Smith and Leonard spoof the presumptions and pretensions of people who like to outwardly project as kindly and enlightened; and they unsparingly illustrate how someone’s seemingly rock-solid reputation can be undone in an instant.

With a stacked cast and skillful filmmaking, Triple 9 proves to be a satisfying crooked-cop heist thriller, imbued with complicated topical issues that last long after the adrenaline rush.

A movie-of-the-week treatment of race and class, the film credibly portrays the day-to-day workings of an urban ministry.

At times it is a bit unfocused, following a loosely chronological but otherwise haphazard structure. Yet it’s still a treat to spend time in the company of a true artist, never before illuminated with such clarity.

When the movie should touch the heart, it just misses. When moments should produce gales of laughter, it struggles for a smile. When panic and fear should set the heart racing, it doesn't.

A few minutes of thriller-like tension early on gives way to a lot of tediously scripted scenes of whisper-acting that rarely breathe life and humanity into what should be a potent turning point story in a religion's history.

Everyone involved with Bloody Hell is doing their jobs with creativity and gusto, even if it’s hard to discern any larger point.

But honestly, Collins' vehicle is a creaky old donkey cart. [30 Aug 1989, p.C1]

Has a great look and an edgy feel, along with some broad swaths of humor.

Atkinson, somehow managing to be simultaneously delicate and broad, can do things with his face that shouldn't be legal. His delighted and delightful Mr. Pollini is a little taste of comic genius.

A sweet-natured romantic comedy that's easy viewing but could have used a little more energy and a little less unalloyed niceness to put it over with more punch.

Feels like it was written by an oddball artist-temp type with an ax to grind - which, as it happens, it was.

This single cautionary tale of how drug innocence gives way to woeful, hung-over experience proves to be way too predictable to effectively caution or even involve anyone.

It's a pleasure to watch Lane's delicately lived-in face tremble with feeling -- it's the truest thing in the movie -- but the character's desperation feels wrong, the worst kind of sellout.

There's a naturalness to the entire cast, yet there is considerable depth to the portrayals, and the interplay between the characters is exceptionally rich and nuanced.

Rather than come across as fantastic or dreamlike, the stories have a vivid, hyperreal quality to them.

Saucy, scary and pleasantly unsettling.

Though Safe House may be too violent and nihilistic for everyone's taste, it does have several crackerjack action sequences.

Janie Jones is ultimately its own uneven tune, a mixture of discordant notes and way-too-familiar chords.

An infectious, warm comedy of family and communication and a promising debut as writer-director for Chism. These Peeples are people one should be happy to meet.

Often the film pushes Schemel to the edge of what is intended to be her story, so in Hit So Hard she feels forced into the role of self-sacrificing side-player once again.

Much of the dialogue is too literal and undercut by its stolid earnestness, and many of the characters are left underdeveloped.

The film finds its footing as the weekend progresses and the temperature and tension — outside and in — rise.

Director David Frankel has crafted a sweet, funny, heartfelt film, and while we may know all along how it all turns out, Paul's signature performance still gives us chills.

There are good lessons to be learned from the Market Basket saga. "We the People" doesn't trust the audience to figure them out for themselves.

There’s just simply nothing to hook into aside from Fishburne’s performance, which is the only captivating element of the film, and even that is derivative of his iconic Morpheus from “The Matrix.” Despite its many twists and turns, Slingshot shows no signs of life.

Although the movie isn't a complete disaster, it's not your father's RoboCop either.

There's good cause to shake the biopic form out of its exhaustively linear, birth-to-death rut, and Bertrand Bonello's Saint Laurent — starring Gaspard Ulliel as the storied French designer — valiantly tries.

Jerry & Marge Go Large is a charmer. It’s a low-key, fact-based caper movie that overcomes some broad comedy leanings to settle into the sweet stuff in the soft center. It’s bolstered by a funny script and dependably sharp performances by Bryan Cranston and Annette Bening.

[An] enjoyable documentary.

Maybe there really are supernatural forces at work in this world. How else to explain Beautiful Creatures? The movie is an intriguing, intelligent enigma — three words not typically associated with teen romances.

The filmmakers cast several comic performers — Adam Pally as the dad, Tichina Arnold as the grandmother, Ken Marino as the bad guy — but there aren’t really opportunities for them to shine. Arnold seems to have the most fun with it. The Main Event, sadly, never gets off the mat.

The improv is convincing enough, and the actresses strong and loose enough, that you may really feel like you’re eavesdropping on actual conversation. And that’s intoxicating, in spots. But the chat grows so self-consciously therapeutic in this see-through “Lace” that most voyeurs will want to go peep in another TV window well before the sex talk turns to taxing teariness.

There's little that feels fresh, freaky or funny about one more batch of eccentric reactions to hungry corpses, one more attempt to creatively splatter, one more metaphor for zombie invasion.

