Trimming half an hour from this bloated, 143-minute blockbuster would have highlighted the film's treasures, not the least of which is Johnny Depp's endearingly eccentric performance as Captain Jack Sparrow.

As lovely as Jimmy’s Hall is, Paul Laverty’s script is not so much talky as speech-y. Some conversations play like bullet points about Irish politics and the iron grip of the Catholic Church.

Looking at the art and listening to the music is wonderful just on its own, but hanging out with Hockney is also a treat. He's a delightful companion.

Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe and the Marquis de Sade (interesting combination, no?).

The 66-year-old African-American, the subject of the inspiring documentary A Man Named Pearl, doesn't have scissors where his hands should be, but he turns trees and bushes into topiary sculptures every bit as amazing as the ones Johnny Depp's character crafts in the Tim Burton film.

The Congress doesn’t fully live up to its lofty ambitions, but it does attempt something most filmmakers wouldn’t even dream of — a dystopian blend of live-action and animation that acidly comments on some of Hollywood’s touchiest issues before drifting off into an existential fog.

This time out, Broomfield comes up with maybe enough halfway decent material for a 10-minute segment on a second-rate tabloid TV show.

Luckily for us, Grace Lee recorded everything in the fun documentary The Grace Lee Project.

Mixes fact and speculation in a way that's already raised the ire of some on the right as well as on the left.

It features Sean Penn in a mesmerizing portrayal of the would-be hijacker.

A caper comedy that forgot to put in the laughs.

Deadly dull.

Screenwriter Steve Kloves still seems overly dedicated to cramming in every detail of J.K. Rowling's novel - while tacking on a schmaltzy Hollywood ending.

It’s not a documentary, it isn’t entertainment, and aside from Chung’s intelligent, dignified performance, this sure as heck isn’t art.

The dark side of pregnancy and motherhood has long been fertile filmmaking terrain; this queasy, quiet horror film tips its hat, inevitably, to the genre’s standard-bearer, “Rosemary’s Baby,” but comes up a bit short.

Akhavan plays each change brilliantly in a film that is so tightly controlled that the mere glimpse of a new beard or a prayer mat being unrolled becomes a moment of horror.

Their clashing on the court has steam heat. For well over 10 minutes, the electrifying finals match is re-created realistically and with unexpected suspense, even though we’ve known the result for 38 years.

Perhaps the most sobering statistic in The 11th Hour: Some 50,000 species a year are disappearing. Someday, it might be humans.

Ultimately, this film reveals the Israeli self-image, but not much more. The people with the cameras pass by Arab neighbors, and what the Palestinians’ home movies might look like remains unexplored.

If there’s a flaw in Unsane, it’s that the screenplay by Jonathan Bernstein and James Greer doesn’t play its hand closer to the vest. The pleasure here is in watching and wondering what’s real and what isn’t, but all too soon it’s spelled out for us. Nevertheless, it’s great fun to watch it all come together — or, more accurately, fall apart.

I adore Frances McDor mand, but she's seriously miscast in a title role Emma Thompson could play in her sleep.

A solid documentary that examines the art's roots, from ad-libs by black preachers to "toasts" delivered by Jamaican immigrants over instrumental tracks in the '70s South Bronx.

Conforms to many of the tropes of a formula thriller but, aided by an evocative Philip Glass score and Tim Orr's beautifully naturalistic cinematography, it transcends the genre.

Admittedly, I’m far from a fan of Korine’s “Gummo,’’ “Julien Donkey-Boy’’ and the absymal “Trash Humpers.’’ But that he is proud of making intentionally sloppy and tedious movies doesn’t make them any easier to watch. Or all that much fun, for that matter.

Unfortunately, director Marc Foster (who co-wrote the screenplay) never allows anyone except Mitchell to play more than a one-dimensional character.

But even if The Cat's Meow is unsubtle and overlong, in its jaundiced way it convincingly captures a fascinating period in Hollywood history.

While immersed in the horror of their plight, you might forget to breathe.

Their often touching stories of how their lives - and livelihoods - were disrupted are effectively intercut with excerpts from press conferences in which Attorney General John Ashcroft.