Too inert to be titillating, too generic to be engaging.

This is nothing that a good episode of NYPD Blue hasn't shown myriad times.

Far from perfect, but for those willing to laugh at the darker side of life, especially Latin American life, it is fun.

Hilarious and imaginatively crude with a surprising sweet and subtle aftertaste that prevents it from flopping, limp and brainless, into the sugary abyss of romantic predictability.

Craven ("Scream," "Nightmare on Elm Street") is already a legend in horror film circles, but this is the first time he has tried his hand at a slick, relatively bloodless suspense-thriller, and the genre suits him.

Valiant enlists a squad of loveable birdbrains to turn the classic fighter-pilot formula into an upbeat adventure film loaded with laughs.

Fast, frantic and furious, but it is not steadily funny. While not boring, it is too light to be taken seriously.

For anyone who digs hardcore motorcycle racing, Supercross delivers enough engine-revving, dirt-spewing motorcross action to satisfy even the most intense adrenaline craving.

Neither scary nor thrilling, although it's reasonably entertaining despite an abundance of haunted-house clichés, the usual inexplicable scary-movie behavior and an almost-naked John Hurt.

The way I see it, anyone who's made up his mind to see Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo deserves everything they've got coming to them, and with any luck, they might even enjoy the movie's willfully offensive gutter humor.

Singleton's sloppiest, laziest movie to date, springing to life in fits and starts, risibly mawkish and occasionally gripping, and often feeling like it was made up on the set.

With material like this, Samuel Fuller or David Lean might have fashioned an epic war movie for the ages, chock-full of hard-boiled characters and against-all-odds heroics. But in John Dahl's hands, The Great Raid never really lives up to its name, delivering everything you might expect from such a movie, but not an ounce more.

The film, with its uniformly terrific cast, stern Gothic overtones and steady but measured pacing, is a crisp, old-fashioned delight, eschewing cheap tricks for repeated tiny pricks of unease that work up to a continuous gnawing dread.

Herzog himself is one of the great lunatic directors of our century, a mad genius who repeatedly attempts to challenge nature and the gods in his own films.

The less said about Simpson's performance the better. From the neck down she fulfills all the requirements, but, honestly, I think General Lee might do a better job with the dialogue.

A haunting, poetic film, and yet it suffers two major failings. First, Murray provides too blank a slate for the audience to appreciate whatever insights a more expressive performance might have offered. Second, and far more troubling, is the way Jarmusch refuses to take his female characters seriously.

This long, gorgeous, occasionally maddening movie is the work of a hopeless romantic who knows there is no pain as bittersweet -- or as haunting -- as the pain of a broken heart.

But if My Date With Drew is what passes for filmmaking these days, the movie industry is in more trouble than we thought.

The sins of the inspirational Saint Ralph are venial, but they undeniably prevent the small Canadian film from stretching beyond the boundaries of an After School Special.

There's no denying the movie's visceral impact: It's too bad, though, that Jakubowicz isn't aiming for anything other than sensation.

Too slight to bear up under the weight of the final melodrama, and the film ends too abruptly, as if MacLachlan just ran out of things to write. Still, this visit to the old homestead is worthwhile, if only to meet its unflappable, charismatic women.

View it as a fat-free but tasty cinematic treat in the middle of the long, hot summer.

Stealth is basically the kind of movie a 13-year-old boy given an infinite budget and creative freedom might cook up between Xbox games.

For anyone interested in the art of comedy, it's a veritable primer on the vagaries of humor.

What makes the picture sail past its flaws is its earnest understanding of the desperation that drives people to regain control of their lives -- and the profound courage required to attempt it.

Unfortunately, The Island grows dumber as it goes along, gradually disintegrating into a generic good-versus-evil spectacular that not only defies all known laws of gravity and physics, but also suffers from the lack of morality that plagues Bay's films.

Linklater's Bears are even scrappier, fouler and worse-behaved than their 1976 counterparts.

An exercise intended exclusively for fans of the genre, another crude, hard-R bloodbath from the studio that brought you "High Tension" and "Saw."

Unless you're the sort who has a Che Guevara T-shirt tucked away somewhere in your closet, the needlessly long The Edukators wears out its welcome.

Van Sant's refusal to delve into his subject in anything but an abstract way renders the movie pointless and frustrating -- a lyrical, lovely tone poem, signifying little.

