Whether it's following the protests of a deceased firefighter's sister or tracing a humanity-restoring biography of vilified developer Larry Silverstein, Hankin's evenhanded film builds a concise, enlightening account from a decade of confusion.

While the action is brisk, the film never feels in a hurry. Walken and Pacino amble through their paces. Arkin ups the adrenaline any time he's around, and he is not around quite enough.

The result is a film that is solid and acceptable instead of soaring and exceptional, one unnecessarily hampered in its quest to reach the magical heights of the trilogy.

These folks, who were also extras in "The Soloist," largely discuss their tough pasts and thorny presents with haunting candor, strength and grace - words that also apply to this vivid cinematic portrait.

Though its early sections feel repetitive and self-congratulatory, the documentary's tension builds in the way director Mary Liz Thomson uses archival material, much of it from TV news.

That's not to say Heleno, with its magnetic energy, sensual re-creation of 1940s and '50s Brazil and bold storytelling lacks punch; the movie is nothing if not watchable. But, by presenting more surface than depth to De Freitas' womanizing, arrogance and volatility (an implied closeness to his unseen mother is about as far as the film digs), it largely feels like an arm's length effort.

They all share their amazing war stories and life memories with great humility and warmth.

Unfortunately, the athlete himself simply isn't much of a presence in this documentary, even as the film aims to celebrate him.

Underlining it all is the exuberance and charm of the two main subjects, who make this world seem disarmingly innocent.

Some of the language is smart, sinister and ironic in just the right ways, particularly when Addison, Eric Bana's serial-killing mastermind, delivers it. In other cases, the dialogue is so ludicrously off - either unnecessary, or unnecessarily misogynistic if a cop is doing the talking - that it's hard to believe the same person wrote it.

Romance and capers exist in Lay the Favorite, they just aren't played well.

In some sense, California Solo is like meeting an engaging stranger: At first there's a certain air of enigmatic mystery that makes you want to spend time with them, but eventually things turn awkward and you just want to get away.

Quartet is very much a performance piece, which plays to Hoffman's strength - as an actor he knows when to allow this excellent ensemble breathing room and when to tighten the belt.

At some point you hope the actor (Butler) will find a movie that will give him the right material to make hearts truly beat faster. Until then, it appears we'll have to settle for films with more flaws than his characters.

Though he has competition, especially from the folks playing the visiting royals, Murray is very much the reason to see "Hyde Park."

Romantic but pitiless, fearlessly emotional as well as edgy, Rust and Bone is a powerhouse.

The provocative noir experience that Talaash promises, with its jazzily scored, moodily lighted opening montage of a Mumbai red-light district at night, is nowhere to be found once this meandering mystery begins.

"Addicted" proves a strangely sad yet wildly compelling cautionary tale.

Dragon has enough interesting left turns in style, mood and psychodrama to make it stand out.

With its stock characters and low-expectation high jinks, the German import What a Man could have been fabricated on the Hollywood rom-com assembly line.

The movie's intended audience will likely be satisfied by its parade of gory mayhem, cheap thrills and groan-worthy dark humor. Everyone else: You're on your own.

Melton and Dunstan have created little more than a hollow shell for an empty box.

The movie creates something of the sensation of huffing industrial solvents - in a good way! - a waking-sleep zombification that can't exactly be described as pleasurable but definitely has an odd, distinct power.

Director Feng Xiaogang captures the epic scale of the exodus as well as the often-harrowing details, yet emotional connection proves more elusive.

It projects equal parts fury and despair as it reveals how a particular group of individuals was caught in the unforgiving gears of the criminal justice system.

The writer-director becomes so intent on hammering home the parallels between economic decay, political disappointments and petty criminals, there is nothing soft, or subtle, about it. He should trust his audience more.

A documentary potent enough to alter how you see the world.

Hitchcock puts major league star power at the service of its peek-behind-closed-doors premise. But whatever that relationship was like in real life, this is one cinematic portrait of a marriage we could have lived without.

Writer-director Michael Walker keeps a firm grip on his smart material, offering up big laughs, lots of recognizable behavior and, in the end, a wistful glimpse at life's inevitable priorities.

A revealing, disturbing look at how political and corporate forces have seemingly undermined the freedom and safety of our nation's equine population.

The before and after imagery of Balog's project speaks for itself, with the power and strange beauty of the evolving landscape strong evidence that something is indeed happening, now and fast.

While a foreign regime exerting its emergent power over America certainly has a familiar ring to it, if anything, this new Red Dawn is a movie in search of its moment.

There is a lot to savor in Rise of the Guardians, but sometimes too much of a good thing can be exhausting.

There are always moral crosscurrents in Lee's most provocative work, but so magical and mystical is this parable, it's as if the filmmaker has found the philosopher's stone.

