The result is somewhat elliptical but also thoroughly engrossing and propulsive. Compared to Denis' earlier work, it's practically an action movie.

Carrey fearlessly gives it his best shot, but this fundamental schizophrenia strong-armed me out of the film, and left me feeling like McGregor's more grounded performance existed in another movie entirely.

Still, this feels like minor Phillips to me -- something in the neighborhood of 2006's "School for Scoundrels," quality-wise, though with a much grimmer heart.

Director Tony Scott's runaway-train action flick Unstoppable is semi-remarkable for what it doesn't contain.

They could have made a harder-hitting, more realistic film, but then no one would have gone to see it.

Monsters is a tiny sci-fi thriller that makes up what it lacks in big effects with a fine photographic eye, a low-key sense of scale, and a genuine (if not always well-performed) human drama.

Moves with lightness, verve and charm, which Magnetic Fields fans might find amusing, given Merritt's well-known morosity. But there is more than a suggestion here that his persona is just that, and that those sweet melodies he sings so dryly arise from a truly sweet core.

Whether your tastes are delicate or coarse, whether you prefer the ballet or horror movies, there is plenty in the film for you.

The drama is telegraphed and glossy and un-fascinating; the edges have been belt-sanded until any camp value is lost. And it's filmed in that "Moulin Rouge"/"Chicago" style where you see half a dance move before the shot cuts -- which somehow makes a lot of difficult, sexy work seem simultaneously frenetic and boring.

Tangled is a lively, funny, deft and delicious musical in the vein of Disney's 1989 classic "The Little Mermaid."

The film continues the tone that "Half-Blood Prince" set: we're leaving childish things behind, and human and magical concerns are starting to mingle in a grown-up way. When "Part 2" hits theaters eight months from now, I suspect I'll appreciate the buildup to a (literally) explosive finale. It's going to be a long wait.

Storywise, Heartless is a bit of a jumble, especially in its last third. But it's got a distinct tone, contrasting romance and even outright sentimentality with urban dread and a few nasty visuals.

Before it traps Ralston, 127 Hours gives us ample evidence of his energy, zest and boyish charm and wit.

Popping with intrigue, intelligence and colorful New York characters seemingly straight out of a paperback potboiler.

The increasingly unlikely escapades culminate in a finale that's as narratively lazy as it is morally questionable, lending further credence to the voices that proclaimed Haggis absurdly overpraised for the 2004 Oscar-winner "Crash."

A dense, sharp, hilarious and unflinching film about a group of British Muslims who seek to shock the world with an apocalyptic act of jihad but are too dumb, contentious and accident-prone to succeed at anything much more audacious than ringing a doorbell and running.

Rather like a four-hour episode of "Today": painless enough, leavening superficiality with substance, allowing you to watch and still do the laundry without missing anything vital.

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

Down Terrace is so intimate and hilariously offhanded (a hit man shows up for a job pushing his 3-year-old in a stroller) that it is all the more shocking when murderous violence finally erupts about halfway through.

As a film, Inside Job is polished enough, and fueled by piquant indignation, but it's also often scattershot and meandering.

There's little that's conventionally pleasant about the experience, save the satisfaction of having witnessed the novel and the extreme. But that sensation is at the heart of a lot of great art, from Poe to Stravinsky to Picasso to Diane Arbus to NWA. Nöe would likely, with a black-hearted grin, appreciate being ranked with such company.

If it can seem like there's no end of films about the Holocaust, it might be because there is no bottom to the well of crime, inhumanity and evil described by that ghastly event.

It isn't a lack of realism or philosophical consistency that rankles most, though, but rather the anticlimactic story and uninteresting characters that make this Hereafter not very sweet at all.

There are hints lately that De Niro is trying to build a fourth, restorative act to his wayward film career, and he brings some real fire, without which Stone would be helpless.

Red isn't edifying, ennobling, or artful. It's just an utterly satisfying combination of big kicks, cheap thrills and real laughs.

It's all mildly uplifting in the way of an unchallenging sermon.

Fleck and Boden point out the absurd humor inherent in mental illness without trivializing its causes or consequences. This is not an easy trick, and it's largely thanks to Galifianakis' amalgam of wackiness and awkward sorrow that it works.

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.