Cox's morose performance could not be less interesting, Harrison's visual stylings all feel borrowed from David Fincher movies and nine inch nails music videos, and the film's elliptical mysteries, which twist onto themselves a la Mulholland Drive, aren't interesting enough to ponder.

It's Depp's misfire that keeps the picture from becoming a genuinely sweet pleasure: As it stands, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is the equivalent of NutriSweet.

Explosively funny in spots -- this is easily Vaughn's best work since "Swingers" -- but it comes wrapped in a package so sweet and sugary, so tediously moral and conventional, it sabotages the laughs.

The excellent performances by the three leads, and the filmmakers' refusal to sugarcoat reality, elevate the film far beyond after-school special territory into something far more lasting.

Unlike "The Ring," Dark Water -- which features one of the mad, whispery ghost children who populate such films -- is never actually frightening.

Even if you can get past the acting -- and in the case of the beautiful, blank Alba, that's asking a lot -- the film just sits there, not exactly torturous, but never very exciting, either.

Murderball invokes fascination toward its protagonists, because it views them with the same confidence and acceptance they view themselves.

Saraband portrays a sad vision of aging, yet the film is never depressing. For those inclined to search for psychological twists, the film offers plenty of Freudian situations capable of provoking lengthy discussions.

With considerable passion and more than a little anger, Cronicas argues that our appetite for an increasing coarse and sensational type of news programming has skewed our inner compasses.

Viewing the new Martin Lawrence kiddie movie is more enjoyable than watching my dog eat a desiccated toad carcass he pried off the road, but only marginally so.

Contains all of the hallmarks of classic genre Spielberg: It shows you things you've never seen before, instills an accompanying sense of awestruck wonder, and delivers long stretches of heightened, delirious excitement that remind you why people started going to the movies in the first place.

When Ephron gives Ferrell and Kidman a musical number that's supposed to be sweet and uplifting, the movie feels downright creepy.

A perfectly adequate horror romp, but it's hard to imagine anyone remembering it five years from now.

The result is an eye-opening social portrait in the tradition of "Paris Is Burning," the landmark 1990 documentary that introduced drag balls and ''vogueing'' to the mainstream, but it lacks the earlier film's structure and focus.

If nothing else, Yes is certainly a brave experiment.

Concise and intriguing.

One of the great pleasures of the original Love Bug comes in watching all the live-action stunts, and CG just isn't the same.

Embarrassingly shoddy film.

Me and You and Everyone We Know brings to mind the work of happily downbeat, bad-boy provocateur Todd Solondz (Happiness, Palindromes), but July is more kind to her oddballs, although she displays a disturbing aptitude for perversity that Solondz would applaud.

The movie is enchanting yet strangely menacing, and it becomes clear that Pawlikowski is no mere love fool.

Batman Begins is a mature take on material often relegated to the kiddie file, and it's simply the latest proof that, when treated properly, comic books are a viable art form for all ages. Bring on the sequel.

It's a perfect role for Jolie, whose seductive looks always seem to be concealing something dangerous, even predatory, and she brings out a looseness in Pitt, who fares much better in comedic roles than when playing things straight and stoic (i.e. Troy).

What's missing is some faith in the audience's intelligence and, more importantly, the jokes.

Even if you don't buy the ending, however, High Tension makes for ghoulish, sick fun, and Aja, who is already at work on a remake of Wes Craven's The Hills Have Eyes, clearly takes this horror stuff very seriously. The genre can always use a few more like him.

The result is like a low-rent "Wizard of Oz" or "Labyrinth," sticking close to the formula of a kid who falls asleep and wakes up in a fantastical wonderland where everything's just a little bit off.

The movie is practically incomprehensible.

Smashing, supremely engrossing picture.

Too much of Lords of Dogtown still feels conventional and sugar-coated.

The tug of war for Caterina's political soul is left open-ended, and her relationship with her difficult father is resolved with a plot twist that feels completely out of character. Caterina deserved better.

The cast brings its by-the-numbers characters alive.

Whether you'll enjoy this loud and rowdy remake of a 1974 Burt Reynolds film depends on your tolerance for three things: football, Adam Sandler and unabashed product placement.

Often feels like a cartoon that wishes it were live action.

