How to Survive a Plague, while a shaggier-structured documentary than many, is a heart-wrenching portrait of one of the saddest, most heroic chapters in American history.

Baseball movies tend to be lyrical, deeply felt, aggressively metaphorical and (consequently) terrible, but Trouble With the Curve has something most others lack: Eastwood's superb, cruel sense of humor, which reaches all the way back to "Every Which Way But Loose."

America Ferrara ("Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants'') turns in an image-changing role as a tough lesbian officer who develops a grudging admiration for our heroes.

All I wanted to do was escape from this aggressively ugly world and its equally unattractive characters. It's not that the movie is in bad taste or cheesy (though it is) but that all of its hyperviolence adds up to nothing: This thing is dedd.

Liberal Arts comes to us produced by Josh Radnor. Written by Josh Radnor. Starring Josh Radnor. Josh Radnor is much like Woody Allen, except for the talent.

What with the unexciting hand-held camerawork, and the off-putting script and lead performance, Francine remains as frustrating as its inscrutable title character.

There may be a lot left to say about Hurricane Katrina, but if so, I'm Carolyn Parker doesn't say it.

The film's true fascination is in the kitchen, as it is for the chefs themselves.

Overall, though, the stakes are pretty low for this likable, tipsy crowd. Maybe I'm just too steeped in the underdog lore of "Freaks and Geeks" and "Awkward," but is there anything less narratively interesting than a high school reunion that focuses exclusively on the beautiful and popular crowd?

Thompson and Shea both dig into their intelligent, flawed characters with zeal.

The Manzanar Fishing Club has enough interesting footage for perhaps a 15-minute segment of a TV news magazine. Beyond that, my eyes started to glaze over with endless talk about rods, reels and bait.

Every episode of "Law & Order" I've ever seen has a more complicated and plausible plot, punchier dialogue and more New York authenticity, all in less than half the time consumed by this poky would-be finance thriller.

It's a sharply written, unforgettably directed character study with brilliant performances by Joaquin Phoenix, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Amy Adams - far more intimate but no less intense than director Paul Thomas Anderson's Oscar-winning last film, "There Will Be Blood.''

Those with a high tolerance for the ultimate four-letter word, and a love for eccentrics, will be entertained by both White and his art.

Sundance Mopey Alienation Flick No. 4,228 is For Ellen, an empty angst-athon that proves 90 minutes of close-ups of Paul Dano looking wounded can be even less interesting than it sounds.

A tough, well-acted little indie.

Good acting and some very good scenes don't quite add up to a good film.

There are some catches, including a breathy-voiced indie-rock soundtrack so bad you wonder if it's contributing to Amy's malaise. But overall, the comedy is a lovely showcase for Lynskey and the rest of the cast.

Ultimately Serving Up Richard feels about as substantial as a Happy Meal (which this poor guy assuredly is not).

The movie is passionately retro, but Barta shows his methods can create a world every bit as engrossing as the latest CGI.

[REC] 3 Genesis is a prequel to the first two "[REC]" movies, but that doesn't much matter. You don't need to have seen them to enjoy this film, which provides fresh blood for a tired genre.

Where "Bridesmaids" tackled the subject of weddings and wrestled it in Jell-O, Bachelorette just kicks it right in the crotch.

It turns out that constraint is really what the show is all about, or to put it another way, I'm disappointed that they turned my horny-teen comedy into a gross-out comedy.

The acting, script and direction - not to mention the syrupy score - conspire to make this a perfect storm of a hoot that will find its most appreciative audience among renters who have had a few glasses of wine beforehand.

The story has been brought to the screen twice before (once by Tsui), but this version is the first in IMAX 3-D, which is the main reason to see it.

Spits out enough scares and twists to maintain our interest, but the film's psycho-sociological layer is almost as cheesy and unconvincing as its low-rent action scenes.

Travis, making his feature debut, gets very likable performances out of his female stars. And it's nice to see sex given its due as a wide, wild buffet rather than the standard missionary, bra-on fare we're usually served in a rom-com. Mmm-hmmm!

Unremarkable and none-too-scary horror movie.

The new film's strongest point is the assured performance by Schubert, who's in nearly every frame. Elegant cinematography by Martin Gschlacht, one of Austria's most sought-after lensers, gives Breathing added depth.

None of the actors has the heft to elevate this rote material, though to be fair, the task may be impossible. The dreamy shots of a poisoned sea in Little Birds show an imagination sorely missing from its drab plot and characters.

The film feels unbelievably long at 84 minutes, and the color-drained, hand-held cinematography serves only as a reminder of just how good "Night of the Living Dead" really was.

Ever wonder what "Scrubs" would've been like if Zach Braff's fledgling-doctor character was psychotic instead of goofy? I get the feeling John Enbom, screenwriter of The Good Doctor, has.

