The most startling truth is about Emanuel is that she's a rather ordinary teen in a rather ordinary movie.

If "The Sixth Sense" was a bad movie redeemed by its surprise ending, Marc Forster's Stay is a seemingly good movie leading to a devastating letdown.

Both a madcap comedy and a cautionary tale about the dangers of drug abuse. But it's not funny or smart enough to work as either one, let alone to strike a balance.

Even if this movie doesn't quite hit the highs of its predecessor, it's nice to know that there are still filmmakers ready to respect the eternal struggles of freaks and geeks.

It’s impossible to find anything that grabs you in Pompeii. This lumpen adventure with a misguided romance buries anything in the disaster-flick genre that might have been a blast.

The good news here is that Woolley and his writers have taken the mystery surrounding Jones' tragic 1969 death as their main interest, and have adopted as fact the long-cherished rumor that the blond rocker's drowning was a case of murder. It may be speculative history, but at least it's a story.

The confusing time line of Pascal Arnold and Jean-Marc Barr's bizarre tale of sibling romance, murder and obsession is just one of its problems. The others are the romance, the murder and the obsession.

“Hoosiers” this ain’t. The redemptive final game has some nice plays and bone-crunching sound effects, but no grit. Ultimately, it’s a ho-hum, bromide-filled production undeserving of a victory dance.

What Short does not deserve - and neither do we - is a feature-length movie about Jiminy.

Eisner is not remotely up to the challenge. Spending millions on action scenes does not mean you get them right.

What's good about the idea is that it triggers the kind of debate we would be having over Iraq if there was a draft. What's bad about it is that the three main characters in Robert Malkani's script - anti-war lawyer George (Chris Klein), gung-ho cab driver Dixon (Jon Bernthal) and sissy novelist Aaron (Elijah Wood) - are not interesting, either as individuals or as three amigos.

Unless you're struck by the urge to watch strangers work out their petty issues in couples therapy, it's hard to find a compelling reason to sit through Gregg Lachow's irritatingly self-absorbed indie drama.

The film's asset, in a walk, is Bening, whose comic timing puts Shandling to shame.

Towards the end, you might find yourself thinking, "Well, this could have been worse." And you'll mean it as a compliment.

The imagery is consistently striking and the themes, if well-worn, do often ring true.

There are some funny moments and amusing cameos, but it's not enough to elevate this project's slapdash approach.

It loses some of its warmth, and most of its charm. And it ends up as nearly as cold and creepy as the space it takes us through.

Might be thought of as "Memento" for people who didn't get "Memento."

Unless your own horoscope recommended wasting two perfectly useful hours of your day, take a pass.

So riddled with plot holes and implausible actions, you can't help feeling insulted by it.

The whole movie is some kind of joke, a sick one to be savored by a certain segment of the movie audience. You know who you are.

What it is, really, is a trainer film, meant to prep the world's youngest ticketholders for the day when they're old enough to help turn Bruckheimer's bigger movies into blockbusters.

Three movies in one: a spaghetti Western, an urban drama and a historical epic. All of them suffer from self-indulgent direction, a convoluted script and awkward acting.

If you want to make a film, this is a great place to start. But if you just want to watch one, it's more of dead end.

This dull thriller wastes the potential of Nicole Kidman and Colin Firth.

The plot line quickly becomes incomprehensible, and the movie, directed in sleek music-video style by Michael Bay, comes to suggest a very long night on Fox-TV. [7 April 1995, p.56]

Like the last gift buried under singing Billy Bass fish, dancing Coke cans, joke books and mounds of wrapping paper, there's a glimmer of fun in Four Christmases that almost gets vacuumed up with the tinsel.

This ugly, dull and idiotic actioner doesn’t know if it wants be fun or grim. It winds up simply being deplorable exploitation.

Writer-director Jordan Walker-Pearlman can't adequately handle either of his tasks: The script is as sappy as the direction is awkward. Fortunately, he was smart enough to enlist a cast of pros who can ably sidestep the project's many potholes.

Director Cathryne Czubek’s well-researched, incredibly lively chronicle of the way guns are marketed to, coveted by, and portrayed with women is a vital glimpse into a cultural phenomenon.

It all goes nowhere slowly, with only a few visual jokes to break the monotony.

We're bombarded by witless racial clichés, stale sexism and homophobia and enthusiastic celebrations of extreme flatulence.

Chappie is as subtle as a sledgehammer. The latest sci-fi action spectacle from “District 9” and “Elysium” director Neill Blomkamp is also sprawling, bombastic, deafening, ugly and ultra-violent.

