The entire remake has been dumb-dumbed by John Hughes, who wrote the script and produced.

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

For all its kinetic energy, for all its camera tricks, for all its dark humor, there's still something a bit off about these Rules, and it's not really Avary's fault.

What Constantine offers is a deceptively thoughtful tale tricked up like an action movie; it's beautiful to look at but even more lovely to ruminate over.

The movie is perhaps most successful as a preview of greater things to come from both Hughley and Union.

One of the season's biggest delights.

This mean-spirited little comedy actually isn't bad.

The picture's biggest problem is that no one is sympathetic.

Even when Conspiracy Theory is jammed or rushed or overly jittery, Gibson's command--of Jerry's fractured psyche, his freak perceptions, and his ardor--gives the picture blue-eyed soul.

As usual, Hollywood hitmeister Bay is more interested in blowing stuff up than in addressing deep questions like the morality of science and the false myths of civilization, and these explosions go on for over two hours.

In short, let nothing deter you from staying home.

Should make about $750, which is how much they need to save the farm, but a little less than Disney CEO Michael Eisner needs to save his job.

All set-up, no soul... Nothing here is that inspired, that clever.

This new version, which retains nearly every character and echoes nearly every scenario, is somehow its complete opposite--a slight, breezy incarnation that tries like hell to dishearten, which only makes it disingenuous.

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

To say it's better than it has any right to be gives the original too much credit and the remake not enough.

By the end the movie audience, like the electorate, is less satisfied than strung-out and exhausted.

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

This is a brilliant and unpretentious movie to raise the bar for contemporary popular entertainment, designed for the upper-tier thinkers at the multiplex.

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.

The only thing worse than second-generation Guy Ritchie is fourth-generation Quentin Tarantino, and this movie has the musty smell of 1995 all over it.

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

Yes it's a "family film," of the sort we've become increasingly accustomed to these days; cute dogs for the kids to coo over, and a plot just complex enough to keep the parents who've accompanied them to the theater from dozing off.

Despite the tighter rewrite and the slicker production, it's obvious that Shimizu is still searching for what scares him, and until he finds it, he doesn't stand--ahem--a ghost of a chance of frightening us.

Even with so much in its favor, The Mummy seems to fall all too easily. If only generating a soul for the film itself were so easy.

The movie's not great, but Mom might like it.

Drowns in vanilla carnality.

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.