The movie is gorgeous to look at, the script has a killer twist and the cast is competent.

The new footage adds almost nothing and feels like a lame, double-dipping cash-grab.

The cast is almost uniformly spectacular -- particularly Angela Lansbury as a wicked aunt and Raphael Coleman as the sardonic, bespectacled child who delivers hilarious, verbose asides and somehow makes it look effortless.

Beyond the lipstick-lesbian twist, this is a formula flick, but the acting is excellent. It also has genuine laughs.

A misfire, but a misfire from von Trier is still more interesting than a blandly successful Hollywood product.

Coogan makes tremendous sport of himself, taking on a role as an adulterous, vain, anxiety-riddled, alcoholic and truly comic creep. Brydon is exquisitely droll as the straight man to this ugly comedian act.

Eraser-dull.

Why We Fight attempts, somewhat sketchily, to connect the dots between Ike's Cassandra-like warnings and current events.

We've seen documentaries with more daring themes, greater drama, sharper craft and timelier subject matter. But few have been as affecting as The Real Dirt on Farmer John.

Heart and verve in surfeit makes the film rise above its flaws often enough to win you over.

As it progresses it becomes a sloppy mix of modern and antique, and the limits of its lead actors and its script become evident.

With limited means, Westby makes excellent use of Portland locations and cinematic references to make Film Geek a mostly spot-on, sometimes hilarious character study. His greatest asset is Malkasian, who gives Scotty the prototypical geek attributes.

Perhaps Following Sean is as much of a cultural oddity as "Sean" itself turned out to be. But it's a decidedly interesting one nonetheless.

Sumptuous and beautiful and as silly as a sack of nose glasses.

It's a sexy thriller, tautly constructed, deeply acted and heartfelt, despite a cool and knowing tone.

While Wolf Creek has clunky moments, when you want to slap the idiot prey until they wake up, the movie embraces a minimalism that feels refreshingly old-school in a field of slasher films drunk on self-referential wisecracks and narrative tricks. And Jarrat's jolly-creepy performance might place Mick in the pantheon of great movie killers.

The story, as so often in bad farce, treats them all as idiots, so it's almost impossible be engaged by anything other than the pretty rooms, gondolas and costumes.

Sets up a situation so weird, it's almost weirder that Rob Reiner directs it as a cookie-cutter romantic comedy.

Malick is a unique director of extraordinary gifts, of that there can be no doubt. If he ever chooses to shoot a script as fine as his technique, he will surely produce a masterpiece of the medium.

It's a shame The Matador isn't a better movie, because this semi-dark comedy contains one great, cackling, self-loathing performance by Pierce Brosnan.

With its protracted storytelling, its fuzzy philosophizing and its less-than-compelling leading man, it's far less gripping than the subject matter deserves.

One of the most vital and strangely gripping films in recent years, a thriller more opaque, involving and realistic than just about anything that Hollywood is capable of.

The Ringer is appalling.

There's something quietly but unmistakably angry underneath all the slapstick.

For gourmands who appreciate this sort of cinematic comfort food, though, The White Countess is a fitting finale for the producer.

Almost totally emotionally bankrupt. But it's a very specific form of total emotional bankruptcy, one that feels honest and even uplifting at the time, because the actors are great and the direction's well intentioned and just-so.

There are strange variations in the mood of Three Burials that may strike some viewers as flippant. As gritty and real as the business of toting a corpse at gunpoint gets, the tone occasionally veers into farce. But it's never too long before the focus returns to Jones' weathered eyes.

The new film is a nauseatingly unsteady medley of brilliance and foolish nonsense.