As fake and forgettable as a marshmallow Peep, Hop goes down easy enough.

This version is never rough, nor rude, nor boisterous, but for first-timers, perhaps wisely and slow is the way to go. There will be time enough for them to discover cinema’s superior adaptations anon.

The script does boast a fair share of zingers, delivered with arch wit by a crack team of professionals.

Ah, wait — it’s an ancient Sumerian curse. That seems like poppycock to everyone but this film’s four screenwriters, who also unfortunately go for crashes and yelling instead of a frightening story.

It appears that turning the John Ford/John Wayne classic "The Searchers" into the church-vs-vampire adventure Priest was not an altogether god-awful idea. As long as we don't get "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" as an elegiac zombie drama, this adaptation of a graphic novel has some bite.

The folksy shenanigans are well-intentioned but frankly interminable, with Kline's wry efficiency the best relief from all the yowling and whining.

It's a good thing Jaume Serra's House of Wax wasn't shot in 3-D like the original 1953 horror classic - Paris Hilton is in it and she doesn't have a third dimension.

A formula movie that is way beneath Murphy's talents.[17 Jan 1997, p.45]

What kind of movie is misdirected, poorly acted, preposterously written--and still wholly entertaining? A B-movie, of course. While Illegal Tender has misguided pretensions towards Serious Filmmaking, it's surprisingly likeable if you see it instead as a cheesy thriller good for a lazy Friday night.

There’s a good chunk of info for those eager to know how the sausage gets made, as well as the facts of life and death surrounding what we consume. You just have to pluck the PR feathers and find the good parts.

An awkwardly executed, tedious and -- a near impossibility for a Holocaust movie -- emotionally uninvolving bore.

About as many characters, dragons and force fields as "Pokémon" has pocket monsters, so it may be difficult for the uninitiated to keep track.

As in "The Edge," in which Alec Baldwin and Anthony Hopkins were stranded in the wilds, you can earn a wildernesssurvival merit badge just from watching.

This sci-fi fantasy doesn't exactly make sense, but it sure looks cool.

The gimmick is that the script is based on the real-life experiences of actress Stephanie Bennett, who plays Samantha.

Often insightful and more than a little depressing, this is a story that only gets uglier as it goes on.

Director and screenwriter Adam Brooks, adapting Jennifer Egan's novel, doesn't seem to understand what makes a movie relevant.

Beyond its baby-sitting capabilities, Power Rangers doesn't morph into anything special. It hasn't a single fresh idea.

Instead of expanding their sights, Fleischer and Beall narrow them, into a repetitive and increasingly exhausting series of shootouts. By the end, those guns might as well be held by extras, rather than some of the most talented actors of our time.

The unexpected chemistry between Sam Rockwell and Olivia Wilde helps balance this sour noir comedy.

Half a barrel of laughs. The other half is made of slime.

While they have all the materials needed for a sharp satire, they're too timid to arrive at any real revelations.

PA 4's best idea, besides reintroducing the slow-walking, statuesque Katie, is a strange video trick involving lots of little lights filling a darkened room. It's tough to describe, but the cameras, of course, capture a figure the characters can't.

Director Lisa Albright has less success balancing the tones of two eras: the movie is more successful when replicating matter-of-fact '70s grit than the independent miserabilism of the '90s.

Act of Valor is like watching the wrestlers in dramas produced by the WWE: They're great at what they do, but being in front of the camera isn't part of that.

If they gave out badges for smutty language, this movie would have lots. There’s nothing wrong with that. But filthy doesn’t automatically equal funny.

So the big surprise of Horrible Bosses 2 is how far it gets on the hopped-up jabberjaw alliance of Jason Bateman, Jason Sudeikis and Charlie Day. In the 2011 “Bosses,” they were swamped by the conceit: White-collar pals try to kill awful employers. Now, freed up to free-associate, they’re totally winning.

The modern stuff is undeniably fawning. But given the eye-popping visuals, you understand the enthusiasm. Especially if you left your heart, and thousands of dollars in quarters, in an arcade.

Dagur Kari both wrote and directed, so he has no one else to blame for so little originality. Neither does his hard-working cast, all of whom deserve better.

Sparky voice performances and heart make up for this family film's theft of Tim Burton's sensibility.

All banality, though it delivers some goodwill even as it pulls a muscle trying to get its premise going.