Picture Graham Greene crossed with James Bond, with a splash of Sacha Baron Cohen, and you'll start to imagine the nervy talents of Mads Brügger, the fearless Danish filmmaker who has for a second time come up with a stunning, funny, and vital piece of guerilla cinema.

Side by Side is an eye-opening, comprehensive look at the biggest technological revolution in Hollywood history. One huge irony is that digital formats are evolving so rapidly that the only foolproof way to archive and preserve a movie shot on video for future generations is . . . to transfer it to film.

It's hard to make a movie about moonshiners that isn't entertaining, but the lethargic, generically titled Lawless comes perilously close - at least a third of its two hours is devoted to "arty'' shots of landscapes.

It's a tribute to Birbiglia's storytelling chops that the most engaging part of the film is when he's talking directly to the camera. The fleshed-out story, with its first-rate cast, almost feels like gilding the lily.

This wispy story is distinguished by its sweetness of spirit, and it comes straight from Kold.

Wavers between extreme silliness and unbearable earnestness.

The film leisurely unfolds as a series of vignettes about class distinctions and crime, with an unexpected ending. It is beautifully filmed in CinemaScope and strongly acted (especially by Solha), and makes for mesmerizing viewing.

Biehn has appeared in dozens of B-movies and evidently had no greater ambition than to come up with a grindhouse movie full of sex, gore and cheap thrills, but there is far too little of any of these to maintain interest in a straight-on story that reserves its only surprise for the final 30 seconds.

About 30 minutes too long and somewhat clumsily executed, this zombie's-eye-view story still manages to evoke the comic and splattery spirit of the best '80s cult horror flicks (and features a car-horn shout-out to "The Lost Boys," to boot).

The documentary tells us little we don't already know and is overwhelmingly one-sided. It would make a nice TV infomercial, but certainly doesn't deserve a big-screen release.

The drawbacks to this often rhapsodically beautiful film lie not in the journey itself, but in the preachy detours taken along the way.

France's friendship dramedy Little White Lies is such a blatant rip-off of a far better American movie that it could have been called "Le Big Chill."

Burt Reynolds and Sally Field they're not, but you could do worse for mindless late-summer entertainment than Dax Shepard and Kristen Bell in Hit & Run.

Stakes aren't the only problem with this sloppy thriller, which combines careening images with turgid storytelling.

A shoddy, slapdash look at issues raised by the Great Depression that neither gives an adequate overview nor manages to argue a coherent thesis.

The feature directorial debut of Jake Schreier, has a smart script by C.D. Ford and an impressive supporting cast.

Acquires a little vigor and some fun from Tracy Morgan as a friendly drug dealer who lives with his mom.

Fortunately, Chicken With Plums does have its pleasures, including Isabella Rossellini as the silkily jaded mother.

Dire musical interludes are sprinkled throughout the sprawling mess Beloved, an uninvolving would-be romantic epic that spans 45 years in the life of a mother and her daughter, starting in the early 1960s.

The self-possessed Hall is well-suited to this proto-feminist role, smoking and rolling her eyes as the pasty old men around her exclaim, for what is clearly the millionth time, "An educated woman!" as if she were a zoo animal.

It's hard to get close to a wild creature, and True Wolf doesn't always manage, either.

The actors in Compliance perform with thorough and chilling sincerity.

ParaNorman is probably the year's most visually dazzling movie so far, and the stunning climax centering on an 11-year-old witch (Jodelle Ferland) is too good to spoil.

The climax is as dull as reading the dictionary of a language you do not speak.

For a movie called Sparkle, the absolutely least interesting or central thing about it is Sparkle (and Sparks), although the "Idol" singer does bust out one impressive performance.

More fun and somewhat more coherent than its Sylvester Stallone-directed predecessor, The Expendables 2 serves up a planeload of thickly sliced, well-aged beef and ham amid lots of stuff getting blown up.

If the movie's story is anything but daring, it does takes guts to make a movie so shamelessly emotional as this one. Not that guts are the same as taste.

A Walmart "Wall Street," the hedge-fund drama Supercapitalist is junk merchandise stamped "made in China."

It's their hard luck that this movie is being released as the Olympics wind down. The contrast with the beauty and self-discipline seen for the past two weeks doesn't exactly work to the advantage of Nitro Circus.

It's an uneasy tonal mix that wants to have it both ways - this is a difficult way to pay the rent, but look at how charming the Fokkens are.

First-time director Christopher Neil (a Coppola cousin) scores points for scenery: The treks in the Arizona desert are shot beautifully - as is Duchovny's chiseled, oft-naked bod.

Formerly a maker of bad, but at least angry, movies, Spike Lee now seems to be trying to be the world's oldest student filmmaker. Take out the rookie mistakes from Red Hook Summer, and there'd be nothing left.

Delpy's good at keeping Marion's complaints sharp and funny, rather than wan and whiny. Even so, the movie's a bumpy ride as her good farcical instincts vie with the yen for cheap laughs.

