Although the plot might sound like the stuff of a soap opera, a smart script, strong performances and an ideologically determined lack of filmmaking niceties result in a shattering, deeply felt work.

So what will happen? Sadly, some overacting and a bad "And Justice For All"-style speech at the end.

The film strives to be poetic, but it exposes nothing especially moving or relevant. Rather, the engaging leads wander around like actors lost in an ill-fated exercise in subtext.

With little cohesion and no respect for the editing process, Old School often feels like someone threw film clips on the floor and strung them together willy-nilly.

In the end, the intelligence of the dialogue and crack acting are wrestled to the ground by the zealous politics, the formulaic narrative and a wan and flaccid air unusual from the reliably nifty Parker.

Far too often, the film has to submit to the inevitable and stop so that Affleck can struggle like a yoga student to bend his face into a human emotion. He even cries. So might you.

The film holds charms for everyone but in a very unusual way: If some audience members feel cheated at the halfway mark, others will feel that the film is finally getting started. Nifty!

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.

This is a movie where you can just sit back and revel in it, warts and all.

On paper, it sounds like the start of a good film. Too bad McKee made such a lackluster thing of it. Though the horror comes from an interesting place, it's frequently forced, negating much of the humor and pathos the film attempts to instill.

The few chuckles the film affords come early, and too often the script desperately tries to repeat them. By the end, it's not funny or happy -- just over. And you're glad for it, the one true emotion you feel in the whole two hours.

Terrific musical numbers and interesting premise.

Privy to virtually all phases of the debacle, the filmmakers have created the behind-the-camera equivalent of a slo-mo crash test.

For the most part it's a completely ordinary, completely familiar, professionally executed film. Nothing truly awful, but nothing unexpected, either.

It's a moderately compelling historical record, but of far more interest as an artifact than a film.

Chris Koch exhibits little flair for comedic direction and, though this isn't saying much, you'd be better served watching his previous film, "Snow Day." Ouch.

If the movie wasn't about an actor but instead about an insurance salesman or a plumber who looked like James Gandolfini, it might come off better. But then, who says a plumber would care either?

An exhilarating slap in the face, bracing and sexy, smart and visceral, stylish and raw -- the advent of a fabulously exciting new moviemaking talent.

As with many Iranian films, reality and fiction collide (the lead actor really is a pizza deliveryman), and the moral of the story is a surprisingly blunt critique of the growing inequality of wealth in the slowly Westernizing nation.

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

With its eye-popping color, bold personality and snazzy tunes, Chicago is a breathtaking experience.

It's no wonder that Polanski, himself an artist who has survived a series of nightmares, should tell it so naturally and powerfully.

In many ways, a smashing success. It's built not only on a casually clever script but on two expertly balanced performances.

An enjoyable sojourn into the world of Dickens and could inspire a trend. Shakespeare and Austen have had their Hollywood moments during the past few years; why not the proto-Hollywood Dickens?

There are levels of complexity and nuance and intellectual rigor in The Hours -- it's clearly a film into which you could gain continued insight after several viewings.

It's the most charming and buoyant film Spielberg's ever made.

Provides adventure and humor in sufficient spoonfuls to make its pro-environment medicine go down smoothly for the target audience of grade-schoolers.

In Morvern Callar, the subject matter may be morbid and unappealing, but the director handles it with a visual poetry and an eye for hidden beauty that marks a filmmaker of the first order.

Suffers from poor comic timing and defective romantic pacing.

Beneath its frantic surfaces, Narc is terribly ordinary, built on a mystery that will puzzle only those who have never watched a TV cop drama.

There is greatness in Martin Scorsese's Gangs of New York: titanic acting, violent poetry, moviemaking on a grand scale, a real air of daring. And there is flab in it as well, and confusion.

Exciting spectacle of a master director reining in his abilities to create a work that is etched in acid, burnished in smoke.

With all its pedestrian moments, the film still has the power to sweep you up.

An engaging if not riveting film based on David Benioff's adaptation of his own novel. It's not nearly Lee's best picture, and it's guilty of a few wrong turns that only a confident filmmaker could make, but it's assured and, perhaps more importantly, reassuring.