The easygoing charm of Funeral Kings and its impulse toward honesty over overstatement robs the film of true dramatic tension, and a number of story lines - involving drugs, rivalry, love interests - are left somewhat unresolved.

What the film lacks in biographical depth, it makes up for with stirring visuals (including effective bits of split screen, time-lapse photography and animation), a vibrant score and an infectious, in-the-moment spirit.

It's terribly long and repetitive for so delicately dreamy a diptych, and at times the modern-day story feels like little more than a drawn-out apologia for the wandering male gaze.

The movie contains enough fresh insanity and inventive visuals to make it an amusing cyberpunk extravaganza for most of its protracted running time.

The feature debut from Irish writer-director Ciarán Foy, Citadel attempts to transform mundane anxieties into the stuff of a horror film. But the initial tension of the premise dissipates like a slow leak.

Silver Linings Playbook is rich in life's complications. It will make you laugh, but don't expect it to fit in any snug genre pigeonhole. Dramatic, emotional, even heartbreaking, as well as wickedly funny, it has the gift of going its own way, a complete success from a singular talent.

In Holy Motors Carax insists on our other selves. His daylong ride is a wary celebration, a joyful dirge that's served up in concentrated form by a roving band of accordion players. It's all in a day's work.

The film has a freshness that would never lead one to think it was directed by an 80-year-old while at the same time it has a sureness of tone, a certainty about itself even at its most audacious, that comes from the hand of a seasoned master.

In the end Anna Karenina lets you down - visually stunning, emotionally overwrought, beautifully acted, but not quite right.

The dialogue remains spotty and sappy, the effects still haven't caught up to modern-day standards, but "Twilight's" popularity is such that even when it falls short, it doesn't seem to matter.

Two things to keep in mind when considering Barrymore, starring Christopher Plummer as the great John B: It was brilliant as a one-man stage show; it was never a good candidate for film.

The worthy, potentially exciting subject matter would certainly have lent itself to either a straight-on documentary or a seriously budgeted narrative feature. Instead, producer-director-editor Tristan Loraine (he also cowrote the dreadful script with Viv Young) clumsily tries to meld the two approaches - minus the big bucks.

Despite the familiar setup, this is no "Same Time, Next Year," what with its hot-sheets trysts, full-frontal flashes and frank language. But the brief - sometimes very brief - encounters glimpsed here between the film's leads and sole characters (billed only as "Man" and "Woman") are inventive and telling.

While his breakthrough documentary, "Dogtown and Z-Boys," cracked open the window on a largely unknown world in vibrant and visceral ways, Bones feels like an epilogue.

Visual sumptuousness trumps the coldly erotic dastardliness of previous incarnations, but where this version feasts is on close-ups, with exchanges between pairs of eyes - the predatory versus the hesitant, the manipulatively comforting opposite the blindly vulnerable - that recall the silent era.

Perhaps Switch's greatest strength is in giving us enough information to try to come up with better questions of our own.

It almost seems like harder work somehow to get this many comedians together and then turn out a movie that is only so fitfully funny.

It's a character study about faith in connectedness, with an unforced love for cross-generational companionship that's special indeed.

This highly polished costume drama is exceptionally well-made and a model of intelligent restraint, but it is also unapologetically earnest and a bit on the bloodless side.

An agreeable visit with comedy titans who clearly cherish the opportunity to regale their peers with war stories and opinions about the state of comedy today.

There is nothing bravura or overly emotional about Spielberg's direction here, but the impeccable filmmaking is no less impressive for being quiet and to the point.

In Skyfall, Mendes has given us a thrilling new chapter in a franchise that by all rights should have been gasping for air - which really makes him the hero of this saga.

Vividly captures a year in the life of eastside Detroit's Engine Company 50.

As a flashy, country-hopping ridealong with a style icon, it will appeal to fashionistas, but you won't learn much about the high-end world of clothing design beyond its ability to stretch someone's schedule to the breaking point, and land that someone a gig outfitting Jamie Foxx and Will Smith.

Feels like a failure on all fronts - unpleasant to look at, needlessly in 3D, drearily unfunny and worst of all an incomplete portrait of the person to whom it is ostensibly paying tribute.

The pervasive historical reenactments and voiceovers, however, while clearly well-intended, often turn this otherwise vital film into an uneasy hybrid of authenticity and artifice.

In each story the imagery dazzles at first, then becomes somewhat dreary; Ocelot's storytelling never quite matches his visual abilities.

The story becomes more ridiculous as it escalates, the film's over-determined ecological focus undermining any real horror movie tension. Levinson's casting choices are off-the-mark as well - star Kether Donohue is just plain bad.

Temple is dependable if uninspiring, and Keough has yet to develop much in the way of screen presence - in the film, her short dark hair and doughy features look sculpted to maximize her resemblance to her grandfather, Elvis Presley.