Per usual with movies like this, spelling out the terror (the roots are in hobo codes and religious legend) becomes, regrettably, a shock absorber, not a facilitator. But the scares were middling to begin with because Øvredal — a game but overeager trickster — telegraphs his set pieces as if he were equipped with a flare gun and detour cones. Then again, it might be an attempt to distract us from thinking too hard about all the illogic in Zachary Donohue and T.W. Burgess’ screenplay

A sly and captivating comedy of imaginative leaps and gently orchestrated pandemonium.

Along with the performances, there is a languid truthfulness in some of the dialogue that keeps Seeing Other People from being one of those completely forgettable indie romances that play in perpetuity on cable.

It thinks it's cute, but it's as charming as an old drunk going on about how he knew Eastwood back in the day.

The method to Von Trier's madness is that he provokes thought alongside outrage in his parables. Here, Gebbe musters only outrage, as her antagonists are without nuance, mercy or any redeeming quality.

With The Intern, Meyers has made another bright, contemporary American comedy with a lot on its mind — and works hard to make it look effortless.

There are no great emotional revelations about the fearless, free-spirited athletes profiled in the film, but these tanned-and-toned folks' deep love of surfing and mostly cheerful demeanors prove enjoyably infectious.

A perfectly respectable thriller that mostly manages to be as crisp and efficient as the crimes it depicts, this Roger Donaldson-directed Getaway compares favorably with the Sam Peckinpah original.

Oddly, it’s the bawdy silliness of “Dangerous Beauty,” and its jaw-dropping presumptions of Veronica’s liberated lifestyle, that makes the film occasionally entertaining. But it’s a movie without a consistent tone or creative vision.

Not "An Affair to Remember," mind you, but a welcome change from the Nicholas Sparks brand of mush that has overtaken the hearts-and-flowers corner of movieland.

The film feels overstuffed and overcooked, as if the filmmaker were trying to get too much out all in one go.

This disjointed, though consistently tense retelling dives full force into ostentatious pathos more often than it opts for narrative prudence.

Hazanavicius has made a movie that tests our ideas of creative genius.

Kuso won’t be for everybody. It’s gross, it’s repetitive, and if it has a point, it’s hard to discern. But it’s not artless. Every densely layered image of oozing pus and gassy orifices is as imaginatively rendered as it is disgusting.

It’s a film that ultimately feels less like a celebration and more like further exploitation of the star, leaving us all with much more unsettling questions about Houston’s life and legacy. Sadly, the disappointing “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” doesn’t let Whitney rest in peace.

Deviations from the historical record aren’t a problem in and of themselves; it’s what those deviations add up to (or don’t), and what they say about the motivations of the artists behind them.

Uncle Buck has a medium-level Hughes script, only about half as good as "Planes, Trains and Automobiles," about 50 times as good as "The Great Outdoors."

Ultimately satisfying and successful version of the opening volume of the celebrated "His Dark Materials" trilogy.

Kevin Costner very definitely isn't Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, and his noticeable awkwardness in that rebel's role underlines the problems this muddled, fitfully effective version of a most durable English legend has in deciding which face it wants to present to the world at large. While the makers of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves may have set out to bury the poor old duffer of Sherwood Forest in a welter of trendy banter, they have ended up burying themselves as well.

Not on the same artistic level as "The Last Picture Show" yet has its own integrity and value - and a fine array of performances.

Despite Redford's enthusiasm and best efforts, A Walk in the Woods is a tedious journey to nowhere special.

It’s possible to watch this movie, in other words, and feel that the series is carving out a new direction, returning to its ancient stomping grounds and sticking to a familiar holding pattern, all at the same time. Such is the repetitive, rudderless nature of so much big-budget franchise filmmaking, even with a proven talent like Bayona behind the camera.

As a result, what should have been a thrilling 90-minute sport adventure runs on for 20 more repetitive minutes. First Descent is exciting, but less would surely have been more.

Made with care and respect, American Rhapsody manages to skirt the edge of excessive sentiment without falling victim to it.

Not all it might have been, an oddly old-fashioned film from a director who's usually anything but.

Implausible at every turn, it offers a dab of quirkiness and edge from writer-director Finn Taylor, but otherwise has nothing for audiences to embrace.

Nothing works, except perhaps the sight of Julia Roberts' lean, well-tempered midsection and her roughly eight yards of legs that, in this frail comedy, are worked until they're almost a story point of their own. [23 Mar 1990, Calendar, p.F-14]

The film is an architecture lover's dream.

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

It's a strong story of lonely, even futile righteousness, which makes the plodding execution by director Arnaud des Pallierès somewhat mystifying.

Greenbaum shoots the game play especially well, employing dynamic camera work and kinetic editing to convey the drama of what non-fans might consider a static sport.

Director Peggy Holmes' glittery romp offers plenty of pretty spectacles, but true flights of fancy... are far too rare.

It's a privilege getting to know these determined, inspiring seniors, to whatever extent Gaynes allows. But a more deeply revealing, fully candid approach would have made for a more satisfying cinematic excursion.

A repetitive, sluggishly paced nocturnal rumination on why we bother reuniting with old friends we purposefully left behind.

[A] moving and insightful piece.

