I went to a wartime thriller, but then a Poli Sci 101 seminar broke out.

The first movie I've seen in a very long while that deserves to be called a masterpiece. It's such a stunning achievement in storytelling.

This is one of those thrillers where the person on-screen is often the only person in the theater who can't guess what'll happen next. Lots of laughable moments provide camp value, though, and Bentley ("American Beauty") makes for a charismatic creep.

How can it be that a movie as beautiful to look at as Saawariya is so . . . boring?

Even in support of the noblest of causes, manipulation is manipulation.

Big-Hearted and often quite funny if crudely made, Fat Girls cleverly subverts the clichés of high school comedies to serve an autobiographical story about an overweight gay teen in a small Texas town.

Denzel Washington dazzles in his best screen performance to date as Frank Lucas.

Dazzling fun. Jerry is master of a new domain.

The documentary Darfur Now proves that - no matter how im portant the subject matter - following various people around with a camera doesn't necessarily make a film.

Compelling viewing, even for people who don't care a bit for the punk scene.

Cusack shows that he can still play the sensitive-but-fun guy until the ladies sigh and the men take notes.

Delivers an important message, and its underwater photography is breathtaking. But Stewart lessens the impact by focusing much too much on himself. Did he really have to go into detail about his own health problems? This should be a movie about sharks, not Stewart.

This flick is fast and ferocious, his (Sidney Lumet) sharpest and best since "Prince of the City" (1980) - and surely one of the year's finest.

Cynics need not apply, but I found Bella a real heart tugger.

The anti-Ben Stiller comedy: There's humiliation aplenty but no mugging, no abuse to the crotch region, no straining to be outrageous.

There isn't enough revealing material in the tedious documentary Jimmy Carter Man From Plains to sustain an 800-word magazine profile, let alone a two-hour film.

It must have sounded great on paper.

The only conceivable reason for Warner Bros. to (barely) release this mush is as a favor to Clint Eastwood, whose daughter Alison directed.

What emerges is a portrait of a complex man - one who had no qualms about murder and drugs but who won a national poetry contest and read "Moby-Dick" while in jail. Go figure.

Since the thing is increasingly impatient to jump forward to the next big torture set piece, there isn't any time to establish anyone's character. Butcher shops are bloody, too, but they're not scary.

At 96 minutes, this vanity/insanity project runs a bit long; five minutes would have been plenty.

So you had no idea what was happening in David Lynch's "Inland Empire." Take comfort in the fact that, judging from the documentary Lynch, the filmmaker was just as puzzled as you.

The movie approaches the final scene with a straight face, but it left the audience giggling spasmodically. This script probably should have gone all the way and thrown in a few quips: If your movie is a joke, at least be intentionally funny.

For all of Affleck's skill, he can't entirely put over a credulity-straining ending that probably worked better on the printed page. At the same time, the deeply disturbing windup of "Gone Baby Gone" is a real talker. And that's not something you can say about many movies these days.

A taut thriller based on the tragedy, which remains the most lethal mass killing in New Zealand history.

Rendition has the depth of a bumper sticker without the brevity.

In the mood for some dead-child entertain ment tonight? Reservation Road has what you're looking for. It's "In the Bedroom" crossed with, um, "Fever Pitch."

Made to win awards, and I'm here to present it with one: the Cliché of the Year honors, otherwise known as the Hackney.