Wong weaves a spell that no other director could create.

This modest project is all about atmosphere and reflection, and, as such, it is successful.

Think "My Best Friend's Wedding," subtract gay best friend, dorky karaoke scene, charm, and any hint of malice or conflict, and you've got it.

It's not hard to see why actors love working with Penn, even in the smallest roles; he lets them speak monologues even when they're saying nothing at all.

Although DeSalvo performs the miracle of making these characters seem like people we actually know, occasionally her delivery definitely makes us wish we didn't.

Emits the embarrassing aura of a filmmaker desperate to be considered cool, yet utterly inept at finding original ways to reach that status.

This sweet-tempered retelling of "Romeo and Juliet," which substitutes uplift for tragedy, gives off enough energy and light that the audience wants to believe in it even if society's impacted prejudices continue to say otherwise.

This compression of logic--coupled with two hours of ham-fisted delivery--guarantees that Antitrust won't jangle your nerves but will intermittently split your sides with laughter.

Unless you're deeply familiar with Korean culture, you've truly never seen anything like it.

Without question, Shadow of the Vampire is a stately and elegant horror film, interwoven with delicious strands of black comedy.

It is a remarkable achievement in filmmaking, a beautiful and brutal work.

The efficiency of his (Donaldson) direction renders the movie somewhat characterless, like a top-rank made-for-TV production.

It all feels disorienting and truncated, as if the script, by Ted Tally, who also adapted "Silence of the Lambs," was a harried summary of the book.

Arenas' story is a downer that doesn't produce despair. That's because of the exceptional bravery of Arenas himself, and the understanding that both Schnabel and his extraordinary leading man, Javier Bardem, have of him, his world, and his time.

Davies has nailed Wharton's bitter satire of the flights and follies of New York society in the Gilded Age, and leading lady Gillian Anderson shows dazzling range in her portrayal of the book's doomed heroine.

Finally, the man (Hanks) has delivered a moving, slightly unhappy, and ultimately hopeful story in which squishy love takes a backseat to the wondrous whirlwind of life. The season's most delightful surprise.

Clooney has become a movie star, and the Coens have given him his very own "It Happened One Night." The man, and the movie, are downright bona fide.

It's a plot more worn out than the tinsel boxed up in the attic. In the end, they've given us a Christmas gift barely worth returning.

This is probably the funniest Mamet piece to date (but not the weightiest), and it might be destined to take a seat alongside "The Player" and "Sunset Boulevard" in the front row of movieland satires.

The bottom line, however, is that cheap and unoriginal as The Gift may be, it sucks you in.

Really, what women want is what all of us want: a decent movie, something vaguely insightful and occasionally funny. This isn't that movie.

A reasonably entertaining -- and occasionally very moving -- picture.

Most of it--ranges from very funny to hilarious.

If Hallström has a problem with tone, it lies in his almost supernatural niceness. Thus, what arrives on-screen is purely a man's feminism, simple and trite and beautiful and vital.

Vertical Limit represents another kind of propaganda--namely the current Hollywood notion that the bigger and louder and longer a movie is, the more people will want to see it, even if that means getting numbed before your popcorn's cold.

Proof of Life kidnaps the audience, then tortures it to a slow death

What about Ronny Yu's 1992 masterpiece "The Bride With White Hair," of which Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is a decent facsimile?

Gilroy has brilliantly played to his strengths in Spring Forward. With a story that has no room for big, obviously "cinematic" effects, he concentrates on simple staging, unobtrusive (though often beautifully evocative) visuals, and sheer performance. It's a decision that pays off.

Quills is bound to titillate some, but for most it's likely to summon little more than a few Oscars and appreciative yawns.

Willis gives a remarkable, wrenching performance: He is the most fragile indestructible man ever created.

The scenes involving just him (Carrey) are funny and full of life. All the other scenes are not.

Moments of strained mirth indicate how false and fabricated the whole enterprise really is--just a couple of well-to-do superstars doing their darnedest to prove to us that they're regular folk. And failing.

The delight of this awesome thriller is simply that Schwarzenegger--an old hand at this sort of running-around-shooting-henchmen thing--could easily sleepwalk through the movie...but he doesn't.

Nothing, however, can diminish the sense of horror we feel at what happened that day in September, while Macdonald's revelations and the candid comments he elicits more than make up for the film's less successful elements.

Little Nicky will redefine the phrase "worst movie ever," because it might actually be the worst movie ever.

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

In this modest but brilliant little movie, we find ourselves immersed in life itself.

Visit Red Planet, and you'll boldly go where everyone has gone before.

If you don't view it too analytically, Men of Honor provides almost more uplift than a body can handle.

If you love the excitement of watching golf, this Damon-Smith bore is right up your fairway.

It tries to be both camp and action film--send-up and kick-ass. But it delivers so little on both fronts.

