowledge of its people (who are more like passengers). It simply comes to a stop.

The setup is bad even by slasher-film standards: poorly acted, atrociously written and unimaginatively directed. But once Freddy and Jason have at it, the movie takes on a recklessly kinetic energy that finally delivers on its title's promise.

It's supposed to be funny watching these two characters and wondering who'll be the first to start acting her age, but it's really just pitiful, watching two talented actresses...given so little to work with.

One genuine small triumph of American Splendor is that the title isn't ironic. The movie is a splendid, inventive piece of urban Americana about that hardboiled original, Harvey Pekar.

Without Duvall, this movie would be as wet as Waterworld.

The movie has dual strengths that silence most objections. Even more than "X-2" or "American Splendor," it is, in a good way, the most comic-booky movie of the year. It's also the human Winged Migration.

The movie bobbles along on a weird, soft-edged sarcasm.

S.W.A.T. may be an acronym for Special Weapons and Tactics, but by the end of this routine melodrama, it might as well stand for Standard Whacking and Trashing.

Offers plenty of honest, good-natured laughs in the process. That's something young and old can appreciate equally.

The picture has immediacy, force and humanity. It's a muckraking work of art.

The cinematic equivalent of a beautifully wrapped gift box with nothing inside.

Campbell Scott creates a new movie anti-hero -- the weak silent type -- and goes all the way with it in The Secret Lives of Dentists.

There's much more than a little Stifler here. Still, there's a recklessness to the character, as well as Scott's performance, that almost engenders respect; he's so determinedly unregenerate, so outrageously lewd, so unrelentingly grating, one almost looks forward to seeing just how far he'll go.

Excruciating...The movie proves to be singularly unfunny and static almost from the non-get-go. Virtually nothing happens; the movie is all premise.

It moves so confidently and brightly that it's ticklish as well as chilling - and, in its own dark way, enthralling.

There's a dignity to Mondays in the Sun that manages to keep the film buoyant, helping to keep all the despair at bay.