Though not without its mini-heartbreaks and melancholic turns, North Sea Texas explores emergent sexuality and first love with a refreshing optimism.

It all adds up to create a dicey morality tale that's as improbable as it is strangely believable.

Make no mistake, Vamps is mostly a misfire, but Heckerling still shows enough flashes of wit and wisdom that she remains hard to entirely dismiss. Don't bury that coffin just yet.

The movie's subversive sensibility and old-school/new-school feel are a total kick.

In its ability to let us hear firsthand what life-and-death combat does to the human body and spirit, this film has few peers.

If the movie doesn't entirely get past its hard-to-buy premise, director Paolo Sorrentino does have the courage of his convictions, not just embracing every contradiction but spinning many of the story's contrivances into moments of strange, aching beauty.

Zilberman's minimalistic approach fits the idea of the film better than it fits the actual film. It leaves this melancholy mood piece with some beautiful moments, but unlike Beethoven's work, A Late Quartet ultimately feels unfinished.

This is when the movie earns its hushed exclusivity and kitschy title, when we see an art form bridge generations with a strange mixture of grace, joy and melancholy.

A wildly whirling martial arts spectacle with an endless array of exotic knives, a penchant for Zen philosophizing and an unquenchable thirst for blood. It may just be one of the best bad movies ever.

A solid, often engrossing film that doesn't engage us overall the way Denzel Washington's work does.

There is a flamboyance to some of the imagery - Heather and her demonic doppelganger embrace on a flaming carousel - but no exuberance, no sense of wonder, fascination or enjoyment. Everything feels like a throwaway.

Enjoyably dishy documentary.

The voices in Black Tulip declaim themes of renewed hope and freedom, while the plot's grand gestures too often fall flat.

On-screen, Bad 25 moves in the style of a great pop song.

The actors give their characters a resonance beyond the symbolic, but the action doesn't quite transcend the stagy setup.

The Other Son is a case of good intentions overwhelming the inherent drama - quite simply, political correctness got the best of it. The French director is so focused on covering all the bases, and ensuring a sense of equal empathy - and screen time - for the plight of both families, she leaves the film struggling to get beyond a log-jam of life lessons.

Director Scott Thurman presents a largely even-handed recounting, wisely letting folks - and events - speak for themselves. It's riveting stuff.

It's a wonderful documentary look at an astonishingly successful public-school chess program that manages to be more moving and heartening than you expect. Which is saying a lot.

Bernal and Furstenberg exist within this meditative space with all the ease and unease of a couple still trying each other on for size. The forces that push and pull them feel so rooted in reality that if not for the layers of meaning it might seem a complete improvisation.

In the end, Prieto's Pusher feels like a Guy Ritchie knockoff.

Transiently entertaining, with intermittent sparks, it'll do until something better comes along.

The footage itself, particularly of the surf, is spectacular, with veteran cinematographer Bill Pope handling the camerawork. But the drama is soggy, overreaching for the heartfelt and overdoing the inspirational.

No definitive answers are possible to the questions The Flat raises, which makes them all the more provocative.

Unfortunately, attempts to be original are not enough, they have to succeed, and this film's solutions tend to present themselves as alternately gimmicky and banal.

As a strictly psychological portrait of destructive masculinity it's a gut-sock, vividly photographed, thrillingly edited and marked by performances (Donald Pleasence and Jack Thompson, most notably) that heave with strange complexity and dark camaraderie.Wake in Fright is true horror.

Meier and cinematographer Agnès Godard make potent use of the setting's alternating highs and lows, delivering a jolt of heartbreaking hope in the film's final image.

As a tale of digital power-tripping both exhilarating and terrifying, We Are Legion stands as a useful 21st century narrative.

There is much to like here, a sense of nuance and nonjudgmental emotional openness, yet Kasdan's teenage miniaturism never quite blooms. The First Time is respectfully delicate, a little too polite.

An impressive array of archival news footage, enlightening interviews with activists, politicos, academics and journalists, plus a dispensable Alfred Molina-narrated animated parable, round out this provocative, if at times overly ambitious effort.

Often more distracting than diverting with its everything-goes aesthetic - there are strains of steampunk, manga and silent film comedy, with video-game touches.

Fisher's separate visit with several still-traumatized American World War II vets who helped liberate the death camps is also stirring - and horrifying.

Well-meaning and, in the end, sweetly redemptive, Sassy Pants would have worn better with more depth, energy and, yes, sass.

It's too bad the filmmaker felt the need to lighten his unvarnished observations about aging with "cute" stuff. Has there ever been a worthwhile payoff from the introduction of Viagra to a plot line?

The result is a kind of "Three Ages of Woman, With Plastic Surgery," that veers between insight and hand-wringing.

Avoid this one like, well, a yeast infection.