Lymelife is more shaggy character study than rewarding narrative; its fateful final moments are self-consciously ambiguous in a way that (to me) feel almost flip, given the long dramatic build that preceded those final moments.

This will personally go down as the flick that really made me realize how much I hate CGI stunts.

The laughs in Adventureland aren't as outlandish as those in "Superbad," but they seem more based in experience and truth. You could want something more raucous, I suppose, but that wouldn't necessarily be an improvement.

Director R.W. Goodwin (an "X-Files" vet) makes a fatal mistake: He never takes a clear stance on the material he's spoofing.

Hollywood used to make a fair number of films like The Escapist (sigh: remember grown-up dramas?), and it's a satisfying variation on a once-familiar theme.

Politics and art come together in predictable, moderately enjoyable fashion in Paris 36.

There's quality, wit and emotion throughout.

Sergei Dvortsevoy's unclassifiable, verite-style film (shaky-cam alert!) is an endearing mix of intimacy, attention to detail and decidedly local humor.

Pure, light entertainment.

The acting is flawless, the world feels utterly real, and the finale accomplishes the miracle of finding in the everyday world something profound.

The real revelation is Lou Ferrigno, in his first non-Hulk-related big-screen role since 2002. OK, so he plays himself.

Duplicity is perfectly titled: There isn't a second of this smart, twisty, grown-up thriller in which someone isn't lying, cheating or stealing, often from someone they claim to love.

By being judicious with CGI, Proyas gives the film's handful of disaster sequences great impact.

The story is slight and somewhat less than engaging, despite nice supporting turns from Emily Blunt and Ricky Jay.

The cinematic gloss serves to heighten our involvement in the tale, and to mark Fukunaga as a talent to be reckoned with.

You wouldn't necessarily want to be Valentino, but this sprightly film may make you nostalgic for a life you've never lived.

The Rock charms you through the worst of it, but the effects are cheap, the dialogue is about as challenging as a "Hannah Montana" episode, and the pace manages to be both brisk and numbing.

Alan Arkin is charm itself as the girls' dreamy father. Indeed, director Christine Jeffs coaxes only good work from the whole of her cast.

Only in the slightly overlong last act, as the family's misfortunes become truly existential, does director Kiyoshi Kurosawa take things to another level. Whether this is an extension of the film's social criticism, a comment on the absurdity of melodrama or straightforward audience manipulation, is anyone's guess.

The 155 minutes of Watchmen are studded with inspired spectacles: fights and flights and imaginary creatures and reworked bits of history.

Despite the stories' brief running times, they don't manage to generate much interest or make much sense.

Mikhalkov plays the jury foreman, allowing himself a bit of business that eventually erases itself, amounting, effectively, to nothing. Alas, too much of this splashy film is just like that.

Some will win and some will lose their encounters with unbending American bureaucracy, but all deserve better, which should leave viewers eager for an even-handed take on this issue crossing over into disappointment.

What damage could Michael Bay inflict on Jason Voorhees that earlier producers hadn't already inflicted on everyone's favorite hockey-masked serial killer? Well, Bay could make Jason Voorhees ... boring.

The sense of inescapability, the mood of capitulation and resignation, becomes the story. What is being made clear is the thoroughgoing rot of a civilization; there is literally no place to find peace, solace or consolation.

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.

For its sheer visual gusto alone, Coraline is a wonder.

Scratch the surface, and the movie's underpinnings are an insult to women everywhere -- the film is slick stupid propaganda for the myth of The One True Love that wastes the talents of fine actresses.