Sentimental and predictable? Sure, but The Butterfly is so well-meaning and the wide-eyed Bouanich is so sweet and lovable only a Scrooge would dare complain.

May be boomer-baiting formula, but this ingratiating, big-hearted holiday treat is as British as plum pudding - and the closest thing on the market to the famous Ealing comedies.

A hit-and-miss affair.

A majestic conclusion to a nine-plus-hours epic that stirs the heart, mind and soul as few films ever have.

Frustratingly superficial.

Laughably predictable in its plotting, crude in its symbolism, ploddingly paced and often rendered almost comical by the heavy-breathing overacting of Johansson's supporting cast.

Overripe dialogue and a fevered score fail to inject any real tension, and the accentless English spoken throughout a film set entirely in France is ludicrous and jarring.

A sexed-up Afterschool Special pretty much guaranteed to render audiences comatose.

Keaton's overamped girlishness, and the adolescent shenanigans she engages in, make a mockery of this overlong romantic comedy's stance as a celebration of mature love.

But while the belly laughs are few, there are numerous chuckles and it's quite watchable, thanks to solid performances by Damon (who plays it mostly straight in a rare comic role) and Kinnear.

If the documentary has a star, it's pony-tailed AES exec Piers Lewis, who had the impossible job of getting Georgians to actually pay for their electricity.

Watching three frames at once is disconcerting at first, but eventually the experience gives the film a high-tech boost.

Even with Burton's imagination turning its trademark cartwheels, the film's big beating heart holds the whimsical offshoots steady.

Lacks even a trace of imagination. Its by-the-numbers plot is depressingly familiar, and each line of dialogue is so predictable that the script... could have been generated by a computer.

A crock - a pandering epic that's as phony as it is condescending.

Despite some fancy editing, Forget Baghdad is forgettable.

The script falters at the end, as the two reach the Turkish village where Ibrahim was raised. But the winning performances -- and killer '60s soundtrack -- save the day.

Bell has added unexpected shadings to what could have been simply a sordid tale of highway prostitution, gradually revealing surprises to the characters that keep a murmur of unease thrumming throughout.

This absorbing documentary, which has already been shown on cable, is getting a theatrical run to capitalize on the Broadway musical "Taboo."

Be warned: Some of the afflictions are so disturbing, you might have to turn your eyes from the children. Susan Tom doesn't have that option. And 11 children are all the better for it.

That's all laudable - but Perry, a longtime filmmaker, should have given the doc more urgency and punch.

The two leads have strong singing voices, but they're not helped by songs with titles like "It's Time to Disco."

It's a wistful yet penetrating film, shot through with magic realism and life-affirming humor, that gets you deep down where you live.

Chomet's wacky tale is so crammed full of eye-popping images, it's impossible to forget afterward.

A determinedly raunchy holiday comedy about a libidinous, larcenous and perpetually soused St. Nick with a nonstop potty mouth.

This mostly laugh-and scare-free turkey offers an utterly bored -- and boring -- Eddie Murphy taking a back seat to special effects, elaborate sets and a wispy story slapped together by David Berenbaum (the overrated "Elf").

It reeks of contempt for the audience. This is not just a "B-movie" -- it's a B-movie that fails to entertain on any level.

Unfolds leisurely, in anecdotal style, with deadpan humor and a sense of the absurd.