Director Hector Babenco's sentimental, unconvincing adaptation of Varella's book, is a soft, simplistic look at a tough, complicated subject.

The intended satire doesn't deliver the kind of punch you may expect, but it nevertheless poses many what-ifs.

Mostly, by story's end, we're just glad they and their unfortunate clothing are out of our sight for good.

War may set the stage for Strayed, but the film's real focus is something much quieter and internal: People caught in the throes of a transformation that is not of their making and struggling to adapt.

Never becomes cloying, because although Agresti does not lose sight of the great sadness at the center of his tale, he resists the temptation to overplay its bigger moments.

As human Kewpie dolls, the Olsens' basic function is to try on as many new outfits as humanly possible within the span of 86 minutes (guaranteed to be the longest 86 minutes, New York or otherwise, you've ever spent in the dark).

For all its tangle of characters and plot twists, Van Helsing isn't the slightest bit involving, and more than once (especially whenever Beckinsale is onscreen), it is unintentionally hilarious. But it's the rare kind of movie where the badness just adds to the fun.

Clearly an important film, if only for such disheartening reminders that a McDonald's salad with ranch dressing has more calories than a Big Mac or that Miami is the 15th fattest city in the country (Houston is No. 1).

An unsatisfying, overly restrained bore, capped off by an ending so strange and inconclusive, it feels like something you'd find on the ''deleted scenes'' portion of a DVD.

Brosnan and Moore may not be substitutes for Tracy and Hepburn, but they're more than capable of making you smile for now.

Isn't exactly original: This is basically "Heathers" for a new generation, its satirical edges dulled, if still sharp enough to sting.

Sluggish, uninspired drama.

Bertucelli nails it.

For all its tumult, The Clay Bird mostly concentrates on its likable characters, all acted with the kind of understatement that makes a good film better.

The weirdest movie of the summer. OK, the year.

Garner may be a study in butt-kicking intensity on TV's Alias, but here, she's an engaging comic performer who more than carries her share of what is essentially an unoriginal, mostly average film.

The dead-serious Man on Fire awakens a genuine sense of bloodlust in the viewer. This is a slick, big-budget, A-list production designed to stoke our basest impulses -- to make us long for, and cheer at, bloody, merciless vengeance.

An engrossing psychological thriller.

Not for those with limited attention spans, though there's never a dull moment.

Enlightening documentary.

Vol. 2 isn't exactly disappointing, and like all of Tarantino's movies, I suspect it will improve with repeated viewings. But for now, Vol. 2 leaves you pondering what could have been.

Vardalos may not have been the best possible Connie. But as Billy Wilder could have told you, nobody's perfect.

Considering the horrible buzz that had dogged the movie since its trailers first premiered, The Punisher turns out to be a likable underdog.

Not so much a thriller as an exploration of one man's crumbling moral compass.

There is so much that is wrong with The Alamo that it is easier to begin with what the movie gets right: Davy Crockett. As played by Billy Bob Thornton.

Like the best coming-of-age stories, I'm Not Scared (Io Non Ho Paura) is, in part, a work of horror.

A failure on every conceivable level -- from its trite, pedestrian dialogue to its static, torturous pacing.

There are other filmmakers who might have been drawn to a comic book as enchantingly ridiculous as Hellboy. But there are none who would have turned in a sleek $60 million picture as daringly silly, playful and imaginative as this one.