The Ninth Day is far from perfect, but is still thought-provoking and intriguing, a film that can begin its own kind of debate.

Just plain fun. Don't miss it.

For all its doom and gloom, Revenge of the Sith turns out to have a happy ending after all, giving Star Wars the send-off it deserves.

Crushingly inept family comedy.

A fairly tedious, stupid picture.

The documentary Mad Hot Ballroom is packed from start to finish with adorable kids doing cute things: Rarely has a movie, fictional or not, had this much awwwww factor.

It's like "Lock, Stock" as filtered through the mind of David Mamet, with Craig as the suave middleman holding it all together.

House of Wax won't give you nightmares, but it upholds teen horror traditions with flair and energy.

But if the film disappoints on an intellectual level, at least it doesn't skimp on pageantry. This is, without question, one of the most beautifully crafted, visually thrilling war pictures ever made -- a painterly spectacle that leaves you looking for Caravaggio's name in the end credits.

Mysterious Skin bears all of Araki's hallmarks, from its stylish compositions and lush colors to its willingness to confront difficult subject matter head-on.

A good story, but its potential is never realized.

At its core, Susanne Bier's wrenching portrayal of the shifting dynamics within a Danish family is really about survival, about how we cope in the face of shattering grief and what we'll do -- anything, really -- to save ourselves.

Almost certain to polarize audiences, this bit of emotional agitprop plays like a watered-down "Short Cuts" or "Magnolia" with a shrill, one-note message: We're all a little bit racist.

The film's opening credits are terrific, and the first 10 or 15 minutes -- in which Ford and Arthur speedily load up on beer at the local pub -- are absorbing and funny. It's such a promising start that it's doubly deflating to realize that once they land on Zaphod's spaceship, the humor vaporizes.

Basically the first movie all over again, with plenty more of the bridge-jumping, rocket-launching action that audiences loved about the original.

Beguilingly odd.

Doesn't stretch beyond the typical, period drama the Brits do so well. It is no more than a warm cup of tea on a chilly afternoon. The reward comes in seeing these two great actresses at work.

There are few moments when you're not totally absorbed by the film.

Watching these coolly precise, methodical actors spar with each other at the top of their game is half the show.

Survives its surface annoyances because Lynch's script also has ambition, heart and something to say other than love conquers all.

Gordon Gekko didn't disappear with the 1980s; he just became a lot more difficult to pick out from a crowd.

The good news is the updated version is scarier than the original, thanks to snazzier special effects, a shorter running time, moody lighting, a few solid jolts and one icky moment involving a bratty babysitter and a closet. The bad news is the film rehashes every horror movie cliché you can imagine.

Steeped in pitch-perfect nostalgia and propelled by equal doses of comedy and tragedy.

The entire movie rides on Paul Kaye's performance.

Solondz's determinedly removed eye for the graphic and shocking is by now practically a cliche. If Solondz really wants to outrage anyone, he'll have to make a sweet and heartfelt drama.

It's not that Sahara is offensively bad: It's just that the picture, loud and busy as it is, never really finds its own identity.

Fever Pitch is surprisingly devoid of jokes, or romance, or any of the other basic elements you'd expect to find in a romantic comedy. The only thing the Farrellys get right is the obsession.

For all its excitement Kung Fu Hustle is mostly a marvel of comedic ingenuity and mile-a-minute creativity run wild. You've never seen anything like it.

The film, bound to bore the socks off impatient viewers, mistakes reserve for depth and ends up hamstringing its talented cast into playing characters you never care about all that much.

Smile feels like one man's answer to movies increasingly overloaded with sex and violence.

This is an affair to forget.

Sin City is always moving on to the next thing, and despite surprisingly good work from its large cast (especially Rourke and Owen, who are both outstanding), the picture feels synthetic and artificial.

If there's one thing missing above all else from today's action movies, it's the lost art of the car chase.

With a light, sometimes hilarious touch, Look at Me deflates the pretensions and self-obsessed nature of a group of wealthy Parisian literati, but its observations about the effects of fame and success and our natural desire to fan them as high as they can go, apply to anyone within range of reality-TV culture.

Has nothing new to say, but it has a lot of fun covering the same old territory.

By film's end, you realize you've sat through an effective rip-off of "Meet the Parents."