A Walmart "Wall Street," the hedge-fund drama Supercapitalist is junk merchandise stamped "made in China."

It's their hard luck that this movie is being released as the Olympics wind down. The contrast with the beauty and self-discipline seen for the past two weeks doesn't exactly work to the advantage of Nitro Circus.

It's an uneasy tonal mix that wants to have it both ways - this is a difficult way to pay the rent, but look at how charming the Fokkens are.

First-time director Christopher Neil (a Coppola cousin) scores points for scenery: The treks in the Arizona desert are shot beautifully - as is Duchovny's chiseled, oft-naked bod.

Formerly a maker of bad, but at least angry, movies, Spike Lee now seems to be trying to be the world's oldest student filmmaker. Take out the rookie mistakes from Red Hook Summer, and there'd be nothing left.

Delpy's good at keeping Marion's complaints sharp and funny, rather than wan and whiny. Even so, the movie's a bumpy ride as her good farcical instincts vie with the yen for cheap laughs.

Put it this way: Jimmy Carter was funnier than this movie.

Disappointingly, Bourne never resurfaces in this less-than-satisfying series reboot. The film is more a talky, convoluted, action-starved two-hour subplot.

Hope Springs could have been unbearably schmaltzy or crude. Instead, in the hands of these expert actors and filmmakers, it's a warm and wryly affecting mid-summer treat.

Guerrero's attitude toward the teenagers - understanding and affectionate, without being cloying - is what holds your interest.

Corny action scenes and borderline-hilarious direction by Isaac Florentine mark the film as an obvious straight-to-video item that somehow took a wrong turn into a movie theater.

A sort of "Babel" of bonking, 360 gives us much in the way of international anguish, frustrated coupling and longing stares, but there's very little plausibility or genuine emotion in its egregiously contrived story of ardor gone amiss.

I'd call Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Dog Days harmless if it weren't for some totally unnecessary gay-panic jokes that could actually encourage bullying.

It may have the faintest relationship to any kind of reality, but Jones' tart performance cuts through the saccharine.

In a culture where Anderson Cooper is out and gay-inclusive shows like "Modern Family" are wildly popular, a dud like Babymakers doesn't even find sticking power in its offensiveness. It just wipes off.

As for a villain, you could do worse than Bryan Cranston as the evil political overlord who is trying to stamp out the resistance -- When he goes mano a mano with Farrell, it's not spine-tingling. It's embarrassing, like watching a dude beat up his dad.

Director Malik Bendjelloul expertly paces this strange and moving film, half mystery and half meditation on art, fame, the music biz and the definition of a meaningful life.

The dialogue is ridiculous, the acting wooden - but that's not why we go, is it?

Despite the allure of the actors and some witty lines, it's ultimately quite wearying to be confronted with such determination to turn youth and good looks into existential burdens.

Klown turns out to be one long, brutal life lesson for Hvam's hapless character until it finally crosses the line into just plain creepy at the end.

Ai is his country's most celebrated avant-garde artist - he's had shows around the world, including in New York, where he lived as a student - and China's most outspoken dissident.

Gentle, simply told love stories are as rare in documentaries these days as they are in narrative film. That alone makes Yi Seung-jun's Planet of Snail a standout.

If Ruby were more of a person than a character, we might care more for her plight. But like Calvin, Kazan has written herself into a corner that can only lead to embracing the sappy romantic clichés that Ruby Sparks tries half-heartedly to mock.

A sleazy and pointless film about sleazy and pointless people, Killer Joe reminds us that what Quentin Tarantino does isn't easy.

The danger of dreaming up a predictable adventure for a group of nobodies you hold in contempt is that the audience will see your indifference and raise you.

All it takes is the majestic E-flat that opens "Das Rheingold" to make you realize that, despite what Wagner's Dream insists on showing, "the machine" really isn't the point.

Like Provence itself, Auteuil is in no hurry to get anywhere, reveling instead in the southern region's brilliant light and whispering crickets. His tangy accent and evident fondness for his character make the picture enjoyable enough as it plods along, and the final act wraps things up on a fulfilling note.

There's an argument to be made that sex scenes, done to death, are best left to the imagination - but only if they're replaced by something more interesting. In 30 Beats, the conversational foreplay is hopelessly flaccid.