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.