Put it this way: Jimmy Carter was funnier than this movie.

Disappointingly, Bourne never resurfaces in this less-than-satisfying series reboot. The film is more a talky, convoluted, action-starved two-hour subplot.

Hope Springs could have been unbearably schmaltzy or crude. Instead, in the hands of these expert actors and filmmakers, it's a warm and wryly affecting mid-summer treat.

Guerrero's attitude toward the teenagers - understanding and affectionate, without being cloying - is what holds your interest.

Corny action scenes and borderline-hilarious direction by Isaac Florentine mark the film as an obvious straight-to-video item that somehow took a wrong turn into a movie theater.

A sort of "Babel" of bonking, 360 gives us much in the way of international anguish, frustrated coupling and longing stares, but there's very little plausibility or genuine emotion in its egregiously contrived story of ardor gone amiss.

I'd call Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Dog Days harmless if it weren't for some totally unnecessary gay-panic jokes that could actually encourage bullying.

It may have the faintest relationship to any kind of reality, but Jones' tart performance cuts through the saccharine.

In a culture where Anderson Cooper is out and gay-inclusive shows like "Modern Family" are wildly popular, a dud like Babymakers doesn't even find sticking power in its offensiveness. It just wipes off.

As for a villain, you could do worse than Bryan Cranston as the evil political overlord who is trying to stamp out the resistance -- When he goes mano a mano with Farrell, it's not spine-tingling. It's embarrassing, like watching a dude beat up his dad.

Director Malik Bendjelloul expertly paces this strange and moving film, half mystery and half meditation on art, fame, the music biz and the definition of a meaningful life.

The dialogue is ridiculous, the acting wooden - but that's not why we go, is it?

Despite the allure of the actors and some witty lines, it's ultimately quite wearying to be confronted with such determination to turn youth and good looks into existential burdens.

Klown turns out to be one long, brutal life lesson for Hvam's hapless character until it finally crosses the line into just plain creepy at the end.

Ai is his country's most celebrated avant-garde artist - he's had shows around the world, including in New York, where he lived as a student - and China's most outspoken dissident.

Gentle, simply told love stories are as rare in documentaries these days as they are in narrative film. That alone makes Yi Seung-jun's Planet of Snail a standout.

If Ruby were more of a person than a character, we might care more for her plight. But like Calvin, Kazan has written herself into a corner that can only lead to embracing the sappy romantic clichés that Ruby Sparks tries half-heartedly to mock.

A sleazy and pointless film about sleazy and pointless people, Killer Joe reminds us that what Quentin Tarantino does isn't easy.

The danger of dreaming up a predictable adventure for a group of nobodies you hold in contempt is that the audience will see your indifference and raise you.

All it takes is the majestic E-flat that opens "Das Rheingold" to make you realize that, despite what Wagner's Dream insists on showing, "the machine" really isn't the point.

Like Provence itself, Auteuil is in no hurry to get anywhere, reveling instead in the southern region's brilliant light and whispering crickets. His tangy accent and evident fondness for his character make the picture enjoyable enough as it plods along, and the final act wraps things up on a fulfilling note.

There's an argument to be made that sex scenes, done to death, are best left to the imagination - but only if they're replaced by something more interesting. In 30 Beats, the conversational foreplay is hopelessly flaccid.

A 3-D epic that, despite its title, is more of a soap opera than a swordplay thriller.

The Siegels make the Kardashians and Donald Trump look like tasteful pikers when it comes to egregiously conspicuous consumption, sheer hubris and utter refusal to take responsibility for their actions.

Christopher Nolan's dramatically and emotionally satisfying wrap-up to the Dark Knight trilogy adroitly avoids clichés and gleefully subverts your expectations at every turn.

The movie focuses tightly and obviously on role playing, but the most unsettling observations concern how fragile it all is - our health, our minds, our denial of death.

At first glance, Grassroots doesn't seem like much of an idea for a movie. Nor at second, third or fourth glance. Your fifth glance will be at your watch, and at sixth glance your eyelids will be getting very, very heavy.

Sorvino brings a spark, but neither she nor Patti LuPone, in an amusing cameo, can overcome the clockwork-like plod to the end.

Pinto's lack of dramatic range (she basically has two expressions) and an awkward third act do not provide a solid foundation for Hardy's tragic ending.

Despite a bunch of fourth-wall-breaking re-enactments, the look is consistent with most TV true-crime stories. But the way Layton parcels out information makes this story as strange and fascinating as anyone could desire.

The best evidence of this troubled man's genius is provided by ample samples of his music, much of which will be familiar to fans of Warner Bros. cartoons from the '30s and '40s.

As this eye-opening documentary shows, the suits who run MLB are the real bad guys here, treating the aspiring ballplayers as so much sausage.

Gets sillier and sillier as it goes along.