A film that merges cocaine, Ivy League, college applications, the Asian American experience, dark comedy and high school drama while maintaining a personal tone and likable lead characters is just too impressive to knock.

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

Handsome, professional and dutiful, but it never feels inspired.

Intriguingly puts two distinct, strong women together as if to pose the question, just what is a strong woman? By the film's end, that question is tough to answer.

It isn't perversely genre-busting like "Drive." Instead, it feels like somebody turned down the volume on a hard rock album so as to hear the details better -- for which relief, much thanks.

In addition to a vast array of incredible autos crafted from fiberglass, Roth also created the anti-Mickey cartoon character Rat Fink, a deranged-looking, filthy rodent.

The word "hermaphrodite" is never actually uttered, for instance, and the whole topic is revealed obliquely, mostly through the puzzled eyes of Alvaro. Most impressively, a tale that could have been handled with condescending simplicity becomes a testament to the flawed but noble humanity of both parents and children.

Despite too stately a pace at times, and some fairly predictable plot resolutions, the film succeeds thanks to empathetic performances (from Walken and especially Hoffman) and an evident affection for the music and musicians it depicts.

Junger smartly lets each individual be himself. Korengal seeks understanding, not judgment.

Spins a complete, thoroughly satisfying yarn from a short-form series.

When the picture's good, it's really something; when it's bad, you grit your teeth and pray it will end.

On face value, The Flower of Evil is pure Chabrol, but it lacks the power he brings to human relations and social classes, where often violent, masochistic themes are explored. But that doesn't mean he's done as an artist.

A harsh self-examination of the cynicism that has crept into every cranny of the political landscape. As such, it's absolutely a story of our times.

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.

The movie's perfectly understated, warts-and-all sense of time and place will send any suburban Gen Xer in the audience flashing right back to their less-cautious days, when mix tapes did heavy lifting as calling cards.

Starring in, directing and writing (in collaboration with Michel Marc Bouchard, on whose play it's based) a movie at Dolan's tender age is certainly a Wellesian accomplishment. All three actors are convincing, especially Cardinal as the cruel, manipulative Francis, and their characters' behavior feels authentic even when it's not logical.

The story told in Garbo: The Spy is so outlandish that you almost feel as if you're watching a mockumentary. But it appears to be entirely true.

The movie unfolds in the uplifting manner you'd expect, but its real pleasures lie in its terrific '60s pop-soul soundtrack and especially in its frequently funny performances.

Zach Braff has come up with a charming, funny, melancholy ode to twentysomething angst.

A sweet, intelligent little movie.

With barely a hint of trippy visuals, it captures the highs and lows of one mind-expanding surfside day.

This deadpan ode to living life to its fullest could be the ultimate crowd-pleaser at this year's PIFF.

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.

There are real thrills here, especially as the Bang Bang starts touring and becomes a minor sensation. But it's a little too hermetic and goopy and humorless and cool to invite you to wrap your arms around it. The Howes shared a single liver, but what this film version of their lives needs is more heart.

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

Despite familiar elements, including the classic family-versus-work conflict faced by almost every movie cop in history and the equally hoary discovery of corruption among Michel's colleagues, The Connection remains tense and believable.

"Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove" is a line that could raise the spirit of any political prisoner, and Stewart's message -- that journalists risk their lives in pursuit of the truth every day around the world -- couldn't be timelier or more heartfelt.

Maybe the best thing about Stranger Than Fiction is the way it extracts unexpected work from underrated actors.

The plot doesn't really stand up to scrutiny, but Cairo Time works on an emotional level and is a hassle-free way to sample Egypt.

It's often flat and dull, and it can be heavy-handed with the little acorn-that-will-yield-the-famous-oak bits that so often dot biographical films about the youthful lives of famous figures.

Although the drama suffers from the episodic story structure, Zathura feels less like "Jumanji" and more like a really great episode of Steven Spielberg's "Amazing Stories" TV series.

