Pyewacket's payoff is a bit too meager given the creepy build-up. But as a psychodrama about a troubled mother and daughter, this movie is gripping from start to finish. Like a lot of the best horror, it's about the hells people conjure for themselves.

The Extra Man" isn't in the same league as Pulcini and Berman's landmark "American Splendor" with Paul Giamatti as the late Harvey Pekar, but it has its moments - especially in its evocation of the sense that New York offers a greater sense of security for brave yet vulnerable individualists the way a sprawling, amorphous and transient city like Los Angeles rarely can.

Many of Gameau's findings won't come as earth-shattering revelations, but he takes a resourceful approach to presenting the material, coating all the inconvenient truths in kid-friendly, brightly colored graphics and zippy animations.

In Black Rain, director Ridley Scott and his team pump in so much pyrotechnic razzle-dazzle that the movie becomes a triumph of matter over mind. It's a blast of pure sensation, shallow but scintillating, like a great rock melody, superbly produced, where the music pumps you up even as the lyrics drag you down.

In fact "nice" is the adjective that seems to surface most in trying to pin down the film's most salient quality, which means that while the film is enjoyable enough, it is unlikely to become a classic for us, or a "Shrek" sort of franchise for DreamWorks.

There is a guilty-pleasure quality to watching Atkinson at work even when Mr. Bean has overstayed his welcome. The film's lightness makes you wish you were the one headed to the beach.

W. is not a dispassionate biography; it is an interpretation of personality intersecting with history, and as a piece of drama it is persuasive and perfectly creditable.

It completes an informal trilogy that treats women's anxieties over food, motherhood and now clothes with humor and affection.

Chen's excessive propriety veers treacherously close to barely disguised repulsion.

The film, based on Romain Puértolas’ novel, has clever touches and is consistently engaging, if meandering.

A glorious blend of kitsch, grit, humor and uplift.

Hardwicke has connected so intensely to the Meyer novel that it's hard to imagine anyone else making a better version.

The movie feels like a flakey, off-the-cuff blog post that somehow transmogrified itself into a feature-length documentary.

The drama’s power may dwindle, yet its end-of-the-world scenario remains oddly recognizable.

Just because people are objecting to Max for all the wrong reasons doesn't make it a good film, and it's not. It's a bizarre curiosity memorable mainly for the way it fritters away its potentially interesting subject matter via a banal script, unimpressive acting and indifferent direction.

The less-than-persuasive result is like mediocre leftover psychedelic '60s underground cinema.

Asks us to spend 101 minutes with people most of us wouldtake pains to avoid in real life.

A dark allegory and a dazzling example of Japanese anime.

The key problem is that writer-director Peter Landesman has pushed too hard to make this story fit into a dramatic mold, alternating melodrama and romance with those earnest warnings in a way that is more ungainly than effective.

Given all the intriguing stuff he had at his disposal...it’s a shame Berman isn’t able to bring the enigmatic man of the hour (plus 17 minutes) into greater focus.

A dark and lovely drama about the complications of human connections that is Michael Keaton's impressive directing debut.

This is a comedy whose laughs seem to arise as much from the silly, sun-drenched atmosphere as from individual gags, and whose pleasures can feel as sweet and impermanent as marijuana smoke.

Shelton's affection for her characters is evident but it's not enough.

Between Law's performance and Shepard's script, which brims with explicit and expressive dialogue, the movie is remarkable for its ability to exhaust, irritate and also entertain.

A courageous documentary on the plight of gays in the Muslim world.

Though it is effective in fits and starts, this third version of that sturdy tale (the fourth, if you count Sleepless in Seattle, which it in part inspired) never manages to be more than a reasonable facsimile of its progenitor.

Schlesinger doesn’t really have the low-down skills to pump up the pulp. He’s so concerned not to relinquish his credentials as a “serious” director that the film, instead of seeming serious, seems mostly silly--not scary enough to function as a crackerjack thriller and not complex enough to work as a psychological drama.

The film frequently feels like a branding exercise but manages to remain entertaining and informative.

The pulpiness is less homage than rip-off. There are no tricks up this film's frayed sleeve… Fatalism plus a lot of heavy breathing, and a flash of skin--it's a winning formula, all right. These movies are like Harlequin Romances for slumming highbrows [12 Oct 1990]

Though it is always pleasant and agreeable, this film has the bland and undemanding texture that characterizes movies made for network TV.

There's a hushed, rapturous quality to its best parts, though, and the emotional interplay between Ricky and Marina has a scary immediacy that the movies rarely achieve. Almodovar dares a lot in this film. [4 May 1990]

Part biopic, part mystery, part exposé, Bob Ross: Happy Accidents, Betrayal & Greed is ultimately a cooled celebration, one eager to acknowledge that gurus are complicated, showbiz is treacherous, and some landscapes hide things.

I'm So Excited! will not stand as one of Almodóvar's defining works. But for some completely frivolous, naughty nonsense, it may be just the ticket.

Actors gravitate toward passion projects, films they care deeply, even obsessively about, but the end result is hardly ever as convincing as A Tale of Love and Darkness a film of beautiful melancholy.

