Solid performances can't save Melissa Painter's pretentious teen drama Steal Me, which plays like a cross between "Dangerous Skin" (without the gay sex) and "Picnic" (without the production values or credible situations).

Director and co-writer Lexi Alexander choreographs the fight scenes with thrilling chaos, and the plot unfolds expertly if melodramatically.

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.

Despite the attention focused on New Orleans these days, though, the film won't win many new converts. The musicians swear this is dance music, but the beats are far too ponderous to get a rise out of the hip-hop generation.

A tediously self-absorbed variation on "The Big Chill" and "The Return of the Secaucus 7."

Could do with a tad of editing itself. Other than that, there's nothing bad to say about this cool homage to the film world's unsung heroes: editors.

Call this a profile in courage.

It busts the credibility meter early on, quickly becomes preposterous, and then really lets its imagination rip.

If 65 million years of evolution have been building up to this movie, then Darwin was wrong. But there's no intelligent design here either.

The only hint of professionalism comes from Cheech Marin as Cannon's boss, who at times seems to be acting in a different movie.

Though Cho occasionally connects with her targets, more often than not she seems as intolerant and hate-filled as she accuses them of being - and that's not funny.

If the sight of naked, sweaty French hunks gets you going, well, then, Three Dancing Slaves is a must-see.

Deadly serious about its message: that the West is just as vicious and corrupt as Africa.

A work of drama, it's more realistic than any TV reality show.

Eggleston doesn't speak much, and when he does, it's usually a mutter, forcing Almereyda to use subtitles. Fortunately, Eggleston's photographs come across loud and clear.

Seriously lost in the woods. This aimless epic about a pair of charlatan brothers sinks under the weight of a problematic script, questionable star casting, hamfisted editing -- and penny-pinching by Gilliam’s latest patrons, the Brothers Weinstein.

A cheesy, often unintentionally funny, direct-to-video-caliber knockoff of "Aliens" that couldn't be more shallow.

It isn't a really good movie, but there's real talent in it.

A zero-joke romantic comedy.

Fairly sexy and stylish. Alas, it's also quite silly and not especially scary.

There are no women or straight men left in Taipei. At least that's the impression left by Formula 17, in which every single person (except for one child) is a gay cutie.

Writer-director Erik Van Looy keeps the action moving briskly. Danny Elsen's cinematography is stylish and the acting top-notch.

Tedious left-wing documentary.

A calculating crowd-pleaser aimed squarely at the under-25 crowd, who can feel free to add a star or two to my rating.

In short, Red Eye hits the bull's-eye.

The best sequence comes when the gang meet a saucy French lady mouse who works for the Resistance and at moments of high drama sings "Je Ne Regrette Rien" ("Ah!" your children will say. "At last, an Edith Piaf joke!")

There's not enough good material to fill the film's overlong 105 minutes. Is there an editor in the house?

A schmaltz-laden soap opera from Saskatchewan.