As we face yet another summer of brooding superheroes, it's Magic Mike to the rescue! He's got the civilian alter ego and the acrobatic skills to rival Spidey or Batman.

Provides a fascinating tour of the city's past.

Sheen's throwback portrayal is appealing enough, but flat characters, dull revelations and uninvolving complications make this deliberately small film feel nearly microscopic.

Gandhi is talented enough, and compassionate enough, that his tour of the human need to believe in something becomes not just mocking, but touching.

For sheer infuriation value, you can't do much better than Kirby Dick's quietly scathing documentary on rape in the US military.

In To Rome With Love, Allen approaches the leitmotif in a strange, oblique and interesting way. I fear, though, that the Italian entry in his "Let's Go: Grab Some Euro-Film Subsidies" period will be remembered as being forgettable.

Has its laughs, but pretty much every single one of them is in the trailer. And even more unfortunately, the improbable new romantic comedy team of Steve Carell and Keira Knightley works about as well as you'd guess - like oil and water.

You can't help wishing they'd thought a little further outside the box.

I didn't know whether to be more offended as a moviegoer or as an American, but I do know I'd rather gargle nitroglycerine than watch this again, though given that the film looks like it were buried under a log cabin for a century, I barely saw it the first time.

That's My Boy is pretty raunchy, and by "pretty," I mean "amazingly," as in Howard Stern- or Seth MacFarlane-style gags.

So deadpan are the dialogue and narration that it's hard to tell whether the laughs are intentional. What with all the shrieking, dumb bad-girl hookers and the wistful, wounded good-girl hookers, the sexism is so creepy it might be an ironic genre critique. Then again, maybe it's just creepy.

The movie is so inept - with its flat characters, histrionic acting, dull dialogue ("Killing him is not going to change anything"), a dreadfully overdone musical score and la-la-la flashbacks starring the kid - that its clichés grow slightly funny. But not funny enough to make the endless torture scenes bearable.

T's formulaic interview style gives the proceedings a bit of a student-project vibe - perhaps understandable for a guy who clearly thinks artists should always be open to learning more.

A sluggish and murky sub-Polanski-esque psychodrama.

The second half offers shot after shot of the people who sat opposite Abramovi - an unexpectedly enthralling record of reactions that range from stark agony to rather phony amusement.

The film's first half has a lovely feel for how bizarre California must seem to foreigners, and there's a piercing sense of the stop-and-start ways that people deal with grief.

This extremely well-acted dramatic farce of grief and betrayal actually has a resonance beyond its target demographic.

Shankman's staging of the numbers - especially the leaden choreography and hackneyed locations such as the Hollywood sign - was far sloppier and less creative than for his last musical, the vastly superior "Hairspray."

A crowd-pleasing comedy that isn't going to win any awards for originality.

This is an exhausting, eyeball-gougingly ugly 90-minute assault of non-stop action, with an all-star voice cast shouting witless lines and a wide variety of objects lobbed at the audience in the crudest 3-D fashion.

Bel Ami is handsome enough, although the directorial skill runs mostly to careful framing of magnificent bosoms, Pattinson's included.

It's a typical Solondz sad-sack tale, but this film seems to be disgusted by its own characters, which isn't true of the director's best work ("Happiness," "Welcome to the Dollhouse"). We don't need to like Abe, but it's unsettling to feel the director might actively dislike him.

The main flaw is that, as an actor, Duplass isn't able to make the audience love him. Picture "Bottle Rocket"-era Owen Wilson in the role, and you've got something special.

Lola Versus, like Lena Dunham's show "Girls," brings an indie perspective and cast to this mainstream genre. In the more limited medium of film, this is a mixed bag.

Williams, who was elected president of ASCAP in 2009, speaks frankly and eloquently about his problems dealing with fame, and his recovery. And more important, he earns our thanks by resolutely refusing to let Kessler turn this into a clichéd documentary.

Gorgeous set pieces thrill the senses, but there is philosophical inquiry as well. "Alien" was, after all, just "Jaws" in space, but Prometheus ponders where evil comes from and how it conquers its makers.

Disliking this film feels churlish, like rooting for the Yankees to crush the Little League champs. But amiability, and the natural affinity most people have for David over Goliath, can't substitute for skill and imagination.

What truly makes U.N. Me repulsive is its crassness.