What Lies Beneath is my head on the movie theater floor, snoozing through this film.

Don't expect to be wowed by a vast spectrum of delicacies, as the buffet here is composed of entirely obvious ingredients.

Shadow Hours must stand simply as an impressive B movie. Compared with what we've seen lately, however, that doesn't seem like a bad achievement by any means.

An ambitious, frustrating drag.

Arteta and White manage to bring off both the comedy and the tenderness in this tale of a jilted friend who sticks to his passions like chewing gum on a shoe.

This is quintessential "family entertainment."

Devotees of the comedienne presumably will think they have died and gone to heaven, while Cho virgins may laugh aloud a half-dozen times but probably won't become converts.

Zhang deftly and quickly draws a half-dozen supporting characters, and his pacing never flags.

Many of the most absurd things on view in this film are absolutely true.

Actually quite amusing, thanks mainly to a script that keeps the gags flying so fast that even though so many of them are bad, they're quickly followed by something new, and occasionally something good.

It may have been the perfect storm, but this is the imperfect movie.

A whole lot of something about nothing.

Happily stuck between a rock and the deep blue sea.

Sentimental, overbearing, flag-waving--and a crowd-pleaser.

Carrey and the Farrellys are equal-opportunity offenders.

Gleefully blurs the line between species. Vive la révolution!

Is it worth the goofy characters and weak story for the effects and action sequences? Absolutely.

Singleton's version is cynical and silly--one long set-up to a closing scene that promises, or threatens, a sequel.

Makes good use of its actors.

The film's demands may be too perplexing.

The movies' time-honored old-man-and-boy theme has rarely been used to such great advantage.

As a musical feast, Groove works well. As a celebration of tribal ritual, it's even better.

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

Taken as a whole, the movie seems to be searching for a harmony it never really achieves.

It's barely a movie at all, more like a thousand car commercials spliced together in an hour.

Awful narration almost ruins the ghostly, gorgeous Running Free.

If Big Momma's House isn't as bad as you imagined, then you've no imagination at all.

A trifle at best, a lightweight, wink-wink amalgam of myriad other films, some of which have even starred Chan and Wilson.

Less a spiritual quest than a very self-indulgent gimmick movie that could use a strong shot of inspiration.

In short, the film is emotional, perhaps even sentimental, but it strenuously avoids the sort of blatant manipulation that marks cheap sentimentality.

It may be his (Greenaway's) breeziest and kindest-hearted effort to date.

Abandon all hopes of common sense, and enter the theater with high expectations for visceral entertainment. You won't be disappointed.

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.

Allen produces a lovable, relaxed--although not uproarious--comedy.

It ranks (indeed, it is rank) among the most soul-deadening movies ever made; it has no pulse and seeks to steal yours with a cynical vengeance.

Audiences will leave the theater ready to sign up for some dance classes themselves.

Despite the few good performances, this Hamlet is not a keeper.

What it lacks in story, it makes up for with sharp dialogue and an amusing Walter Mitty-esque style.

Despite his natty wardrobe and calculated sangfroid, Penn doesn't summon up quite the right image.

A wobbly Basinger and a feeble screenplay doom I Dreamed of Africa.

The soul of Gladiator is made sluggish by a maddening lack of suspense.

It doesn't have enough power in the first place to make a strong claim on our attentions.

Braugher does much to hold this show together, because without him, the reality gets muddled. He's a terrific balancing agent for both Caviezel and Quaid; kudos to casting.

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

We become so absorbed in the ramifications of the techniques involved that a more challenging plot might have resulted in sensory overload.

A top-notch cast compensates for dubious credibility.

Takes roughly a third of its length to really get going, but, once it does, it's a devilishly clever, engaging piece of work that milks every cent of value from its tiny budget.

Impeccably acted by a fine ensemble cast, it's a sheer pleasure to behold.

Not bad at all.

[Coppola] understands the crisp, oblique horror and wistfulness of Eugenides' narrative, plunking down five enchanting princesses into an environment that is anything but magical.

