Maddin's movie is, frame for frame, the densest and most spectacular (albeit cardboard-cheap) film playing anywhere.

Accomplished, middlebrow costume-drama entertainment. It's not so simple that it could be mistaken for the work of, say, Lasse Hallström, and yet it's not so sophisticated that audiences of "Chocolat" would be mystified.

The selling out of Chris Rock -- or Down to Earth, as he's chosen to call it -- is a sad, sad thing.

If Company Man were a wreck on the interstate, it would involve multiple cars and at least one jackknifed tanker truck, and traffic would be backed up for miles as passing motorists slow to gawk.

The movie is so slovenly in its animation and graceless in its writing that few viewers over the age of 9 are likely to notice.

This is one of those movies in which there are only two types of people: officious yuppie pricks, and the beautiful folks who stop and smell the daisies. What keeps it (barely) from being completely intolerable is Keanu Reeves' hilariously awful lead performance.

This is what Woody Allen movies might be like if they were not ruled by narcissism, pretentious point-scoring, cheap observations, and Woody's peculiar speech patterns.

Offers up keys and cakes and plunges its characters down a deep rabbit hole.

Black, who is creatively marooned in the thankless Chris Farley fat-boy role, deserve better, and so do we.

Every frame of Scott's film is gorgeously lurid and baroque, but it just hangs there like bad art, even during the gore-spilling, Grand Guignol climax.

Her (Cheung) gorgeously sad face and slow, lithe frame are the movie's hammer and chisel. One shot of her walking away from a rented room down a hallway is, all by itself, twice the movie of anything else currently in theaters.

In its attempts to chart a young girl's journey from innocence to experience, The Invisible Circus ends up having all the heft of a Nancy Drew mystery decked out in a tie-dyed T-shirt and peasant skirt.

Nico and Dani merely retells a not uncommon tale without significantly enriching it. It's just too familiar to play as poignantly as it would like to.

Hark! A Christian thriller about the Last Days that doesn't (totally) suck. That's got to be a sign of the times.

The film has an unabashed romantic tone that's matched by Wenders' usual flair for visual drama.

Because so little of what occurs on-screen either engages or entertains, there's ample time for the boiler of your self-respect to build up quite a head of indignation at the forfeiture of your time, money, and (exceedingly minimal) cerebral exertion.

As romantic comedies go, this is definitely not one you'd take to the altar, but you might enjoy having a cup of coffee with it.

If you're in the mood for a helping of lite cheesecake, you ought to find plenty of reason to shake your pom-poms.

As a snapshot of Hungarian history, Glamour's watchability trumps that of "Sunshine" — the droll absurdity of the former leaves a much deeper impression than the latter's bruising moralism.

Faithless, filmed mostly during Sweden's endless winter, will chill you to the bone.

The film's greatest flaw is its miscast leads, who conjure up zero dewy-eyed, wish-fulfillment magic.

This is slight stuff, but the legions of budding Scorseses and Kevin Smiths might actually learn a little something, and they will certainly enjoy a chortle or two -- even if it is at their own expense.

Works best as a mood piece — the mood, however, is grim.

The movie is as schmaltzy as I'd feared, and yet De Salvo does elicit some nice performances from her ensemble cast.

As fascinating as the case is as history, however, Scottsboro: An American Tragedy is a TV show, not a movie.

Though far from a sophomore slump, Snatch, like "Smoking Barrels," is such a grab bag of other influences that it's tough to figure out what, if anything, about Ritchie's style is uniquely his own.

Unfolds like quietly engrossing short fiction, reminding us that there are few things more pleasurable than being in the hands of a good storyteller.

Who the heck green-lit this garbage heap anyway?

A superb, wise, and witty Taiwanese film about being single and what to do about it.

Antitrust is anti-fun, anti-wakefulness, and anti-interesting.

Despite the film's impressively epic look and an interesting cast of young and old actors, it ringingly sounds the same dour note over and over again.

Proudly wears its heart on its sleeve, but it never becomes so swoony that you'll reach for your hanky.

Might be the most original film of the year.

Traffic is a riveting, semi-documentary drama, and yet calling it that is a disservice to just how suspenseful and stylish an entertainment it is.

While An Everlasting Piece is rife with engaging family moments and an undeniable charm, it never allows its characters to find the very thing they're seeking: peace.

Giuseppe Tornatore has long been a master of cheap sentiment ("Cinema Paradiso," " The Legend of 1900"), but his latest film is his most shallow, reprehensible exercise in nostalgia to date.

Assiduous, temperate, and a lot more honest about government and politicians than any other Hollywood film of the last few decades, Thirteen Days is nevertheless too little, too late.

A botched effort. Not necessarily bad, but hardly compelling either.

Joffe's latest is a formless, inanimate lump.

It's such a sensory experience; in its best moments, the film washes over you like a fever dream.

How well you respond to this handsomely mounted, cold-blooded tragedy will depend on your feelings toward Gillian Anderson's highly theatrical lead performance.

