It's possible to be dazzled by a movie and still not like it very much.

The thrill, alas, is gone -- and Fellini seems to know it better than anyone. [11 Jun 1993, p.15]

It wallows in misery so much that the two-hour experience ends up being about as much fun as a real divorce.

Here the homages/critiques of old craft and form are often laughably mangled, and nothing sexy, profound or illuminating results. For all its prettiness, it's the sort of picture that gives the arthouse a bad name.

A drab, gloomy drama that doesn't provide any real enlightenment about why something so awful could happen.

Herzog's drive to bring Dengler's story to a wide audience might have paradoxically caused him to do what he seems normally to abhor: compromise.

It's also exhausting, despite an engaging premise.

Gives just enough to forgive any of its initial flaws and eventually grows on you.

The Dardennes are talents, clearly. Watching Rosetta is like watching them flip you the bird.

Brittain's life and literary output are worthy of celebration, and there's no better time that the centenary of "The War to End All Wars" to commemorate its bloody folly. It's a shame that Testament of Youth does both in such a bloodless way.

The opening sequences of this film from director Olivier Assayas are gripping, as students flee baton-wielding police, then embark on a late-night vandalism spree at a school. But the drama becomes mired with too many characters, too many shots of pretty Italian scenery and an unfocused story.

What's even more amazing about the actor's absorbing, sometimes depraved performance is that while the film around him is generally cheesy and obvious, Washington is to-the-bone real.

For all its cleverness and moments of power, What's Love Got to Do With It is missing more than the question mark at the end of the title. [18 Jun 1993, p.18]

I just wish the movie wasn't also so monologue-choked, muted to a fault and fond of oversimplifying financial lingo to the point of meaninglessness.

Though it's handsomely made and peppered with seamlessly achieved visual glories, Narnia is ineptly acted, crudely staged and burdened with a score that only a masochist could love.

The picture is pinched and predictable. Even with the immensely talented Steve Zahn, an actor who's known to steal scenes and, sometimes, save pictures, the movie is a yawn.

Phoenix makes an interesting case of Leonard's twitchiness and mooning, but neither Paltrow nor Shaw is particularly credible as a Brooklynite, and Rossellini and Moshonov seem like they've wandered in from another film altogether.

The people are pretty, the music scenes are well-staged (they're supposed to be crude and corny, right?) and we've needed a silly romance for a while now. But for all its hugs and kisses, the film refuses to embrace itself.

If the star does his utmost to make a one-dimensional character interesting, his director, Clint Eastwood, adapts Kyle's memoir — a life story rife with moral complexity — by hammering it flat.

Lively, cheeky, dense and, ultimately, too flip, clever and torturously twisted to be fully engrossing.

The film's best sequences -- the troubles of the young woman -- are gems adrift in a sea of Jell-O.

There's a lot of fascinating talk here and a genuine passion for ideas and words. But it's also a case where the messenger is so grating that we feel the perverse urge to kill the message that he carries just to spite him.

JFK drags but is undeniably fascinating. [20 Dec 1991]

Westfeldt becomes irritating. That's one of the film's points, but it's made a little too well.

A dull, uninspiring film that combines pedestrian acting, lackluster special effects and deadly pace with a pseudo-religious theme.

Crowe understands what's interesting about Nash: He's not a feel-good figure. It's a pity the same can't be said for Howard.

Actor Jeroen Willems' portrayal is expressionless, coming across as more boring than stoic.

It's unfortunate that the lack of originality in plot and character keeps Akeelah and the Bee stuck firmly in "After-School Special" territory.

There's no reason to actively dislike the film, but that's not enough, not at today's ticket prices. Just because you're not despicable, after all, doesn't mean you're the pick of the litter.

Despite some fast-paced direction by Wes Craven, Red Eye finally gets so silly, it's practically popping its wing-rivets.

A little movie, fine, but a little movie with little in the way of character composition, cinematic panache or intelligent writing.

A draggy affair livened occasionally by bursts of color or raw emotion, but just as often convoluted and hackneyed. It's a case of a film taking on, admirably, more than it can chew.

Grim, sordid and, as it progresses, increasingly dunderheaded.

It's a little depressing to see such a thrilling talent deployed in such an ordinary and sordid movie. Training Day isn't awful, but it's absolutely nothing special.

The best thing about the film is the acting of the guys.

The storytelling -- the script is co-written by Verhoeven's old collaborator Gerard Soeteman -- is messy, and the result never feels real or human or vital.