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

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

An ethereal, creepy, almost breathtaking meditation on the life of a mind snapped in two.

As ridiculous as it all is...it's somehow eminently watchable.

Slips by quickly enough, but it never engages our interest more than passingly.

There is some meandering, episodic raggedness to the plotting, but Khan-Din's dialogue has a fine, naturalistic flow, and the young, debuting director O'Donnell, who's neither English nor Pakistani but Irish, skillfully keeps the material from showing too clearly its theatrical origins.

The film looks great, but Wargnier is so heavy-handed in his portrayal of postwar Russia that it casts suspicions on the film's reliability as history.

Be forewarned: The rural Irish accents may be incomprehensible to viewers who aren't accustomed to them.

A big gob of fun.

A vivid double portrait of the artistic sensibility in its many weathers -- expressed by two fine actors clearly engaged in a labor of love.

Trite and silly, but, blast it, the movie has a good heart.

Ambitious in scope and humble in execution.

Immediately disarming for its candor, verve, and sheer nerve.

Predictable and conventional and unadventurous. It can't really be defended, except that it's comfortably enjoyable.

Obnoxiously dull.

Full of conspiracies, all The Skulls lacks is a brain.

The film is so much like the book, it might as well come with a bookmark to hold your place when you step outside to use the restroom.

It would be heartening if the adolescent girls of America turned their backs on this pandering piece of kitsch, but that would be hoping too much.

A pensive, reflective movie, more or less equal in tone to Ang Lee's "The Ice Storm," yet, because of its temporal breadth and tight emotional focus, it packs a more intimate punch.

A beautiful film from Iran explores beauty both physical and spiritual.

The entire cast is right on the money, a special word must be said about Seth.

Bearable only because, unlike the recent spate of teen films, it's so breezy it barely even registers.

Technically, the movie occasionally rises to become awe-inspiring, and while sometimes you can smell the acting (especially from Matthes), the performances are often soulful.

May not have the best script in the world, but it brings Jet Li to the big screen in a way that all action junkies, not just the video-store geeks, will appreciate.

This is a Julia Roberts Movie about only one thing: being a Julia Roberts Movie.

A waste of a decent premise.

One can only assume all the, ah, good stuff landed on the cutting-room floor, because it sure as hell didn't make it to Mars.

The whole thing seems to meander aimlessly, rarely creating a chill.

In short, let nothing deter you from staying home.

Adequately breezy and sleazy -- a movie about the horniest man in the universe looking for a little one-night stand.

This infusion of warrior philosophy is the gas in Ghost Dog's tank, and Jarmusch pumps it up for maximum octane throughout.

With a sneer and a wink, Drowning Mona plunges us into a fresh deluge of idiotic Americana .

Nobody involved will want to make this banal "comedy" a highlight of their résumé, not if they have any sense.

The latest entry in the "next 'Full Monty'" sweepstakes.

Mifune's radical stylings belie its clichéd core.

As detached and unfocused as a college pothead. And about as much fun.

In this beautifully devious, exceptionally well-made entertainment, Mr. John Frankenheimer does it all, and more, with the assurance of an old master.

Philosophy imbues this inescapably self-reflexive movie with a rare compassion.

It's just a familiar bore, offering chills and thrills only to those who have never seen a movie before.

Deftly delivered and free of gratuitous gloss, yet enormously rich in its unassuming manner.

Doesn't work as comedy or drama or anything in between.

Engaging and revelatory, turning forgotten footnotes and discarded minutiae into the stuff of riveting drama and poignant laughs.

This pitch-perfect, richly detailed portrait of raw greed works very well.

It's unlikely that anyone will walk away unmoved.

The theme (social breakdown in isolation) is strong, but the plot meanders, and the motivations are decidedly hazy, so its popularity probably stems from its seamless blending of naive wonder and soul-mining horror.

Knockout's heart is in the right place, but it drags because of tedious earnestness and shallow "You go, girl!" feminism.

It's time to run, screaming.

A mildly amusing romp.