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.

The inspiring story of Chely Wright, the first major country singer to come out as gay. Her decision was a brave one since the world of C&W music is notoriously homophobic.

The sometimes painfully sincere and slow-moving For Greater Glory clearly aspires to be inspirational, but history won't cooperate. The Cristeros triumphed not because of their faith, but because the United States exerted diplomatic pressure to protect its oil interests in Mexico.

Grueling vanity piece.

The movie seems to think it's building up massive suspense by not telling us our hero's back story, but given that the wife and kid aren't around and he keeps telling people who ask that he's not divorced, it's obvious they're dead. The only mystery, then, is what exactly happened to them. The answer is: nothing interesting.

The issues are complex and not easily solved. But no matter which side you are on, you'll be moved by this intimate work.

Pink Ribbons, Inc. viewers looking for an evenhanded discussion may be disappointed.

Slight and unremarkable.

A lame stoner comedy.

The nearly two preceding hours often feel like three, as the patchwork script keeps introducing characters and subplots and dropping them, all while rushing characters through eye-popping environments.

Disarmingly sweet.

Through it all, Clayman struggles to keep himself, and OC87, on track - and it's easy to cheer his ultimate triumph.