What makes this movie special is the meticulous attention placed on each of its characters, employing them not in the traditional "melting pot" manner that is so common, but as part of a grand mosaic that actually seems to be worth sharing.

It's difficult to imagine a more eloquent tribute.

In his observant, swiftly paced Stardom, Arcand does it all with relentless wit, high style, and a suggestion of tragedy.

While not entirely successful, at least deserves points for creativity.

The new version by Harold Ramis trots out a load of bargain-rack gags, tarted up with pricey effects for the A.D.D. generation. Woe to those who cannot leave well enough alone.

A six-year-old masterpiece, never-before widely seen in the U.S., is still a masterpiece.

For Caan's shtick alone, The Yards is worthwhile, but we may also be witnessing the emergence, in Gray, of a young filmmaker who's just starting to find the range.

Heavy-handed, saccharine message somehow goes down good.

Altman gladly admits there's not much of a story here; his movies are driven by characters.

Can be as howlingly funny as it is touching.

Deserves more than just a look.

The most offensive movie of the year.

The sappy trappings that director Raymond De Felitta piles onto the burgeoning romance story line kills any spark that remains, despite the best efforts of the cast to keep it real.

Lee's new racial satire starts out strong but loses its way.

It has just enough "comedy" to qualify as crowd-pleaser.

A fluent, intelligent piece of work whose sex and violence are anything but gratuitous, and exactly the kind of highly personal, no-holds-barred vision of life on the ragged edge that independents always aspire to but rarely have the goods to achieve.

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

The film has no form or function; at best, it's a 90-minute infomercial.

Its heart is in the right place, but it has no soul.

Generally engaging.

While the movie is frequently sharp and funny and weirdly relatable, the material feels too much like reality.

Consistently fails to deliver the charm it presumes to have.

Bjork holds the movie together, her natural charisma and the overwhelming intensity of her emotions should blind a lot of viewers to the ludicrousness of the story and the intentionally rotten videography.

Ninety percent of this thriller is absolutely terrific; but the 10 percent that fails is so troubling that it threatens to undermine all that is wonderful in the rest.

Part of the problem may be the use of non-actors in most of the roles. They look like real people, and they are entirely believable, but none has any kind of star charisma.

Far more than a mere visual feast.

Fascinating and engrossing on every conceivable level

So convoluted and half-assed it's tempting to dismiss it as unfinished; it feels like six different movies cut together by a blind editor.

Because of the supremely artful way Shear and Reitz have pitched the story, it reaches into places few films, gay or straight, have gone.

A highly likable movie.

The first relevant film about rock and roll and the music industry, the first film that lets you in on the secret.

This film is no "Usual Suspects," because there is no twist, no gotcha.

The resulting piece resonates upon the American condition, deliciously detailing the whimsy, violence, intolerance, and shallow fantasies that fuel this nation. Oh yeah, and it's funny.

Once the terror ends and the credits roll, we finally get to the best part: a merciful escape.

Hang out at a frat house or sports bar, and you can hear this kind of talk for free.

It's hard to know just how much to trust Titanic Town.

A mostly well-constructed action flick with a number of flashy, well-choreographed fight and chase scenes.

It's not until the plot surfaces that Bring It On really begins to suffer.

Although Morrison's drama feels increasingly forced and manipulative as the movie rolls along, the movie is competent if painfully predictable.

For the large-type crowd, one that prefers to have its "dirty" clean and silly.

A fresh, intimate, gloriously unpolished performance film that measures up to the classics of the genre.

Comes across as artificial.

Disappointing only because its best moments are transcendent; its worst moments, sadly, are just so ordinary.

Waters offers a worldview that's uniquely his own.

It's absolutely awful, and even Gene Hackman can't carry it across the goal line.

Once Connell finds his feet, he just may stride forth with his Important American Movie. Until then, The Opportunists is simply a whiff of great unwashedness yet to come.

By boiling the characters down to the most basic emotions and eliminating lifestyle-specific idiosyncrasies, we can enter the world of the story with ease.

Since the narrative's destination is awkwardly obvious, and the tone occasionally melts into a sticky-sweet mess like cotton candy in the sun, the movie is most often saved by its generous helpings of clever dialogue.

In short, Just Say Yes.

Eastwood provides more than an hour of easygoing fun, followed by 45 minutes of action and suspense.

Cinematic flat-lining.

Ultimately it's an ugly, insipid rape fantasy, nothing more.

It will linger like a foul odor or the taste of tinfoil between the teeth.

This elegant vision of sexual roles is certain to make a lasting impression and is likely to provoke explosive dialogues in Denny's and sidewalk cafés from here to Monaco.

The striking graininess of the film stock, the near-documentary style of the setups, and Michael Nyman's attentive score add up to a relatable and ultimately hopeful experience.

It's sweet and well intentioned, with occasional amusing moments.

It's too easy, but here goes: This movie's a Loser. Sorry.