There's also a refreshing lack of wrapping everything up in a neat, happy bow at the end.

An Irish indie that is well-observed and well-acted - but ultimately, not much more exciting than the love lives of its lead characters.

Most of their scenes come off as low-stakes dueling stand-up routines, rather than a plot that builds.

They resort too often to infantile flatulence jokes and fairly obvious gags about errant G-strings, with the anorexic plot culminating in the brothers having - yawn - learned to respect women's feelings.

Though quite watchable thanks to its cast, the overly ambitious Don McKay ends up as confused as its main female character.

Godardian title not withstanding, Zeina Durra's not-uninteresting slice of the downtown Manhattan demimonde is too concerned with being cool to work up much in the way of political outrage, much less narrative drive.

Salt contains many conflicts: intelligence vs. counterintelligence, blond Angelina vs raven-haired and . . . well, that's about it.

An example of style over substance. There's lots of slo-mo and jittery hand-held camera work, and references to the French New Wave (especially François Truffaut), but little depth.

What Kamikaze Girls doesn't have is a plot. As nice as the film looks, it soon grows tiresome -- though I could listen to the Johann Strauss II soundtrack forever.

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

Rambo: Last Blood features what’s easily the most violent movie scene of the year. It’s awesome.

At best, mildly entertaining.

Whaley gives an earnest performance, especially when he's articulating his frustrations during his monologues. But it's all relentlessly glum. The film, like Jimmy's routines, could use a few good laughs.

The story is contrived. Would you believe a high-rise window-washer just happening to be cleaning the window of the room where, at that very moment, his wife is being raped by her boss? Didn't think so.

The tin-earned dialogue and haphazard plotting are more reminiscent of Tarantino's frequent collaborator Robert Rodriguez.

While he takes an evenhanded approach, the filmmaker appears on camera far too often and goes off point as frequently as Moore.

There's little new in Armadillo.

The film can be rough going for those who know little of Berger’s work. That’s especially true of the second part, a stupefying collage about Berger’s home in rural Quincy, France.

Combines the sweet strangeness of "Fargo" with the existential panic of "Memento" and some Elmore Leonard tough talk. It all creates a cinematic tummy ache.

The film’s worst offense is that it works way too hard for it to be a light watch.

But improbable situations, heavy reliance on coincidence and an improbable climax nearly tip the film into TV-movie territory.

The generic plot is redeemed by exciting action sequences, good-looking location photography and a hot sex scene involving a femme fatale named Lea (pixie-haired Melanie Thierry).

There isn't anything terribly exciting or original on offer in the somewhat poky directing debut of screenwriter Zach Helm.

After some early thrills, director Baltasar Kormákur’s movie ceases to excite because the creature has no more surprises left. He just jumps through the window — again.

Certainly watchable, but don’t go expecting much in the way of surprises.

Are Some Girl(s) like this? Yes. But I left this movie with no additional insight on why.

Writer-director Matthew Vaughn, who’s helmed all three, needs to either call it quits or hand over the reins to someone with some self-control. The formidable talent of Ralph Fiennes can lift his movie some, but the man’s not Hercules.

Going Under is the feature directorial debut of 65-year-old Eric Werthman, who has been a practicing psychotherapist for a quarter of a century. If you're not already seeing a shrink, Mr. Werthman, may we suggest that you start immediately.