A great, lusty movie in the tradition of Bertrand Blier's "Going Places."

Humorous but much too predictable send-up of reality TV and the sheer banality of it all.

Gets the hell of war right and struggles to depict the unyielding passion of love. But the two sides make for an uneasy mix, one that not even the actors seem comfortable with.

Ice Age snaps with visual wit whenever director Wedge breaks the stale story to pieces and pumps in some bracing fresh air. So it's fitting to find, when the final credits roll, that he played Scrat.

Pleasantly meanders around a group of people who pitch projects and pitch woo on the Riviera.

The movie gives us a time machine that resembles a twin-engined Mixmaster and a script that was tossed together inside one.

Strings of four-letter words are a poor substitute for dialogue, and it's not until the movie is almost over that someone realizes there's no reason, other than assumed macho posturing, for Cube's character to go after these bad guys so hard.

The movie never generates the authority it needs to be all that it can be.

Eventually becomes cliched, predictable and crude. And that's a real sin.

This kind of fiasco turns movie critics into so many Night Stalkers.

The beauty, vibrancy and complexity of Indian culture is on addictive display in Monsoon Wedding. If only there were more to the film.

Painstakingly painful.

Could have been a contender, but it lacks the courage of its own ambivalence.

Go see Crossroads if you want to hear Britney sing or see her wear next-to-nothing. But otherwise, avoid this train wreck at all costs.

Scratch will make even the uninitiated believe in the joy and propulsive power of hip-hop.

Puerile, offensive, degrading, dumb, pointless, insipid and may just well be a harbinger for the end of Western civilization as we know it. But I laughed. Sorry.

The movie goes awry from the opening shots.

Ragged and frenetic.

Collateral Damage isn't jingoistic; it also isn't exciting. It's a depressed rabble-rouser.

There's something junior varsity about the whole sensibility that makes the new version seem more dated than the old one.

See it to be reminded (if you need further reminding) of this actress' remarkable range. Otherwise, take a pass.

An odd little movie. And not in a good way.

Solondz is still stuck in an adenoidal whine.

The Son's Room is the anti-"In the Bedroom." I mean that as a compliment.

Performances by Jim Caviezel and Richard Harris make this a great adventure.

Almost sinks under the weight of too many red herrings, but is rescued by a skewed sense of reality and pervasive sense of dread that should keep audiences from dwelling on them.

For grownups, this treacle is going to be pretty hard to swallow.

The vocal canines appear for about 30 humorous seconds, in a dream sequence, and are then never seen again. Unfortunately, the same can't be said about the rest of the film, which runs an additional 98.5 excruciating minutes.