Lars von Trier's latest thingamabob is a large, pretentious blob of coulda-been. As in, it coulda been deep and insightful. It coulda been sociologically challenging. It coulda been formalistically thrilling. But it isn't.

Bigger, Longer & Uncut delivers: It's never less than funny, and at its best, it's truly hysterical.

Do not read too much into Burger's mockumentary, then; it's just having a lark, poking fun at conspiracy theorists, taking the piss out of the dozens of docs out there that present themselves as The Real Story About the Killing of John Kennedy.

Johnson, who was computer-generated in "Mummy" and only looked it in "Scorpion King," keeps it engaging, displaying a comedic knack first revealed during his Saturday Night Live appearance in 2000; he has the timing of a Rolex, even when playing straight man to American Pie's Stifler.

Explores a wealth of issues and conflicting ideologies.

It's a fast, entertaining ride.

That the film is good rather than great proves a disappointment, but just finding a good film these days is rare, especially a big studio picture.

Writer-director Rawson Marshall Thurber (the short "Terry Tate: Office Linebacker") keeps the jokes coming fast and furious, and while none of them are deep, many find their mark.

Even in Las Vegas, which is possibly the most irrational place on earth, drama demands a bit of dramatic logic. Romantic fairy tales just don't play well on The Strip, despite its fake Eiffel Towers, bogus Italian palazzos and strike-it-rich fantasies.

The filmmakers' investment in their weird visions is wildly unorthodox, but the payoff is oddly satisfying.

Watching this film is a little bit like getting mauled and tickled at the same time. The filmmakers have given the whole shebang a hefty levity, and that's not easy to accomplish in a full-scale disaster movie.

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.

Waters offers a worldview that's uniquely his own.

As ridiculous, as mawkish and schizophrenic as The Family Stone is, it's also surprisingly endearing.

Five or six lives might have felt more concise; nine test the patience a bit, though it is impressive that each is composed of a single Steadicam shot.

The film is about how much you're willing to give up for love--a tune that has been played many times before, but never with quite this much slacker brio.

Good, goofy fun, but given the attendant hype, there may be a danger of excessively high expectations from horror fans.

This is the kind of documentary that, though not particularly accomplished by way of direction, writing, or editing, has such a compelling subject that there's no question about its worth.

Its loose-limbed sweetness and gruff irreverence are just right.

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.

Deserves more than just a look.

Pits good taste against rousing intellectual provocation, and, happily, allows both to win.

If this really is the last stand, it's a stylish farewell indeed.

Though it's a blast to watch, it becomes tiresome over the long haul--25 minutes of Thurman hacking her way through the crowd to get to a woman whose fate we're informed of early on. It's the most climactic anti-climax in recent film history, a no-d'uh coda awaiting the ending it really deserves but never gets. Not this year, anyway.

Several visual nods to the game are amusing, but it's tough to recommend the movie to anyone who doesn't already own a PlayStation.

The film's demands may be too perplexing.

Eight Below splits into two movies--the compelling tale of the dogs' struggle to pull together and survive and the much less interesting one about Jerry Shepard's emotional trauma and his search for redemption.

Pak's writing has a simplicity that belies the film's emotional impact.