Director John Stockwell (“Blue Crush”) knows how to make the best possible use of his star while adding a strong supporting cast, some pretty scenery and a taut mystery. Stockwell understands most of all that we don’t need Carano to talk; we need her to kick ass.

James Siegel's best-selling thriller Derailed is a perfect commuter book that has become the most imperfect of movies.

Fans will probably appreciate Suicide Squad for trying something different — and it gets bonus points for diversity — but the weaker characters and generally weak plot keep it from being one of the better comic book movies.

Only real fans, however, will be willing to slog through the heaping helpings of incomprehensible exposition.

The problem with this hyper-verbal comedy is in the title.

A story that never finds a reason for its own existence.

In his new concert film, a train wreck of self-regard, self-pity and not-so-humble pie, Martin Lawrence doth protest too much.

It's just a setup for another bad sight gag that ends up where the script itself belongs, in the trash.

Alana De Roma is going to be a tremendous star.

Finally, you get down to the music, which is easy to take for the first hour, before it starts doubling and tripling back on itself, in an unnerving and seemingly unending spiral of repetition.

There's an art to making a good spoof, but good luck finding it in Dance Flick, not only because the movie goes for easy toilet humor, but because it often relies on it to stay afloat.

A shell of a romantic fantasy festooned with characters inspired by and resembling those in the bar scene in "Star Wars," the waiting room in "Beetlejuice" and the circus in "A Bug's Life."

Most of the actresses are appealing, but ultimately not even the gifted Mara can keep the film from feeling like a gauzy portrait of privilege.

Appearances from Jeff Goldblum, Zach Galifianakis and John C. Reilly help some, but all the mincing from Heidecker and Wareheim, the wanna-be, gross-out humor and THE CONSTANT SCREAMING get tiring.

It only comes alive when the star briefly shows the casual looseness that once was his calling card.

Structure overwhelms everything, but it's not as if Wicker Park has nothing to say. It's full of ugly truths about emotional frailty, and implies that stalking is a bad thing only when you're not charming enough about it.

Barratier directs with a jaunty artifice more typically seen on stage, but with the exception of Arnezeder, his cast turns theatricality to its advantage. They're offering us a sunny fantasy during a cloudy time, and seem well aware that we're unlikely to resist.

An uncharacteristically stiff Mortensen can't break free from the clichés that constrain his character, who feels more like a symbol than a real person.

It's simply a blandly shot recording of Michael Flatley's musical revue, as performed overseas.

Hoping for a little emotional manipulation with your popcorn? Look no further.

It needed a star like Clooney at its center, and a character actor like Alan Rickman as Dr. Doom. You don't expect realism from a comic-book movie, but you do want the characters to seem larger than life.

Actually, Ramirez should probably have been cast in the lead, since things flatten out whenever he disappears.

Robert De Niro is back doing standup in The Comedian, and it's a movie made to be heckled. Full of gross jokes (and an even grosser love story), it deserves the hook — and fast.

Thirteen-year-old boys big enough to sneak into R-rated movies are presumably the prime audience for this witless comedy from the Broken Lizard troupe.

But the regularly overlooked Stahl burrows honestly into this unpleasant place, adding another worthy portrait to his indie gallery of interesting losers. He's still an actor worth keeping your eyes on. Assuming you can keep them open.

Farrell plays all this as if he means it, but he seems slight in the role and without great physical presence. In a scene in which Alexander is roaring at his troops to rouse them to battle, he sounds like Mighty Mouse pretending to be Superman.

That's a lot just to justify a cute title, but cuteness is the engine driving the slight, obvious but occasionally very funny film.

The picture's a dud... Instead of Chow's gravitas rubbing off on the kid, Scott's dude-ness dilutes Chow's authority.

After the first hour, it starts to convince you that time really can stand still.

There are plenty of chuckles at the expense of Dr. Phil, Shaquille O'Neal, Carmen Electra, Charlie Sheen and series stalwart Leslie Nielsen. But with no comic carryover from one skit to the next, true belly laughs are few and far between.

"On Deadly Ground," "Out for Justice," "Marked for Death" these are the last times Seagal gave us nothing. With Fire Down Below, he outdoes himself. [6 Sept 1997, p.32]

If the Founding Fathers had known National Treasure would be the result of their efforts to forge a new nation, they might have reached for the Wite-Out.

Spacey is the film's primary draw, but the cast is uniformly solid -- a crucial asset when the screenplay and direction are not.

She has tackled difficult subjects with sharp wit, but this self-congratulatory set falls well short of our ensuing expectations.