It plays like a parody of suspense movies, then occasionally becomes serious, then boring, then makes a jarring 180, then frustrates, then gets vaguely interesting again.

Pretentious yet devoid of poetry, left-of-center yet artless, this well-intentioned trudge does not exist to be enjoyed or appreciated so much as to be coddled and patronized as one would a retarded child.

A film built upon transitions so weak and obvious it's astonishing the entire thing doesn't collapse on itself.

That this mess should come from the hand of Istvan Szabo, the brilliant Hungarian director of "Mephisto" and "Colonel Redl," is the real shocker.

We're in for a long, unpleasant, reactionary ride.

Too much attention to art-deco detail, a meandering story that hesitates whenever it wants to touch an emotional chord, then squanders the opportunity with an eccentric line-reading or an extravagant camera angle.

Notting Hill offers another example of moviemakers consoling themselves about how tough it is to be famous while congratulating themselves on how down-to-earth they really are.

Experiencing this movie is a little like watching a manic-depressive's medication wear off.

An ambitious, frustrating drag.

If you were ever in marching band, you'll love this; if not, stay far away.

Screwball mistaken-identity crapfest...it's just utterly plain, a confection so bland you don't even care that it doesn't really make any sense at the end.

The Dying Gaul becomes so overwrought in the last act that it ends up as pure histrionics.

Hackman, playing it gleefully amoral, walks away with the film, for what that's worth...which is a video rental for fans of the actors involved. Yes, that's video, not DVD -- four bucks at Blockbuster is more than you ought to be paying.

Forces its snuggly weirdo upon us and instructs us from the get-go to love him.

Banal sit-comedy masquerading as religious deepthink dolled up as boy-meets-goy love story.

The most offensive movie of the year.

Terrence McNally's Tony Award-winning work has been called "one of the major plays of our time." Moviegoers who aren't stage-struck may wonder, "What's the fuss?"

Kills whatever charm the first movie had by recycling its few serviceable parts.

Sits before us like an exquisite platter of wax fruit, colorful, flavorless, and, if you eat it, very likely to come back up.

It doesn't add up to much more than a trifle that might have been more impressive as a short.

It's time to run, screaming.

The very best thing about A Dirty Shame, a giddy sex farce from John Waters, is the credits.

Instead of a gripping, conscience-bending thriller, Paradise plods along, determined to be some sort of master chess game ruminating on personal and cultural value systems and the complex and often contradicting facets of loyalty, honesty, friendship, love, responsibility, self-preservation, and exploitation.

Mimic is static, highhanded, and confused, wasting most of its 105-minute running time simply spelling out the premise.

May find it hard to sit without embarrassment through this bizarre mixture of paleontology, preposterous anthropomorphism, and fuzzy-headed New Age myth-making in which the only thing missing is the show tunes. Thank God for small favors.

Seven Years in Tibet feels more like Seven Days in the Movie Theater. It refuses to come alive--not even when Brad Pitt, hirsute as a yak, wanders the frozen Himalayas with an Austrian accent that probably gave his dialogue coach hives.

It's chatty when it wants to pretend it's deep and spiritual, messy when it's striving for chaotic and thrilling, and boring when it has no other options left.

This highly sanitized, heavily costumed, dramatically inert nonsense makes last year's dreadful golf biopic "Bobby Jones: Stroke of Genius" look like a masterpiece.