As fun as it is at times -- particularly early on -- the longer The Sorcerer's Apprentice goes on, the more the magic wears off.

This is a self-contained story that stands nicely on its own. How novel.

A thoroughly and unmistakably modern film so rooted in the now that it's bound to be remembered as a cinematic landmark.

More than just corny. Eclipse is boring.

Sure, it's an interesting scene as he (Stone) chews the fat with Raul Castro, and coca leaves with Bolivia's Evo Morales. But his South of the Border can't be taken seriously, muchacho -- and if you think it can, well, I've got a primo cigar factory in Havana to sell you.

A film that is beautiful, harrowing, heartbreaking -- and necessary.

Positively soars.

Built on spasms of explosive summertime action interspersed throughout a vacant shell of an origins story, animator-turned-director Jimmy Hayward's first stab at directing a live-action film ends up feeling like one great, big missed opportunity.

Unfortunately, for the bulk of the film's running time -- its first two-thirds or so -- Davis and Heilbroner oversaturate viewers with scene-setting material, describing the climate for gay men and lesbians in the 1950s and 1960s.

Imagine Norman Rockwell had he been more of a realist than a nostalgist.

The casting is perfect, and the resetting of the story to China allows for a satisfyingly cinematic retelling.

Like "The Hurt Locker," Winter's Bone is a spare but riveting drama with a female director. It is built around a raw, revelatory performance by a young, little-known lead actor.

Getting two biographies on the same person in such a short window is unusual. What's even more unusual is that both suffer from the same flaw.

What it does have going for it are its lead actors -- Brand and Hill both know exactly how to deliver a punch line -- and a lead character who represents one of the best bits of rock 'n' roll satire since "This Is Spinal Tap."

A surprisingly entertaining movie on its own, a strap-yourself-in, suspend-your-disbelief summer popcorn adventure.

The whole thing is such a rare visual treat -- such a tres magnifique cinematic spectacle -- that those flaws are easy to overlook. Jeunet's film is hard to resist.

Although they've left the city behind, the girls haven't forgotten the sex. They're still as frank as ever, as outrageous as ever, as liberated as ever.

Worse, Shrek Forever After feels like just another animated movie -- which is exactly what the series was fighting against when it started, and a big reason why it caught on with audiences.

Still, it's not the iconic, be-all-end-all that Scott was certainly hoping for.

You can't just cast an appealing actress in the lead role -- in this case Queen Latifah ("Valentine's Day, " "The Secret Life of Bees") -- and expect her to do all the heavy lifting.

It's a lovely bit of blood-pressure-lowering cinema that never betrays its simple conceit.

If nothing else, Garcia's movie is a brave one, with its unflinching look at adoption, which -- as overwhelmingly compassionate an act as it is -- often leaves behind deep emotional scars.

A dramatic comedy that is light on plot but generous in spirit, a leisurely, understated film that underscores the ever-present modern guilt while -- oddly, given the weightiness of that central conceit -- boasting a satisfying buoyancy.

Even at its worst moments, it's better than "awful." But at its best, it's never comes close to "incredible."

Before it gives itself a chance to deliver on that promise, however, it morphs into something different -- something often resembling a soap opera, just with prettier sets and less-passionate smooching.

It's an intriguing travelogue, showing parts of Iran that most of us could never see, or would never dare try to see, given that nasty "Death to America" thing.

The performances are strong enough to elevate things. Darin, Villamil and Francella are the kinds of actors who you just know you've seen before, but whom you probably haven't.

Unfortunately, on the way to delivering that message, it becomes weighted down by its own dreary self-importance.