By now, you know exactly what to expect, which is both good and bad. To my mind, Anderson reached the acme of this formula in the first go, in "Tenenbaums," and has now replicated it twice, evoking smaller pleasures each time.

It's a breezy and charming film in all, well-acted, playful and filled with real joie de vivre.

This isn't much of a plot, but as in the "Toy Story" films the combination of a varied cast of characters and a vision of the human world from an unlikely perspective make for consistent amusement.

An attractive, charming film that has fun with its period settings, its goofy plot and its off-kilter performances.

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

Soderbergh, who hasn't ever attempted a film of this sort before, brings his gifts brilliantly to bear, with gorgeous shots of outer space, delicate, swift edits and a captivating score by his longtime collaborator Cliff Martinez -- But when the script becomes more about telling -- or, rather, arguing -- than showing, the film loosens its grip.

You'll laugh and cry at the film, but you'll bridle, too, at Brooks' clumsy technique.

It's a film that gently spoofs such cultural staples as ranchera music, illegal gambling, labor exploitation and tabloid media. And it's the sort of film that sneaks serious themes and emotions in just when you think it's about to dissolve into farce. Small but largely satisfying.

The faithful will appreciate [Hartley's] sharp, thoughtful dialogue, his sly humor and his utterly unpredictable plots. [06 Sep 1991]

Fight Club -- cue the blurb machine -- is a knockout.

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 result imparts something of the emptiness of Johnny's existence and, if you're not partial to either the fellow or the technique, might very well drive you up a tree.

The star, though, is the script, a rare enough occurrence in Hollywood that it merits special note.

It is a colorful tale in an exotic location, with excitingly staged action scenes, exotic desert locale and a richly colorful musical score by Jerry Goldsmith. It is also rich in satirical cynicism about international relations and political expediency. [09 Oct 1991, p.D07]

The music they made is timeless, and Denny Tedesco deserves credit for giving them the credit they deserve and for working through the music rights issues that delayed a theatrical release for seven years.

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.

The movie's still quite affecting -- in part because of its simple, old-school earnestness, but mostly because Stolzl does white-knuckle work behind the camera to make you feel the height, pain and awe of the grueling ascent, and the bottomless terror and exhaustion after everything goes horribly, horribly wrong.

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.

Funky, scrappy, dishy, screwy story of that star-studded, gilded squad.

There will always be plenty of fictional geniuses solving impossible crimes, but Holmes, it turns out, it where the heart is.

If Ruby Sparks doesn't warm you much or form a seamless whole, it's nevertheless got pieces that you can genuinely admire.

Even with Paul Green's invective echoing in the back of your mind, nothing's quite so heartwarming as the sight of a young person blossoming.

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.

If you've got the stomach for it, it's a treat.

There's atmosphere and tension and dark humor and some truly shocking gore throughout. But the positive impression all of that makes pales next to a headscratching finale that is admittedly well-executed but is also undeniably perverse and borderline random. Maybe you'll go with it, simply out of shock. I, alas, could not.

Has many puff-piece moments to it and barely touches the controversy surrounding Tupac's death or that of rival hip-hop impresario Biggie Smalls. But it's engaging nonetheless.

iI’s a film more content to amuse than truly to probe or feel.

Where "United 93" was lean and merciless and got you thinking hard about how you might conduct yourself in a no-win situation, World Trade Center is reassuring.

William Shatner, it must be said, comes off as an insufferable, pompous jerk. Maybe he's jealous. After all, at age 75, Takei is an openly gay Asian American with an overwhelming social media fan base, making him the one who has really gone where no man has gone before.

A solid, twisting, well-acted mystery, but it strains credulity at times, and its ultimate revelations are unsurprising and, when you think back on the whole film, confusing. It also lacks a distinctive atmosphere, shot in an almost TV-style flatness.

If the presence of Cheadle and his handsome pal George Clooney can entice otherwise resistant viewers to learn about the ongoing travesty in western Sudan, then Darfur Now has done its job.