You will be heartened by the amazing sensation of watching one of the greatest works in the history of the medium unfold in front of you, piece by piece, year by year.

So emotionally overwhelming that its aesthetics seem almost beside the point.

A picture that could have bordered on classy screwball if written wittier, acted sexier and filmed shinier.

Though not terrible, and blessed with some nice performances, this Irish-eyes-are-smiling-despite-the-rain-and-nasty-nuns story is Hallmark Hall of Fame material.

We laugh, yes, but we're touched, too, a delicate balance that the film manages again and again, right through to its bittersweet conclusion.

It's an odd, overly long picture, filled with too many pauses but dotted with just enough funky band sequences to keep you interested.

Effectively thrilling.

Even though it doesn't feel like an appropriate send-off, the lethargy of Star Trek: Nemesis is probably indication enough that the series should end here.

It's deeply ordinary, depressingly shabby stuff.

A sequel that never rises to the giddy pitches of skewed humor that the original managed to toss off with such unexpected glee.

You have to experience the thing to understand its simultaneous recklessness and care, its humor and sadness in the name of failure, its playful but dismal take on formulaic Hollywood endings.

Audacious, gorgeous and unique.

The result is a film that outrages and fills the viewer with poetry that's at once epic and intimate, scandalizing and life-affirming -- a real work of art.

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.

But with a potentially fascinating study of ethics, of how cheating rich boys become cheating rich men while humble souls do more good in the world, The Emperor's Club doesn't take the audience anywhere smart.

Another Bond film that turns out to be an unspectacular spectacle, at times winking and fun but too often plodding and hackneyed. That said, as usual Brosnan is terrific, walking through dunderhead moments and a tedious plot with grace.

Almodovar loves the human flesh -- indeed, one of his films is titled "Live Flesh" -- and with the quietly subversive Talk to Her, he utilizes it not just as mere decoration but weaves with it textured themes of powerlessness, love and obsession.

The film reveals itself to be not so much a historical allegory as an Iliad of the heart. It's sad and smart and beautiful and true.

It's not afraid to be funny, tragic and decidedly female.

Not much in the way of captivating magic, but all the expected notes are duly played. Hope springs eternal for the next film in the series, though: Columbus is handing the reins over to Alfonso Cuaron, an actual movie director.

It's an interesting effort (particularly for JFK conspiracy nuts), and Barry's cold-fish act makes the experience worthwhile.

There are many merits to the picture -- it's wonderfully shot and boasts a beautiful performance by Eul-Boom, who acts in gestures of subtle dignity and compassion. But it's questionable how we're to take actor Seung-Ho.

An impressive work in many regards -- the acting, the photography, the pace -- but it would've been even more so had Egoyan gone with his gut and been less indulgent of his brain.

It would've been nice to hear Robinson or Wonder reciprocate the affection of the band, and it would've been even more interesting to hear Gordy try to defend himself -- as if he could.

A seedy little movie with little in the way of theme, purpose, energy or wit, 'R Xmas is the latest slice-of-death drama from that earnest maestro of grub, Abel Ferrara.

While the urban texture and the unapologetic work of Basinger impart a sophisticated air to what is essentially a downtrodden-teen-makes-good film, that is, finally, just what 8 Mile is. That's not a bad thing, but it's nothing to rap home about, either.

The plot is straight off the shelf, the performances are television-caliber and the message of providing solace through deception is a little creepy. Then again, that formula resulted in record-breaking ticket sales for "Greek Wedding."

Far From Heaven would have been one of the great American films of the '50s; it is certainly the finest American melodrama of our time.

Starts with a flourish, staggers along for a bit and finally collapses -- even die-hard De Palma fans, will be left hungry.

A handsome picture, with lots of nifty borrowings from the "Star Wars" galaxy, but it's never particularly compelling as a story or as a vehicle for emotions, and when it's over you have a feeling of still waiting for it to get started.

The two stories never come close to meshing the way the filmmaker intended. The result is a well-acted movie that simply doesn't gel.

We're talking mediocre-to-bad. Still, the film has at least two bits that are funnier than anything in many better films and a fair amount of mild amusement in between.