With "Whiplash" setting the new bar for depicting the rigorous discipline and competitiveness in a music academy, the stale, one-note narrative seen in Boychoir sounds even more out of tune.

Although Michael J. Kospiah's script isn't exactly predictable or didactic, it does feel contrived and improbable on occasion.

In one punchy way it's feverishly, genre-shakingly different. That difference makes the movie almost work. Almost.

Although the original sometimes looked like a bunch of loosely connected scenes, this Rabid Dogs feels more purposeful.

Languorously paced and literally dressed to kill, the movie is a corrosive attack on beauty — or at least our soulless, corporatized definition of the term — but it is also, above all else, a hypnotically beautiful object.

For a movie seemingly concerned with clarity and enlightenment, it’s woefully lacking in both.

Even as you recognize echoes of Woody Allen, Noah Baumbach and Todd Solondz here, Pritzker has a good ear for authenticity, and he draws terrific performances from a cast.

The friendship lessons are sweet enough, but such a low-stakes story strains one’s patience for such affected cinematic style.

Top Gun is a male bonding adventure movie that's both exciting and disturbing, mind-boggling and vacuous...Measuring this movie against its model -- Hawks' air films -- you can see the difference between a great director making his movies breathe, and a superproduction that depends on action and hardware. Top Gun is an empty-headed technological marvel. The actors -- especially Anthony Edwards, Val Kilmer and Meg Ryan -- are good, but they only connect as archetypes. The emotion heats up only when the planes are flying. [16 May 1986, p.C1]

Although the prospect of watching a mash-up of "La La Land" and Martin Scorsese's "After Hours" holds promise, director-writer Josh Klausner, in a departure from his screenplays for "Shrek Forever After" and "Date Night," opts instead for offbeat spiritual enlightenment, but is unable to sustain a delicate tone that becomes increasingly twee as it goes along.

Written, directed and produced by Vicky Jewson, Close works well when it sticks to the distinctive personal details of this kind of job; but it too often defaults to a run-of-the-mill international thriller.

Some distance between the source and the story would have benefited the themes at play, which end up buried beneath punches, slurs and bestial masculinity.

As it explores the intersection between the occult and mankind’s brutal cruelty in relation to women, The World Is Full of Secrets grips us with its minimalist, calibrated and cerebral scare tactics.

The 1966 version of the much-remade Foreign Legion warhorse is more violent, less romantic and less watchable than others -- and its stars (Doug McClure, Telly Savalas) aren't exactly Gary Cooper (who was in the 1939 film) either. [08 Apr 1988, p.16]

So super complicated (implausible?) that in the wrong hands it would be laughable. Instead, this very gritty bit of greased action does a decent job of shaking the sluggish out of January.

In leaving out the rasp of life from this unusual story, Breathe too often feels like a mechanized exhale.

What should be a nasty hoot, however, is closer to a ho-hum.

Unfortunately, although Gilliam has always had a taste for the outre, he has allowed it to get out of hand here and swallow the picture whole. There's an excessiveness, an unwelcome too-muchness to "Grimm's" creepy moments.

As a perilous dog-and-mouse game ensues, Solet packs his script with tension, dimension and several vivid flashbacks recalling the characters’ seminal encounters with dogs. Cool camerawork too.

There’s something just a bit off about Satanic Panic, a knowing horror-comedy with some wonderfully wild moments, but with pacing too slack and choppy to give its best jokes their proper punch.

The man was not, by most accounts, pedestrian. In trying to follow so closely in his footsteps, the film, however, is.

Leviathan is Alien under water. It's not nearly as sophisticated or as terrifying as the Ridley Scott film, but it looks good and moves fast. It's elementary fun with a couple of scary moments along the way.

The film has only the sheer charm of its cast to get it by, and it says a lot about the actors that they nearly pull it off.

Other than Shaw's turn, which gets dampened in the determinedly frolicsome finale, there's little to like in Three Men and a Little Lady. Selleck is charming. Danson, aided by latex and a Carmen Miranda outfit, has two funny scenes. Travis has a lovely smile, which she overuses.

Self-Medicated is not loathsome or lurid, just one-sided and in need of guidance -- ironically so, because that's what its protagonist so steadfastly refuses to accept. The movie's lack of nuance is balanced by its good intentions.

Urban Hymn is so carefully and lovingly made by director Michael Caton-Jones and his leads that it’s hard to begrudge the British drama its familiar premise, especially as you squint at the screen through tears.

Love is a many-splendored thing in Robert Benton's dull romantic fantasy Feast of Love, though none of its splendors rings true.

This kinder, gentler Allen is still clever, still amusing, and the film itself is a confection tempting enough to consider a taste. Yet there is that empty-calorie letdown after it's over. Maybe it's time to book another trip to Spain.

The best thing about High Heels are the performances - [Victoria Abril]'s tense, voracious daughter, Parades' star-turn mother, the sinister Bose, the arrogant Atkine - and the lucidity of Almodovar's narrative style, which by now seems as natural as breathing. [20 Dec 1991]