It's a likable enough smorgasbord, from its trendy Irish locations to Andy Summers turning in a Beatles cover to occasional giggles and gasps.

Director David Zucker has fallen a long way since the days of “Airplane” -- here, he seems to think endless hilarity can be milked from an animatronic owl and a running gag about urination that even the French would reject.

What could have become a heinous TV movie instead delivers the moving and relatable experience of being an emotionally overburdened person stuck in a world that mostly sucks.

To the fan of ’80s slashers, this return to glorious excess is a beautiful thing.

Seems far too familiar for comfort. "About a Boy," anyone?

A gentle, frank, and often hysterical love story about two people destined, and occasionally doomed, to be together forever. Some of us should be as lucky, as blessed, as Harvey Pekar.

Where "Silverado" swaggered, Open Range sulks; it's no fun at all.

Grind does evince a true love for skating, and both the street action and the actual competitions are brilliantly performed and slickly lensed. That it's also funny and excels beyond Youth Culture 101 is a nice bonus.

It's mildly amusing, good for occasional laughs and satisfying grunts of appreciation. But it's far from inspired. It's just goofy and fun, sort of.

The movie's diplomatic breadth compromises its thematic depth -- it basically repeats that fun conquers all -- but few movies will so generously rawk a crowd this year.

At its best (which isn't much), Le Divorce blusters along with the tolerable tedium of had-to-be-there home movies; at its worst (which is about 90 percent), it illustrates why the French went and invented the word merde.

A thoroughly unremarkable police action movie starring the magnetic Samuel L. Jackson.

There's so much EFFORT here to convince us of the switcheroo (already one of Hollywood's oldest ploys) that we soon weary of it.

There's something about that project that feels manipulative and wrong.

The horrors therein are vivid, even if the movie is a bit plodding.

A very dull movie.

Against all odds, the American Pie movies have actually gotten a little better each time out, though that's certainly not to say that they're, uhhh, "masterpieces."

So how bad, in the final analysis, is Gigli? The best that can be said is that it doesn't beat out "The Ladies Man" as the most abrasively awful film of the past five years, nor does it top "Battlefield Earth" for sheer misguided lunacy.

Like "Fight Club," it's a brilliantly made film that will be despised for the right and wrong reasons; if you don't see the humor in it any time during the first half-hour, leave. If you stay, you've passed the test--sit back and enjoy one of the year's finest films.

Neorealism it ain't, but if you have a sufficiently long attention span, there are moments of laugh-out-loud absurdity that are worth the price of admission.

A movie designed to wow winds up feeling cold, not, ya know, cool; the charm of the 2001 original has been decimated, its heart replaced with a microprocessor.

Beneath its satisfactory chops this movie -- like Ms. Croft herself -- is stuffy and soulless.

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.

Its substance and high ambitions, salted with humor, make for a rewarding two hours in the dark.

"Meatballs" handled the sleep-away sex stuff better; here it feels like filler between the killer musical numbers that make even special guest Stephen Sondheim smile on his way out the door.

The film strains for some kind of meaning, but asks you to do the work it can't and won't perform on its own.

It's best appraised as a strong ensemble piece, a darkly dreamy slab of social commentary and definitely one of the year's best films.

Competently if unremarkably directed by Englishwoman Clare Kilner, should prove compelling enough to Moore's huge legion of fans.