Shot on location, handheld camera, available light, no props, no music, no filters, etc. We may wonder, "What are we doing here?" But we won't look away.

But for all its pretensions toward exemplifying a brave new way of making movies, Time Code offers less and less worth discovering as it slouches toward its tritely "fatal" climax.

A ponderous stage adaptation that expends only the mildest effort to overcome its staginess.

There's a sense of life to Committed that's unpredictable and sweet, but too much of it is cluttered with lazy shortcuts.

It's a yabba-dabba-delight.

A swamp of clichés, contrivances, and cheap ham-and-cheese hero sentimentality.

Just keeps grinding along, pushing its way through a barrage of boom-boom and a sea of tight-lipped clichés.

Croupier should please people who take their noir straight up -- with plenty of twists.

For all its pretense of critiquing our tabloid culture, it amounts to much ado about nothing.

A detective story without a solution and a coming-of-ager without discernable characters.

It's a tad too generic to be a slam dunk.

Blessedly free of candy-box prettiness, cloying gentility, and anything else that might dishonor its deeply felt, sensitively observed memoir.

A reliably solid treat.

Hazards nothing to speak of and asks chiefly to be congratulated for its modesty.

Works so hard at being pleasant and ingratiating that it wears out its welcome.

The film's details are spot-on, its tone ludicrously ironic, and its casting deft.

Plays like "The Honeymooners" might have if Ralph Kramden were from Pakistan, but with less laughs and more ignorant spite.

Pearce is shot in such distorting closeups that he looks like an overdeveloped athlete who's been getting steroid injections in his cheeks.

Packed with melodrama, and often it works in the passionate, easy-to-watch manner of an old-fashioned "woman's film."

Juggles a few too many subplots, cramming in more issues than your average nightly newscast. But more often than not, this is a film to savor.

There are only a handful of great music documentaries ... but Temple's film deserves a place in the canon.

Tucci has crafted a poignant remembrance of a bygone era, and a touching examination of the responsibilities of creativity.

Comes off as an exceedingly pleasant, wistful romantic romp.

If you're expecting an experience approximately as dumb, badly acted, and childish as a pro wrestling match, you'll be pleasantly surprised.

An audacious but underconceived blend of fiction and documentary that questions the idea of race and identity in America.

Complaints? None, except perhaps a wish for more length, and a little more depth.

This lightweight thriller has an enjoyable premise.

Feels like it was pulled out of the freezer and hastily microwaved about 10 minutes before you arrived at the theater.