It's nice that Demme reveres the Hollywood classic, the French cinema and the glamour of his actors. But nice is all The Truth About Charlie is -- a nice mess.

While the script of Frida struggles at times to be something more than an ordinary and-then-this-happened biography, there's a buoyancy to the direction and acting that make the film special.

A charming but only partly satisfying portrait of its subject.

Has a few pleasing stylistic flourishes and a potentially Hitchcockian plot, but the writing and rhythm are so off that when the final "shocker" arrives, we have seen it coming or have abandoned caring.

The dialogue is clipped and theatrical, and, aside from Harvey Keitel's German officer, accents are abandoned, which may distract viewers. For me it worked fine.

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

As sometimes occurs in unsupervised experiments, the result proves foul-smelling and potentially toxic.

Reggio, who is sufficiently eager for a large audience that he has allowed his film to be distributed by Miramax, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Walt Disney Co., surely one of the villains in his piece, is neither so honest nor so bold (as Moore's "Bowling for Columbine").

Never quite catches fire. They take a crackerjack premise and a comely, committed leading lady and turn in a merely OK film.

It's a small-minded and jejune film, and it feels strangely out-of-date considering how loaded it is with right-here-right-now signifiers.

It all makes you realize the importance of the guy who should have played Malkovich's role -- Christopher Walken. He makes films like this bearable.

Impressively reframes the gun-control debate in terms that advocates of both sides might find fruitful, but Moore doesn't do anything to shed his reputation as a snot.

A blending of international film sensibilities -- France meets Hollywood meets Hong Kong -- with a very cool anti-hero protagonist.

It's an agreeable, sometimes hilarious picture that looks at the world of comedy from many vantage points, chiefly the apex.

The result is an experience of painful awakenings, gorgeous textures, committed acting and silences filled with moment -- a lovely balancing act

Anderson delivers a satisfyingly quirky, cinematically masterful valentine that contains more seeds of truth about the human heart than a hundred big fat Greek comedies.

Not just love, but maybe an escape from a wretched world. We're not sure, but that's what makes Heaven so inexplicably, intriguingly soulful, even in its most remote and architectural instances.

It's raw, visceral stuff that precious few movies are capable of equaling.

An absorbing film, acted with real force by all parties and directed with competence and assuredness if something less than inspiration.

Some aspects of Siddhartha seem terribly dated: the '60s-ish nude sequences, the wispy music, the big-eyed earnest acting. But it is a lushly beautiful film. Shooting largely in natural light, Nykvist creates a poetry more beautiful than Hesse's prose and as profound as the author's message.

Its cool, glib observations, delivered by good-looking creative people who live like the cast of "Friends" gone cynical, becomes forced and often stupid. The film goes off the track enough to make for an interesting train wreck.

Not much in The Man From Elysian Fields resembles life on Earth, but there are a few moments with Jagger that feel desperate and human -- stuff from another movie entirely, in other words.

In The Tuxedo, ridiculously, Chan's just a suit. A suit walking Jennifer Love Hewitt's breasts around. Chan deserves better.

Too sugary to be funny or offensive or even offensively funny, though any kind of funny would be welcome here.

Understands that extreme feelings bring out weird reactions. Tension and sadness will occasionally be interrupted by humor -- even slapstick.

A flimsy film that's too clean and corn pone to be anything near rock 'n' roll.

Works as pure escapist entertainment, but it's on the cusp of being smarter -- making it all the more frustrating.

Director Steven Shainberg makes something draggy out of something that wants to be light. It's got wit, but it's also earnest, and in proportion to those two traits it wins and loses you.

If you simply love Vogue magazine, you'll love 8 Women just as much as the cinematically educated. This breezy entertainment often feels like an exquisitely photographed fashion layout come to life.

Miyazaki is a genius, and this film is a masterpiece; go see it.

You'll gasp appalled and laugh outraged and possibly, watching the spectacle of a promising young lad treading desperately in a nasty sea, shed an errant tear.

Working with a weak script and too lightweight for its freakier moments with Green, the picture never gels. Green's the star, but he really should be in a movie much weirder than this one, a film that can accommodate his humor.