If you go to the movies to ogle topless young women, Simon is definitely for you. If, on the other hand, you want something more cerebral with your $10 ticket and overpriced snacks, stay clear of this Dutch melodrama.

Unlike American movies about challenging yourself, it's all played in a minor key.

Surprisingly watchable because of its cast - especially Jack Klugman, who steals every scene he's in as Dad's paranoid survivor father. All he has to do to stand out is underact.

It's not always clear exactly what's happening in this dark tale, full of barking dogs and slabs of meat. But you won't be able to take your eyes from the screen; nor will you quickly forget this fiercely original eye-popper.

The three women deliver solid performances, but the film is diluted by the use of flashbacks superimposed over present-time scenes. The result is visual chaos.

Sir! No Sir! doesn't make a lot of sense, but it does have some fascinating footage of Jane Fonda, both as a dippy young protester and today, when she remains dazzled by her own legend.

Kev Robertson's gritty camerawork and a musical soundtrack mixing hip-hop, punk and electronica add to the ambience of this impressive shoestring-budget indie.

Now that even Woody Allen has stopped making "Woody Allen movies," you would think that wannabes would move on, too.

At this point, there are inflatable toys that are livelier than Stone, but how can you tell the difference? Basic Instinct 2 is not an erotic thriller. It's taxidermy.

The film mostly avoids easy laughs or simplistic characters, reminding you how few black movies claim the huge middle ground between chardonnay-sipping buppies and hardened criminals.

The rare sequel that is better than the original.

This is one horror film that could make the syllabus at Bob Jones U. The way the squid blasts its tentacles into doe-eyed girls seems designed to steer your daughters away from sex until they're about 40.

It's Gordon-Levitt's pitch-perfect work that makes Brick a hardboiled treat.

The film quickly ceases to be of interest to anyone but dedicated fans. The novelty of the deliberate ugliness wears off after a song or two.

Often charming and funny, though sometimes quite gross.

You don't have to be a fan of Daniel Johnston, an underground artist and singer-songwriter whose manic-depression has kept him from realizing his full potential, to appreciate director Jeff Feuerzeig's documentary.

Overall it's got two left feet - and charm is in dangerously short supply.

There's not much story but there are plenty of colorful, almost David Lynchian drug freakouts, as well as lots of sick violence.

Sparse of plot, Iron Island is visually rich, thanks to cinematographer Reza Jalai. The final scene is especially stunning.

Songbird Bjork and artist hubby Matthew Barney team up in Drawing Restraint 9, and the spectacular result is exactly what should be expected from these one-of-a-kind creative oddballs.

Entertaining and informative, but it suffers from distracting voice-overs of what are supposed to be Madame Mao's thoughts. Too bad.

Has a doozy of a surprise ending that doesn't really stand up under close scrutiny - but you'll have so much fun getting there, it's easy to go along with Lee and company for the ride.

Stay Alive is D.O.A, a notion of an outline of a rough draft of a killer video-game flick.

Debbie, for better or for worse, is the high point of the entertaining but lightweight film, which is better suited to public TV than the big screen. Oh, yes. If anybody should decide to open another beauty school in Kabul, be sure to leave Debbie in Indiana.

One of those indie excursions to Loserville that lasts an hour and a half but feels longer than "Roots."

Redmon makes a valid argument, but he belabors the point. Mardi Gras: Made in China would play better if it were more focused and less repetitive.

It's expertly directed in a low-key, naturalistic way that brings to mind French auteur Robert Bresson. It's also emotionally forceful and contains heartbreaking performances.

Does a solid job of documenting the life and art of the drag grand dame, whose life has been almost as tumultuous as the characters played by the Hollywood divas he channels.

Stoned carries a freaked-out buzz of nostalgia for the era when celebs willfully destroyed themselves for our amusement.

Virtually unwatchable and laugh-free.

A witty mix of "Frankenstein" and David Lynch's "Eraserhead" - with a tip of the hat to Hitchcock's "Saboteur" - Puzzlehead is an indie delight.