A 25-minute third act is far too short to suffice, especially when the previous two hours are as astute and technically impressive as they are here.

For all its originality, O Brother doesn't seem to have a point, or enough spark to distract us from the lack thereof.

Dracula 2000 is a stake in the heart.

A warm, glossy holiday fable that hits some surprisingly sweet notes.

The first 15 minutes of Nowhere to Hide rock, and after that it's got nowhere to hide from its own excesses.

A barrage of dangling plot strands, inconsistent characterizations, and suspense-free shootouts.

For all its wit and sharp casting, State and Main is way too pleased with itself to be funny or endearing.

The execution is crisp and the fundamentals are solid. Like its protagonist, Finding Forrester got game.

The real revelation, however, is Keanu Reeves. His character is something of a caricature — a violent, white-trash wife-beater — but Reeves' portrayal is joltingly authentic.

It's so easy to be mesmerized by Chocolat's brilliant indulgences that one abandons reason altogether.

As classic romantic comedy goes, it ain't no "Tootsie."

Sentenced its audience to a maudlin death.

The dilemma is simple: Living, making art, and then dying does not constitute much of a story.

None, repeat, none of this is funny.

This joyous romp is no mere new groove, it's a live wire -- 110 volts of pure holiday cheer.

A miserable western that is clearly headed downward toward the latter destination.

A shell of a film. It's a stripped-down and blown-out thriller than can only be measured by the sum of its action sequences.

Proof of Life won't hold your heart hostage for very long after it's over, but here's looking at Russell Crowe -- he's the real deal, sweetheart.

Gamer geeks, I speak your language! And I warn you: Flee! Or, at the very least, crank down any expectations you harbor -- a few notches below "zero" should do it -- before buying a ticket.

Whenever Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon resorts to flying fists or soaring sword battles, the Force is definitely with it.

I'd rather go on an all-Crisco diet than sit through Poor White Trash again.

It's a pleasure to watch these unhurried, character-driven vignettes when such great actors are anchoring them.

A modestly entertaining ride.

A film without mirth or magic.

A literate, dialogue-driven treat delivered by a cast that truly savors the script's wicked wit.

Seems truncated, incomplete -- mostly because the patented Shyamalan twist is revealed in the dénouement, not the climax.

Roos combines a sharp script with excellent performances.

A witty, if overextended, take on pornography.

A clever but routine science fiction flick.

The frequent song interludes will distract the kids (but send the adults into comas), and the anti-Disney satire rages as never before.

Especially timely in light of the current escalation in Palestinian-Israeli aggressions, but this is one sad story that would pack a staggering punch in any political climate.

Plenty of the tasteless gags don't fly, and for every celebrity cameo that works (a hilariously heavenly Reese Witherspoon), there are two or three that crash and burn.

All this artful violence won't change your life, but Non-Stop is a satisfying quickie.

The film's title accurately captures the sensation of sitting through it -- stay home.

It's the sum of things not spoken, things too painful to express, that's the heart of this quietly moving drama.

The characters aren't convincingly written, rarely if ever behave like believable humans, and consequently don't matter to us in the least.

Sunk by its own melodramatic falseness, and it stands as a well-meaning yet lacking tribute to a courageous man.

Suzhou River might be more pulpy than profound, but it still sings its old song better than we've heard in years.

The man (Apted) behind the excellent "7 Up" series has put a human face to science, making the seemingly abstruse both accessible and easily relatable.

Like its accordion-filled score, it's nothing but a golden moldie.

Without full-bodied characters to play, Smith and Damon are left to get by on their native charm -- something both have in considerable quantity, thankfully.

Formally astute, visually arresting, and fearlessly horrifying.

It's a coffee-table movie, but what saves it are a couple of performances.Rowlands puts a spin on every line reading, Harris quietly mines regret, and Shields, assured and sexy, has never been this good.

The movie's still thinner than a supermodel's waist. It's not just that the results are less than heavenly; it's that we don't know what the hell they are.

Mature and adroitly performed but ultimately underachieving.

The most poignant (if hard-hitting) depiction of childhood to show up this year.

Has a credibly gritty texture, thanks in large part to Fishburne's generosity with his fellow actors.

A seven-course melodrama.

Whatever the amount on Roth's paycheck was, it's the only truly charmed sum Lucky Numbers has to offer.

Through a messy series of news reports, interviews, talk shows, and behind-the-scenes footage, Arcand creates a cinema vérité spoof that's not nearly as penetrating or enjoyable as he thinks.

A generally likeable cast atones for the underwritten script with fine comic spirit.

Captures the embarrassment of foreplay, but it could use a few lessons in the art of seduction

A peerless indignity, a club-footed vomit launch of teen-horror clichés, overproduced self-importance, and scareless gore.

Something of a featherweight, but it's also a positively divine comedy.

A must-see for avid fans and a welcome primer for nascent hip-shakers everywhere.

Massively entertaining.

May not have enough story to sustain its narrative momentum, but Gray just might be our best shot at a new Coppola.