Watching skinny-armed little Will pretend to be the spawn of Sly Stallone in a series of botched feats of derring-do is a treat, as is much of this film.

A modest movie full of decent pop songs, three-dimensional humans and sharp observations about the male mind. It's also full of funny little ironies.

As an action film it roars forward with agreeable, transporting energy.

The re-creation of early 20th-century Beijing is dense and loving, and Hu shows just as much affection for the people who start to trickle into the shabby little cinema.

As I sat slavishly (and needlessly) through the entire end credit roll, it was hard to muster anything more fervent than "Yeah, it was pretty good." Even a clean, white hate would have somehow been more satisfying.

It gives you all that you could ask for when you buy a ticket to a thrill ride.

There's a sense of diminishing returns here -- "Extremes" leads with its strongest short and ends with its most esoteric. But all three offer provocative, distinct and gorgeous twists on horror and splatter conventions.

As cinema, it's polenta, but it's made palatable by the piquant sauce with which these two great stars season it.

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

Soderbergh's experiments are gripping -- the photography, music, wobbly chronology and so on -- but the movie is more of a curiosity than anything else.

White Hunter is an offbeat, thoughtful and amusing adventure. [21 Sep 1990, p.R13]

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

Waddington's wonderfully textured film is an unforced work of naturalism.

Mostly it's inspiring: to think that a man of Antonioni's years and talents is still capable of producing such vital work.

Most memorable for its startling color scheme, all sepia-toned monochrome with occasional stabs of icy blue. [23 Mar 2001]

Directed by Lili Fini Zanuck, Rush is well-acted, stylishly filmed and intense. Leigh is convincing as an accidental tourist on the road to ruin. [10 Jan 1992, p.20]

Although some of the accents are so thick it's difficult to understand the dialogue (where are the subtitles when we need them?) the performances feel genuine.

The two lead actresses are exquisite in their divergent ways.

It's great to see The Rock re-embracing the action genre, and when his clobbering match with Diesel finally happens, it's as outlandishly room-wrecking as I'd hoped.

Consistently surprising, Seven Psychopaths ultimately plays like a combination of Quentin Tarantino's self-aware, savvy ultraviolence and Charlie Kaufman's reflexive head trips. And that potentially awkward combo goes down like a chocolate-vanilla swirl cone, only with more guns.

Not the stuff of greatness, but you couldn't ask for a better time to see it.

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

The actions of both these vilified parties are so seemingly irrational that you're left feeling there must be some explanation, one that director Todd Douglas Miller either couldn't or wouldn't ferret out.

Lumet's films are always well-acted. Q & A is no exception. And the story has more than enough rich, lively characters to go around. [27 Apr 1990, p.R13]

Its got a deliciously audacious and cheeky tenor.

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.

A pleasant entertainment, the term Graham Greene used for his thrillers, but slips away from memory as quickly as a summer evening.

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.

The subject is fascinating, the talent is undeniable, but the humanity that made Lili Elbe so memorable gets lost along the way.

Don Jon is raunchy. The dialogue’s frank and much of what we see is explicit enough to make this a film exclusively for grown-ups. Luckily, the emotional places Gordon-Levitt takes his characters are pretty grown-up, too.

The Coens have often been accused of coldness toward their characters, but the verve and wit of their films reveal genuine compassion and heart. Based on the evidence of this film, the Pangs aren't quite there yet.

Its sense of play, its sleek design and Yuen's spectacular action sequences will make it, I suspect, attractive to palates not accustomed to the spicier or cruder forms of this genre.

It's a gorgeous, strange little piece -- but I did find myself wishing it poked fewer aces out its sleeve after urging us to pay such close attention.

Even though Spurlock, a totally likeable Everyman, is in the middle of it at all times, "PWPTGMES" never feels like the work of, oh, Michael Moore.

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.)

The film is exquisite on every level, full of sadness and emotional surprise.