Directed by the Finnish-born Renny Harlin, it's a deft, fluid piece that rushes from one surrealist epiphany to the next, and along the way displays a craft and imagination far above the norms for the genre.

A solid meat and potatoes film. Like the land itself, there are no frills, and the cinematography by William Wages is commendable. But, someone should tell the filmmakers that there probably weren't any big mountains outside of St. Paul, even in 1917.

It's just a watery, undeservedly smug update of the low-budget, kids-stranded-in-the-sticks bloodfests of the 1970s and '80s.

Despite the talent involved, and the incredible subject matter, the irritating tendency to over-explain to the audience means there’s very little spark to be found in the enervating Radioactive.

What's the point of telling Jesse Owens' story if you don't get into what made him tick, and drove his success as an athlete?

Call it a successful failure. Some movies worth seeing are like that.

Some of the Indian imagery in the film is arch, but the story, the acting and the tension level are of the highest order. [04 Oct 1991, p.C]

At its best, Nightbitch is many things at once: funny, unruly, bizarre, tender.

It's a better-than-average gay relationship film, largely because neither plot mechanics nor the same old camp intrude much.

The appeal of the film version, such as it is, relates almost entirely to eye-for-an-eye, severed-limb-for-a-limb vengeance, two hours and 41 minutes of it, with just enough solemnity to make anyone who thought "The Dark Knight" was a little gassy think twice about which superhero myth THEY'RE calling gassy.

Shackles its characters with stale dialogue straight out of decades-old Sgt. Rock comic books.

Like all good popular entertainments, the best of it sings.

Reynolds retains his skittery comic timing, and Jackman (while tonally a little lost here) certainly put in his time with a personal trainer. But there isn’t a single shot in Levy’s film that flows excitingly into the next one.

Cher plays a footloose, life-loving mother of two fatherless daughters who sports a bouffant hairdo and, at one crucial point, a Mylar mermaid costume that looks as if it were constructed, on a bet by designer Bob Mackie, entirely out of common household objects. The part isn't much of a stretch for America's reigning queen of wacky non-conformity, though it should please her established fans while scraping the nerves of the unconvinced as lightly as possible.

The look and feel here is classic Hardwicke: gritty and dark, so as to fool you into thinking this film is serious business.

Kids may love the movie, and even kids who love the books may like it. For me, though, an astonishing percentage of the books' appeal has vanished.

Director Tobe Hooper seems to want his homage and his "Saturday Night Live," too. One minute he's reveling in hair-raising terror; in the next, he's dishing up naughty, nasty camp. [9 June 1986, p.5C]

Screen chemistry between two individuals isn't really a pass/fail proposition. There are degrees involved. But let's pretend otherwise and say yes, Smith and Robbie pass, barely, with less than flying colors and in a pretty dull movie.

This is a picture in which the barf scenes standard in the usual crude youth comedies aren't gratuitous. They're logical climaxes.

Sylvester Stallone and Billy Dee Williams star in a thriller about New York detectives trying to capture an international terrorist. The story is full of holes but compelling nevertheless because we do grow to hate the terrorist and want him stopped. [19 June 1981, p.8]

It was a very uneasy 80-some minutes. Watching John and Kipper express their fears and weaknesses and desires respresented a peek under covers that might best have been left unmussed.

Sidelined by a script that plays like an imitation of another era’s artifacts. It’s an oxymoron: a mild screwball romance.

Q's adventure is a passionate and creative retelling of a time-honored tale, and one that will appeal to audiences both old and new to the genre. Hughes would approve.

While it's done well enough here - written smartly, staged crisply and acted to the hilt - it doesn't last, except as a brief virtuoso piece for three players.

Pseudo art can be fun, though, even if it doesn't quite awaken all your senses.

As Cruel Intentions progresses, you may come to realize that if a bomb suddenly blew up everyone on screen, you wouldn't particularly miss anyone.

Any Chekhov is better than no Chekhov, but it would be a shame if this was your introduction to one of the greatest plays of the last 100 years.

An epic unhinged, and while its best sections suggest a Loony Tune done by Sam Peckinpah and Emilio Fernandez, "Mexico" needs to be even crazier than it is.