Siegel calls it a talking-heads film about the talking cure, and that pretty well sums it up. The nonfiction scenes are most interesting, and could have easily sustained the whole picture.

The acting is smart and gritty, Almereyda's visual style has a raw immediacy found in few films with Shakespearean pedigrees, and an eclectic music score adds atmosphere and surprise every step of the way.

Delivers enough action to please Saturday-night crowds, if not the surreal wit that made the first two "Batman" movies, directed by Tim Burton, so entertaining.

Devotees of the "Whole Earth Catalogue" may regard this film as a nostalgia trip, but it's much more comprehensive, more forward-looking than that.

At this late date there is little that is factually revelatory about his film, but as a human document of what people are capable of in wartime, it's indispensable.

The action is carefully calculated to captivate a wide audience while allowing hard-core trekkies to savor nuances of plot and personality.

Rudd is amusing enough; Segel, who towers over Rudd, is amusing, too, though the role seems to have been written for Owen Wilson. Maybe Wilson was busy. Lucky him.

I wish the film had done more – anything – to analyze Petit’s psyche. But he barely exists in the movie except as a certified daredevil.

A bit too neat and calculated to make the emotions ring really true.

What may have begun as a descent into the personal depths of an enigmatic genius ends up as one more cog in the Bob Dylan myth machine.

The story is blatantly contrived, milking every situation for maximum emotion and suspense; still, the picture has a lot of old-fashioned charm if you overlook its lapses into needless vulgarity, and its shameless insistence on giving male characters more dignity than their female counterparts. Michael Keaton is terrific as the hero. [18 March 1994, p.12]

The first feature-length movie from Bhutan tells its lighthearted story through smart performances, appealing images, and unfailing good humor.

The movie is designed to show off Liotta's acting skills, but pointless mayhem and sheer nastiness crowd out any virtues it might have had.

The story is silly, the acting is campy, the effects are amusingly tacky. A mildly entertaining romp that pokes refreshing fun at its own occasional violence.

The suspenseful set-up never pays off, but Rampling continues the impressive collaboration with Ozon that began with "Under the Sand."

Penn's excellent acting doesn't raise his character above the level of familiar clichés about woman-chasing jazzmen.

The rap music we hear, which is produced outside Cuba's state-run music industry, is politically audacious and charged with personal expression and uplift. The film was produced by Charlize Theron's socially conscious company, Denver and Delilah films.

The gentlest of his movies, it shows a new maturity in Mr. Carpenter's outlook, emphasizing close human relations rather than shocks and outlandish effects. Although it never quite comes together, it shows a shift of focus and interest that bodes well for his work to come. [31 Dec 1984, p.18]

The fact-based story is so riveting and revealing that the filmmakers needn't have used melodramatic formulas to boost its impact.

With all this going for it, Vicky Cristina Barcelona should be better than it is. But there's something intriguing going on here. It's a movie about the sacrifices that people make to be happy.

Could have used a lot more grit. Without it, we're left with a crime movie fantasia that slips all too easily into the ether.

Tsotsi never comes across as anything but a brutal cipher, and serious issues such as black-on-black crime in the townships are left unexplored.

Lively, gentle, smart.

Made-up horror movies have nothing on Countdown to Zero, a documentary about nuclear security that won't make you sleep better at night.

In a supporting role as Giacometti’s beleaguered wife, who endures her husband’s penchant for prostitutes, the great, undervalued French actress Sylvie Testud strikes the film’s most resonant note.

The violence is cartoonishly garish and the yuks are few. Crowe, looking (deliberately I presume) flabby and somnolent, is more dead than deadpan, and Gosling, who appears at times to be doing a Lou Costello impression, is, to put it mildly, not in his element.

Though a tad lightweight, Tim Robbins's comedy cuts through Hollywood political blather.

The computer-animated portions that function as a real-world framing device are more tedious than fanciful.