The best kind of labor of love. A documentary made with affection and intelligence, it looks at a brief episode in the life of a cultural icon and uses it to illuminate what turns out to be a telling moment in time and in the process shed some light on the man himself.

It too has no particular reason for being (except, of course, to complete the series and cash in). It's sprightly and inoffensive, though. And, for those who care, it satisfyingly ties up the various plot strands that were flapping in the breeze from the last installment. Back to the Future futurists will feel complete. [25 May 1990, p.C1]

Succeeds as a full-bodied diversion because it takes even its silly elements seriously. If you're in the mood for impressive castles and sumptuous costumes, torch-lit processions and decorative nudity, this is the place to turn.

This is an undeniably gorgeous film, with tremendous sweep and a great feel for vast landscapes and glittering cityscapes. Schwartzberg has captured a sense of the country's grandeur.

Getting progressively less involving as it goes along, the strongest feeling Series 7 creates is the passionate desire to change the channel and move on.

Entertainment like this is too hard to find to second-guess for too long.

Terrific entertainment, full of wit and energy, alternately hilarious and serious -- and very sexy.

Antiviral is often fascinating to watch. If Cronenberg's not yet a dead ringer for his iconic dad, he's taken an intriguing first step.

For such a hippie-ish wingding originally designed to discourage the buying and selling of anything, "Spark" has decidedly bought into its subject and has no qualms hawking it to moviegoers.

There's a lot of movie here with unexpected developments, held together by the irresistible chemistry between Derbez and his adorable pint-sized co-star.

To penetrate beyond the camaraderie and capture the depth of the experience would require less conventional filmmaking.

Plenty of first-time feature filmmakers have combined grubby genre kicks with more personal concerns; but there’s a confidence and energy to “Stray Bullets” that compensates for the rather rudimentary, over-familiar story.

Credibility and even simple logic seem to have gotten short shrift in its transposition to the screen from a highly praised first novel by Terry Davis. The result is a film of some lovely and funny moments, with some appealing people, that finally disappoints.

Olympic Dreams is a wispy, quasi-romantic dramedy whose affecting moments are eclipsed by its overly random, sometimes awkwardly played and constructed narrative.

The mildly engaging, often exasperating feature poses a few good questions and offers some well-observed moments. Yet even as it zeros in on radical shifts in the mechanics and mores of parenthood, it sits quite comfortably in a well-worn romantic-comedy groove.

For all the ways Dickerson vigorously dramatizes the stages of solitary confinement — nervous humor, fear, rages, survival ingenuity (including a nifty breathing apparatus) — it's never enough to explain why this particular individual's story is worth telling.

Stahl and Farmiga give layered, restrained performances that keep what might have been a schlock fest with an improbable twist ending from devolving into trashiness. Instead, Brooks and his actors manage to render an involving and thoughtful story from some pretty dubious material.

While its ambition and scope pull one way, its pinched and unconvincing sense of drama pull the other.

Director Christian Duguay is much more comfortable handling the sledgehammer superficialities of near-miss action and prankish boyhood than the complicated, turbulent emotions surrounding children imperiled during wartime.

Directed by Robert Schwartzman (“Dreamland”), The Unicorn is more silly than sexy, but it also has moments of seriousness with an emphasis on the value of honesty and trust in relationships.

A straightforward, intimate and heartbreaking chronicle of the 2009-10 farm seasons for three teens, smart and sensitive, who have been following the crops with their parents for as long as they can remember.

Unfortunately, each main character serves as an avatar emblematic of a societal symptom instead of a real person in whose shoes we can stand. As a result, their trajectories are didactic and predictable.

While one wishes Carré, who shares screenplay credit with Charles Spano, might have hung those stirring visuals on more involving plotting, Embers nevertheless makes a strong, not to mention timely, impression.

The filmmakers seem to have been trying for the kind of animated film noir that has been done so skillfully in Japan, but Cinderella the Cat never approaches that level level.

Whatever license the word “fable” grants Hamilton, it doesn’t redeem the narrative muddle. But there’s an undeniable gutsiness to her filmmaking. The American dreamscape she creates is memorably unsettling.

The question of grace, of nonviolence, of loyalty and faith that are the weft of The Mission are not confined to the Jesuits or to the 18th Century. In their postlude, the film makers extend these concerns to today's priests in South America, and others might include clergy in South Africa and Poland. It is the power of these questions that ultimately sweeps away reservations about the film. The Mission becomes a spectacle of conscience.[14 Nov 1986, p.C1]

What are in very short supply, though, are the central chords of Dickens' carol: Crachit's generous spirit, Tiny Tim's sad plight, Scrooge's emotional arc as he finds his humanity. Oh, the scenes are there amid the action, but they are fleeting. By the time A Christmas Carol finishes piling its many shiny presents with their many bells and whistles under the tree, there's no room left for tears for Tiny Tim. Bah humbug indeed.

Despite the tale’s potential for an overly broad and crass approach to its loaded setup, Branciforte’s sly, incisive writing and even-handed take on his authentic characters instead errs on the side of wit, candor and a kind of hip sophistication.

