Whether Waddington's film comes across as hypnotic or boring, mythic or pretentious, may depend on the viewer's mood or tolerance for quasi-allegorical storytelling. But, as the women in House of Sand learn, patience can sometimes be its own reward.

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.

A nasty little tube of frozen horror concentrate.

A movie adapted from a novel inspired by a person who probably never existed.

A sweet and wise little film.

Good intentions and strong thespians aside, Seidelman's writing and filmmaking are bland, obvious and uninvolving.

It's got some great action sequences and is peppered with genuinely dazzling images. It's also subtly infused with Mann's favored themes of men-at-work and the high price of loyalty to duty. But it hasn't got sufficient meat to warrant its draggy length.

The film is a pleasure that doesn't rank with Allen's best but satisfies far more than most American comedies.

Getting worked up about John Tucker Must Die is a bit like getting worked up about the taste of flan.

A stylish and unnerving thriller that sucks you into surreal scenes of horror with the chilly confidence of a nightmare.

Mostly it's about taxes -- namely, the argument that the Federal Income Tax, enacted in 1913, is unconstitutional and has been ruled as such by the Supreme Court, and that no law exists today requiring Americans to pay it.

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.

A painful, funny and fresh comedy.

It mostly manages the impressive feat of mixing jaw-droppingly gross jokes with characters that are worth caring about.

The man has gifts -- but acting and, it's increasingly clear, storytelling aren't among them.

Monster House makes its intentions clear: It wants to wrap you in a thick, warm blanket of 1980s nostalgia.

Super Ex does have a certain low-key, adult-contemporary charm. It's almost entirely because of Luke Wilson.

A comedy that's only kind of funny some of the time.

Sufficiently resembles the first film that the heartiest fans should be content.

Turns out to be more ordinary than the recipe might suggest. Oh, it's dense and funny and assured, but it's also chatty and listless in a fashion that constrains a narrative film, which, however reluctantly, it is.

Heading South is strong in bursts, but the bursts are too diffuse for its best moments to last.

As it stands, this is little more than a sketchy portrait of two fascinating cultural moments with only geography and 70-ish minutes of celluloid connecting them.

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

Effortless fun: It plays like a giddy horror movie with its laughs wrapped in couture gowns.

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

A sometimes very funny movie made by very funny people.

They were fast, they were sexy, they were clean, they were the future -- and they're already gone.

In drama, tone, character and examination of the social issues tormenting these kids, Wassup Rockers is . . . taxing.