A cheesy and unpleasant splatterfest.

It turns out the stories don't unite at all. Instead, we get a series of dramatic vignettes, most of them decently executed but all of them rooted in the weepy sensibility of TV movies.

Find Me Guilty belongs to the odd couple of Dinklage and Diesel, whose volatile performance finally proves he is much more than an action star.

Thanks to a winning cast, all of this is funnier than you would expect considering the erratic script.

An entertaining piece of pulp fiction.

The movie is strangely demure in its attempts to be wild.

Melodramatic and heavy-handed.

The story isn't exactly new, but Bollain, an actress in her own right, keeps Take My Eyes from sinking into clichés.

Just because the goods are made in Italy doesn't mean they're designer-quality; Don't Tell is glossy on the outside, cardboard and staples on the inside.

It's all interspersed with strange attempts at comedy that fail on two levels: They're not funny, and they puncture what little drama there is.

Guaranteed to leave you outraged at the way children - and, for that matter, adults - are exploited by mining companies.

Drab, despairing and pointless.

Most of the interviews are as brief as they are obvious, and it doesn't help that none of those interviewees, including clergymen who served as technical advisers, are identified.

Excellent performances are given by all, with Alidoosti, who has the face of an angel, once again a wonder.

This is a guy comedy being mismarketed as a chick flick, complete with a poster that looks like a page from Lucky magazine.

These man-eaters are deadly, mainly in their ability to bore you to death.

Who let this dog out?

Watching it is like being in a restaurant where the waiter brings out a luscious platter of food, then keeps walking right past you. All night long.

A hilariously deadpan black-and-white slacker comedy, Duck Season is sort of like "Wayne's World" directed by a Mexican Jim Jarmusch.

Watchable in a train-wreck kind of way, but you'll probably want to take a shower afterwards.

Director Mikael Hafstrom - the gentleman responsible for last year's Jennifer Aniston bomb "Derailed" - keeps us guessing as he confidently builds suspense.

The movie includes a recurring motif of immigrant taxi drivers - like them, the movie is constantly going around in circles.

A group of inmates are turned into theater people. Haven't they suffered enough?

You care for these warriors, no matter which uniform they're wearing. I don't know Taub's intentions, but The Fallen makes a potent antiwar statement.

The Neighbor No. Thirteen forgoes the manic violence of the Korean revenge stunner "Oldboy" in favor of leisurely paced suspense with sudden bloody outbursts.

Achieves the odd distinction of being the first post-9/11 NYPD corruption movie - complete with a shootout in the Criminal Courts building. Cool.

It's high-spirited, innocent fun.

Strictly for fans of the musical acts and those who think everything Chappelle does is genius.

A cut-rate ripoff of "Aeon Flux" with Milla Jovovich as a butt-kicking futuristic heroine in a midriff-baring bodysuit, is ultrastupid, ultra-incoherent, ultrasilly - and way, way ultraboring.

A lively score by Danny Elfman and some of the most dramatic sound-effects work since the Three Stooges only add to the appeal of Deep Sea 3-D.

Where else can you get to hear Otto sing "Crazy"?

An intense but fairly brief battle scene near the start reminds us of the unique horrors of this war. But the hokey music played over it hints that the film is going to try too hard to touch us. And it soon does.

Viewers not accustomed to Hong's style of leisurely paced filmmaking - long, static takes with lots of talking - might be tempted to leave early. If they stick around, however, they might find themselves becoming fans of the cerebral South Korean auteur.

There's nothing especially new or interesting about the guests, the party or the movie. One bright note is Nicol Zanzarella as the elegant Susan, a freelance TV editor and co-host.

Serves as a primer on a musical style that may be unfamiliar to many, while putting a human face on the problem of illegal immigrants.

Boynton isn't interested in telling a story, only in the atmosphere of political consultancy.

Not even Sandra Oh, as Phoebe's boss, and Elodie Bouchez ("The Dreamlife of Angels"), as Ashade's sister-in-law, can keep Sorry, Haters from becoming a sorry mess.