A weakly comic splatter movie oversupplied with jokey, cartoonish violence.

In sitcom savant Phil Rosenthal's world, truth is at least as strange as fiction and usually it's funnier, which works to his advantage in the very entertaining cultural exchange that is Exporting Raymond.

Hunt works fine as a slam-bang action movie; but at heart it’s more of a cautionary tale.

There’s a clumsy, soapy tepidness to the procession of plot points, but within individual scenes, the actors pierce the genteel surface.

Bold, vibrant and impassioned, Yes is the work of a high-risk film artist in command of her medium and gifted in propelling her actors to soaring performances.

Though Wuthering Heights is a phony tease, I’m grateful that Fennell wants to titillate audiences.

There’s a glee in the Nazi killing and an exceptionally dry humor that is English through and through, but Ritchie strikes a tone that rides the line between self-serious and self-consciously humorous.

Like its predecessor, it is enjoyably episodic, jumping from one comic vignette to another. Some of these connect, while others land with a thud. But so it goes with Christmas. Not every present is a winner.

It's neither very original nor very convincing. "Shakespeare in Love" did something similar by casting its writer protagonist as the hero of a story he himself might have written, but Becoming Jane lacks that movie's wit and playfulness.

Serves up a lot of bone-crushing violence in an offbeat context with considerable style and energy, but the steady diet of brutal street fighting makes it all but impossible to connect with this picture, despite whatever visceral appeal it may offer.

It's a frustrating complication of a movie with a sprawling story and grand ambitions -- and some truly grand acting -- that stumbles almost as often as it soars. Bummer.

Has the gritty, intimate feel of an Eastern European film--and packs the power of a genuine revelation.

Hyams the director ("Sudden Death," "Timecop," "The Star Chamber") operates at too much of a fevered pitch for things not to eventually get out of hand -- accelerating violence and horror eventually hit maximum velocity and warp into nonsense, no matter how erudite the script.

By our quote-unquote standards of contemporary comedy, it plays as uneven at best and often just flattens out for long jokeless stretches.

If La Bare had snarky voice-over narration, it could be a segment on "The Colbert Report."

Driven, the year’s second DeLorean-inspired film, veers from glib comedy to character-driven drama to crime thriller, but director Hamm always has his hands on the wheel.

Plays it straight down the middle, neither pushing its contemporary vantage point nor embracing the chance for B-movie glory.

The stellar cast elevates the schlocky charms of this thriller. It’s well-paced and cut like a nighttime soap, jumping between characters as they explore this puzzling mystery over the course of a couple of days.

The Eye of the Storm is an ambitious stab at what might be called the Great Australian Film. The results are off-and-on impressive, but the project's ambitions turn out to be greater than its ability to achieve them.

The film’s overall tone is a bit dry, and the narrative lacks tension, aside from its central mystery. But the performances are strong, and the points the filmmakers are making about the slipperiness of memory do resonate.

Did you miss "Pretty in Pink," with the glowing Molly Ringwald? No problem. Some Kind of Wonderful, which has the same director -- Howard Deutch -- also has the same story... The real complaint, however, is that Hughes has absolutely nothing new to report -- no fresh perspectives, no gratefully received maturity, nothing added or depleted. [27 Feb 1987]

You can reject the conclusions of Campos’ movie, particularly its unrelenting pileup of dead bodies, and still take pleasure in its atmospheric surface — in the persuasiveness of its small-town environs (shot on 35-millimeter film by the gifted cinematographer Lol Crawley) and the vigor of its performances. He may not persuade you all the time, but the devil is very much in those details.

The leads aren't only miscast -- Brody over-mopes and the usually wonderful Ruffalo seems out of sorts as a rascally schemer -- but interest in the con plot fades as the director's bag of tricks empties further.

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.

A comedy with just the right blend of satire, social comment, myriad complications, romance and heart-tugging to give it some deft shading and variety.

The Attorney is on the side of justice, but it's a ham-fisted dramatization of real-life events that mistakes anger for persuasion.

I am at a loss to understand why this film has been marginalized. Branagh’s "Flute" is a joy.

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.

Unfortunately, the cast and a few sweet tunes by Armstrong are the only things going for this delayed coming-of-age dramedy.

Lee coaxes moving performances from a young cast, and he beautifully captures the cultural nuances of the Bronx neighborhoods where his story is set. But he has a tough time finding much new to say with this tale of star-crossed lovers.

Never Let Go becomes an unpleasant slog for much of its runtime.

Where Dern and Stewart kick-start something worth exploring, the movie around them is pleased spectator instead of engaged participant.

Delivers a heckuva story marred by some credibility problems but lands the majority of its punches via subtly powerful performances and a moving undercard of paternal connection.

You've see this movie before, but you haven't seen it filtered through Madsen.

The earnest mash-up of spoken-word performance, domestic drama and soapy romance in Things Never Said is unwieldy, to be sure, and would have sunk a less charismatic cast.

The result is an unhurried, visually compelling look at a man and his music - as well as of a bygone America filled with shuttered downtowns and the ghosts of such late musicians as Elvis Presley and blues pioneer Robert Johnson.