Get On Up never finds its rhythm. Blame most of that on director Tate Taylor.

A rather schizophrenic comedy that gives respected performers Dame Judi Dench and Bob Hoskins a chance to show they don't take themselves too seriously.

The real star of the film is Horton, whose straight-talking ways and supportive circle of friends are a stark contrast to the haughty insults of academia.

Begins with an eye on satire but dissolves quickly into grotesquerie -- and if the first tack was a bit narrow, the second is far too scattershot.

Acted with earnest commitment and scored and edited with jazzy, laconic grace, "Lights" tells us absolutely nothing we haven't heard before -- and often -- in sports films

There's visual poetry here, in small doses, but it doesn't take long for one's patience to run out.

Just because it's how they did things in the old country doesn't excuse clinging to these outdated, oppressive traditions, even if Ravi manages to negotiate them with surprising good humor.

A good test of a movie like this is whether it would be more or less stimulating to hang out with people you really know for 82 minutes. If Happy Christmas is the time better spent, it might be time to find a new crowd.

An intermittently engaging and confused blend of biopic, chop-socky, dopey mysticism and, oddest of all, melodramatic weepie, is no ``JFK.''[7 May 1993, p.AE15]

Tepid, boilerplate production.

Mendes has extraordinary gifts, but he has leveled them at the Wheelers like a firing squad. Strangely, he evinced no particular moralizing agenda when making films about the mob or the military. But put ordinary people in his sights and he's venomous. It's unbecoming -- and it should be worked out in private, not in a movie theater.

A middling contender in this summer of gigantoid sequels.

Palo Alto is "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" without the wit; "River's Edge" without the depth. It's like reading a first novel by a talented writer who has something to say but isn't yet sure how to say it.

The film isn't terrible, it's just trying too hard.

The biggest problems are Solondz's themes of forgiveness and glib, misplaced patriotism.

Comes to be dominated by the acting, and this is an unfortunate fate.

It's ambitious, sharply observed and spectacularly well-acted like so much of Sayles' canon. But it's also overstuffed and underdeveloped.

McGregor is a real charmer, a young Malcolm McDowell with a Scottish lilt; Brain Tufano's photography manages to be both rich and stark at once; Hodge's script has some genuinely arch lines. [03 Mar 1995]

Fair Game, a murky potboiler based on memoirs by both Plame and Wilson, makes a hash of these piquant ingredients.

Has its heart someplace worthy. But its head -- not so much.

It's neither grounded enough to be genuinely horrifying nor over the top enough to be nastily fun.

Dramatizes and occasionally overdramatizes Albert's 24-year career. For a while, it's a study of a decent man who puts his life into compartments so he can do terrible deeds.

At 118 minutes it's longer than "The Philadelphia Story" or "Annie Hall" or "When Harry Met Sally" or "500 Days of Summer" or, well, you get it. Working from a script by Dan Fogelman that wasn't overly bright or sharp to begin with, directors Glenn Ficarra and John Requa dawdle and stretch and repeat themselves, until what should have been light and brisk becomes leaden and overdone.

Eventually becomes tedious.

The film features some fine performances and explores an intriguing set of themes, but it fails to ever take life, causing its laudable message to fall on deadened ears. [12 Oct 1993, p.C1]

This time the talk was cheap, not witty or sharp. Tarantino the writer let his gift of gab get away from him and didn't give his script a close enough edit. Tarantino the director didn't do enough with the static setting; the flashbacks don't help and the big timeshift that's meant to explain everything that's happened feels incomplete.

The Illusionist might trick some moviegoers into thinking it's clever, deft, old-fashioned fun. But I urge those folks to stay home with a real classic romantic thriller on DVD or cable to remember the difference. This film doesn't even manage to breathe old life into the forms it apes.

Isn't a bad movie so much as one that feels like an amateur version of material from more accomplished works -- a movie that not only isn't sure what it really is but doesn't seem terribly much to care.

One of those American independent films with two chief points to recommend it: the earnest good will of its creators and its determination to be unlike any studio film.

There are some attempts at a comic-bookish, film noir vibe, including a hotel where all the crooks and killers stay, forbidden by house rules from "doing business"on the premises. And everywhere Keanu turns, he bumps into a character from HBO.

flat and disappointing.

With so much potential, The Valet is disappointingly flat and wan, with few of the moments of cringe-and-laughter-inducing mortification that are Veber's stock in trade.