Ends in a cascade of sentimentality straight out of Hollywood. Not even Chweneyagae's excellent acting or Lance Gewer's dark photography can save the film.

William H. Macy lends a little class as a snail, but Smith nails it in the closing-credit outtakes: "Don't expect Robin Williams-caliber work."

Too bad the story is so predictable and the big wedding scene, in which women dressed as angels dangle from the church ceiling strumming harps, is cornier than an Orville Redenbacher factory.

Running Scared has some camp value as the kind of midnight movie you can laugh at (not with), but it isn't so much imitation Tarantino as it is imitation imitation Tarantino.

An excruciating indie knockoff of "Training Day."

Why was this pointless movie made? Because quality actors like Blanchett and Weaving like to play drug addicts. They can't stop themselves. They need help.

Veers between mystery, comedy, philosophical inquest and medical/psychological drama.

Politics aside, Trudell plays like an infomercial for its subject rather than a serious examination of the man and his beliefs.

There's scant dialogue in Workingman's Death, but little is needed when majestic camera work by Wolfgang Thaler tells the story so well.

An extraordinary woman like Eva Kor deserves a less ordinary biography.

A collection of throwaway gags from other movies, a big blue recycling barrel of comedy waiting for the trash collector. It's rated PG-13 because 13 is the maximum age of those who might find it funny.

Eight Below doesn't always quite put across the idea of extreme weather, either; the way the actors keep appearing outside with bare heads and jackets unzipped suggests November in Burbank, not 31 degrees below zero. The scenes in which Biggs appears in shorts kind of clinch the point.

With Roth at the helm of a script attributed to Price, there is minimal suspense, audience involvement or coherent social commentary.

Reyadas' radical rejection of filmmaking conventions is at first off-putting, but he's able to elicit remarkable performances from the cast of non-professionals while building tension that will hold viewers' attention. Love it or loathe it, you won't soon forget Battle in Heaven.

Night Watch may be derivative of American movies, but when our ideas ooze out of the dank Russian filter they're weirder, crazier, grimier.

Its message is sugarcoated in a schmaltzy, clichéd story line about Smith's conflicts with streetwise black minister (Jeff Obafemi Carr) - and sabotaged by hackneyed dialogue, sluggish pacing and a listless performance by Smith, who only springs to life when he's singing.

Sophie Scholl is a powerful story. But it's a little annoying how men become beside the point when the focus is on emotion. Sophie did no more or less than her brother, but he's ignored for nearly all of the movie because it's easier to stir up compassion - it's easier to manipulate the audience - when the subject is a woman.

Deschanel manages to make Winter Passing almost matter. That's real talent.

The finale - a shootout in a church - seems inspired by Hong Kong filmmakers like John Woo and Ringo Lam.

CSA would have benefited from a bigger budget and better actors and it gets weaker as it goes along, but it's still thought-provoking stuff.

Desert Wind will be of interest to men - and especially to women, who might learn much they didn't know about the opposite sex.

Curious George skews very young, but parents should be warned that it arrives not only with the worst ad slogan in recent memory ("Show me the monkey"), but a full line of plush toys and related tie-in merchandise.

Except for the rock soundtrack, these movies could be silent - and probably should be.

The kind of thriller whose ridiculous climax hinges on a hitherto undisclosed GPS tracking device in a dog's collar - an appropriate touch in a movie that's more than a little flea-ridden itself.

Occasionally works and has a handful of great moments.

Syd is a jerk whose anger does not make him interesting. The only reason to keep watching is because you hope someone will drop a piano on his head.

A schmaltzy filmed record of a Nashville concert given by the legendary former rocker, who has morphed into the new Kenny Rogers.

Fails to show indignation that rich white guys are trying to get even richer at the expense of a naive black kid from the ghetto.

The unusually explicit dungeon scenes with Pablo, a leather daddy and a fellow slave may whip a rather specialized audience into a frenzy. But for others, A Year Without Love will be a less pleasurably painful experience.

Johansson never looked more beautiful, nor gave a lamer performance, than in A Good Woman.