It's mindless, which is rarely true of French cinema, dull, which is rarely true of Hong Kong films, and portentous, which shouldn't be true of any film about a man-eating dog.

It's considerably flawed. It has a middle that's padded, a look that could use a few more light bulbs, a protagonist who never earns our sympathy, and an audio mix that leans much too heavily on the bass, often making it impossible to understand what's being said.

In its own quiet, voluptuous way, Rivers and Tides, an unpretentiously brilliant documentary, uses the work of Scottish sculptor Andy Goldsworthy to open up the hidden drama of the natural universe.

Black Hawk Down, in the end, is a docudrama. But it's sensationally well done, and it opens up a battlefield that needed to be documented.

Director Gillian Armstrong drains all the emotional energy out of the people who dot her movie's lovely landscape.

The film is so busy that every minute is exhausting. It's as if the filmmakers were idealistic teen-agers afflicted with a group case of Attention Deficit Disorder.

The film has a lot of right in it, including an ending that's suitably uncertain, but fraught with possibilities.

What a relief to see a movie in which an audience responds with peals of laughter to subtle facial shifts as well as punch lines.

It's one of the most ambitious biographical films ever made in this country, and one of the most unusual, moving and exciting.

Hasn't got quite the right sound as it did in Annie Proulx's novel.

A misstep or two aside, you don't have to belong to Mensa to know kids will enjoy it.

Method Man and Redman just don't have the comic timing to pull off 90 minutes at front-and-center.

The indisputably gifted Jim Carrey shows the side of him that just wants to be loved - the Riddler on Ritalin, the Mask unmasked. And it turns out to be stultifying.

This is harmless fun for the holiday season, but Tim Allen doesn't give movie the punch it needs.

A movie masterpiece -- thrilling, passionate and wise.

The union of thought and feeling becomes flesh and blood thanks to four brilliant performers in Iris.

Voluptuous dance about love, pain and the whole damn thing.

Isn't nearly the landmark comedy it thinks it is, but its quirkiness should appeal to the highbrow funny bone in all of us.

What proves the validity of Kandahar is that, by the end, all these scenes are human ruins of the same nightmare world.

Formless, feckless, mindless, directionless and at times stunningly humorless.

Like an over-packed three-scoop cone -- it melts into a mess while we're still slurping away.

It's like Chekhov with a British accent.

No Man's Land is a 98-minute wonder: this story of three men in a trench renews the meaning of the word "trenchant."

As they've proven before and doubtless will prove again, Soderbergh and his cast are capable of better, weightier, more substantial stuff. But for now, slumming has rarely seemed more appealing.

You know the line about paying to hear a great actor read a phonebook? I'd pay to see Channing just leaf through one.

It's plenty thrilling, and it appeals to the flag-waving patriot in all of us.

There's a lot of talk about sex in Sidewalks of New York, but precious little of it. And that's part of the point.

May be thin, but it's also sharp, like a stiletto.