Neighbors makes "Animal House" look like "Remembrances of Things Past."

A movie that, like its title character, is meandering, unstructured and only dimly aware of what it’s doing.

Kung Fu 2 does almost NOTHING to advance the story, to deepen the characters, or to charm, amuse or entertain.

By turns absorbing, unsettling and, for lack of a better word, icky.

Edge of Seventeen has such a sweet heart that you wish it were more capably made and played. If you can forgive a great many little stumbles, you may succumb to its decency. But there's a lot to overlook. [17 Sep 1999]

In this moody, claustrophobic almost-thriller -- the pacing is as sluggish as the Scottish canals that serve as its setting.

The story of Dito escaping and then facing his demons is meaningful. But that story is so buried in actorly noise that it feels false.

There's too much head-butting between human battering rams Diesel and Jason Statham, too many noisy explosions and generic special effects, and not enough car races and chases.

Modest in every sense but one: Its cast is huge.

A slight, smartly dressed bit of melodrama that thinks it's gritty when it's really a bit of puff.

If you're a big Michael Jackson fan, you'll love This Is It. If you're not, it's like watching two hours of band practice.

The art of Miranda July, the former Portlander and hyphenate extraordinaire, balances on the edge of the cunning and the precious, of depth and naivety, of the fetching and (sorry) the revolting.

In the quest to purge this Cinderella of anything sly or post-modern, though, the filmmakers have eliminated any wit or distinction, making this a pre-modern disappointment.

Manages to feel both obvious and oblique: You feel the need to watch it twice but wonder if you would actually be up for it. It moves like a breezy techno-thriller but tangles itself with duplicities and metaphors. You get it, and then you don't get it, and then you wonder if you even care.

Most frustratingly, Smith's powerful music is heard only in snatches.

Partridge is a smidgen less abhorrent here than in previous incarnations, but just a smidgen.

The Bling Ring still feels more like a magazine article overstretched into a feature length film.

Crimson Peak ends up feeling like a bit of make-work, a project to keep the visionary filmmaker busy until something that truly sparks his passion comes along.

The result is a hybrid of "Falling Down" and "Short Cuts" without the iconic central character of the former or the latter's clear-eyed humanism.

Oddest of all is how Truth whips through this, making noble statements about journalism while brushing off the failures to get it right. Mapes was busy and stressed. (Slow down!) The document authenticators had doubts. (Listen to them.) The source said he was lying before but is telling the truth now. (Don't trust him.)

Unsurprisingly, the formulaic "Breakfast Club" casting yields a formulaic narrative.

Few films so thoroughly lose their way as The Edge. After developing an engrossing plot and mood, it goes frankly bonkers, and the intensity whistles out of it like air from a punctured tire. When it finally limps home -- at least 20 minutes too late -- you're left with a sour, treacly taste where once you had savored something almost exquisite. [26 Sep 1997, p.21]

Sidewalk Stories is nobly intended and has many moments of humor and ingenuity. But it's ultimately a sermon with a point so general as to be almost meaningless. And it sure ruins the fun. [25 Nov 1989, p.C08]

The plot is tired, the energy sputtering, the jokes less manic. "Spy Kids" was a shot out of nowhere; Spy Kids 2 feels like a shot from someplace tiresomely familiar.

If you're one of those fussy filmgoers who demands that a movie engage somewhat higher body parts -- the heart, say, and the brain -- you'll find only intermittent comfort and joy in this high-concept, low-wattage film.

The result is a cast of characters who are little better than automatons themselves. This wouldn't be a problem if the rest of the film were as captivating as it was surely meant to be. Instead, the Quays work overtime to make both their story line and images as obscure as possible.

Absent the real sense of creepiness and highly honed film craft of De Palma, or the strong visual and emotional sensibility of Woo, M: I III feels like one of the more forgettable James Bond films -- saddled, moreover, with a star who's sliding into self-parody.

Vincente Minnelli's 1949 film is patently made on the MGM lot, and Van Heflin makes cloddish country doctor Monsieur Bovary a bit too pleasant. And Emma Bovary's grotesque death is tidied up. Still, the film conveys the story and Emma's naive romantic thralls. [13 Jun 2004]

Although there's a twist in this tale, most of it is stuff we've seen before. And Wingard doesn't think of a new way to show it.

I Am Legend has one undeniably cool thing about it, namely the vision of Manhattan as a semi-feral wasteland.