Intelligently written and beautifully acted throughout, it’s a good, and rare, example of what we used to refer to as a movie for adults. Adults, be advised.

So tasteless, so fiendishly puerile that it’s hilarious.

Uncomfortable, offensive, and boring.

A tart, funny, moderately over-the-top hijinks-and-snafus yarn.

Bardem plays the part with all the pent-up animal rage of a young Robert De Niro.

If only the love story were a little more convincing, she might have saved the world and the movie.

For such a pedestrian exercise in Spielbergian sentiment, the somewhat stale Seabiscuit dunks into some gravy moments; the always dependable William H. Macy is three honks and six rattles of comic relief as the sound effects–happy, kooky radio reporter Tick Tock McGlaughlin, and the racing scenes themselves are spectacular.

Camp may not be great cinema, but it's passionate and original enough to be special.

If you dissect Masked line by line, it would be, like a Dylan song, indecipherable. But if you take the allegory as a whole, by simply asking the questions, it somehow makes a statement. Is it muddled? Yes. Imperfect? Sure. Impenetrable? Well, that's open to interpretation.

The handful of comic moments will serve up a few good laughs.

Favorably, Atkinson’s family-friendly, rubber-limbed professionalism can revitalize even the most vapid of material, which this certainly is. Anyone who has seen an episode of Black Adder can tell you that he’s leaps and bounds funnier than this sitcom-grade bauble.

The film has its charm, mostly found in its lead characters, who engage in harmless hijinks due to their language and cultural differences.

What isn't fair is the film's R rating, which makes this charming coming-of-age tale virtually inaccessible to the audience sure to cherish it most.

Despite its preposterous leaps of logic, it somehow still emerges a reasonably entertaining summer blockbuster.

Understated, quietly amusing, and steadily paced.

Northfork feels like the work of a couple of ardent art students who, for whatever reson, are very keen on pleasing their teacher. [July/August 2003, p. 23]

Children of all ages: Brace yourselves for a helluva ride.

In this vibrant character study, newcomer Lázaro Ramos plays Francisco with an almost animal intensity.

It’s worth seeing twice just for the privilege of watching Rampling and Sagnier match each other stroke for stroke.

In this sequel, as Elle uses her good-hearted pluck to work toward her goal, Witherspoon is a sheer delight, all charm and light and loveliness; you just want her to win.

It puts almost everything it has into its explosive set pieces, but manages to instill the audience with just enough emotional involvement. If, Ah-nold decides to come bach again, this installment should ensure he has an audience.

The movie falls flat at the end, unnecessarily linking all of the characters in what seems to be an attempt to show how it really is a small world after all.

The genuine article, a hard-core horror picture from start to finish... Prepare to get seriously stresed.

As for me, watching this overripe, ignorant parading of Hollywood privilege an hubris put me in mind of a different song--Neil Young's "Revolution Blues." Specifically the bit about Laurel Canyon being filled with famous stars . . .

Had the picture maintained a sense of lightheartedness, it may have better lived up to its genre. But, as is, Alex & Emma is flat, neither whimsically romantic nor consistently comedic.

Fun, fun, fun. [July/Aug 2003, p.26]

Lee’s use of split-screens and dynamic transitions makes the process of actively interpreting his monstrous vision a fresh and unrivaled experience.

Lacks the heart that might otherwise have breathed life into the pointless shtick.

Since the story really is about nothing more than who ends up with which bag of money, those eccentric details--that cow, the butchers' language--don't feel organic, but rather cosmetic. They're glamour to conceal the mundane.

Television-loving children will scream for Rugrats Go Wild!, and in this case, their parents can go ahead and let them—they won't be missing much.

The movie is a mess, but Harnett and Ford are likable enough to make Hollywood Homicide a unique addition to the cookie-cutter spectacles that usually grace theaters during the summer months.

Surely it’s a credit to this luminous cast that the characters can behave in such despicable ways yet still command one’s sympathy.

Until the point that changes everything, Manito is more a portrait of a neighborhood and its various characters--and this is the even more impressive part of the film. Once the disasters start to domino, the story becomes a bit familiar, a bit manipulative.

A brilliant little exercise. As a horror movie, it packs one genuine scare after another, right up to the moment of its inconceivably ghastly end. As a mystery, it unfolds with an almost supernatural elegance. And as a metaphor for the movies themselves, it's truly exceptional.

Singleton’s film is, in fact, pretty enjoyable if you look at it as the B-movie it really ought to be, rather than the E-ticket major studio release it actually is.

Jarecki does a remarkable job with this easily exploitable material.

It may be a crowd-pleasing escapism, but it's that feel-good shmaltz that ultimately plays the film off-key.

There are popcorn pictures and there are microwave popcorn pictures. The Italian Job is best saved for the living room.

I don't think we're going to see a better--a funnier or more genuinely heartwarming, for that matter--comedy this year.

Albert Brooks is expertly cast as a hopelessly neurotic, fanny-pack-wearing podiatrist.

The potential for real offense is palpable, but Bruce Almighty never gets there; the script is too lazy and incoherent--truly effective blasphemy takes brains and rigor.

In the annals of Mediterranean island love stories, Respiro reflects the effortless charm of a film like "Il Postino," rather than the untidy manufactured romance of another "Captain Corelli's Mandolin."

Overburdened with themes and symbolism, Baltasar Kormákur’s latest effort seems more apt for a term paper than a movie review.

The intellectual aspirations of this series are just window dressing. Which left this viewer to enjoy the freeway chase sequence (which really is cool), Hugo Weaving’s smirk, and even the PlayStationish stuff.

Moves easily between manic humor and soft, touching moments that get to the heart of what it means to be a parent.

Strikes me as more of a thesis piece than anything LaBute has put his name to thus far. Its characters don't seem to be people as much as they are stand-ins for ideas.

The period sets and costumes and the arch dialogue are exaggerated as if to underline the movie’s satirical intent—but in fact it has none.

The true sensory delight is when the two men share screen time, and the palette is bombarded with their contrasting hues, the score (by Pascal Esteve) even meticulously interlacing their two musical personalities.

Malkovich is more interested in hitting notes of elegiac lyricism than delivering socko action; this is a thriller that means to get under your skin rather than make you leap from your seat.

At its best, Mahowny is intricate, engrossing, wryly funny, and strangely poetic.

One of the things that makes this movie such a great rush is that while you’re watching it, it seems a good deal more subversive than it really is.

Duff is a charming heroine who carries the movie cheerfully, if not gracefully--the pratfalls come early and often.

Moncrieff’s overriding theme here isn’t empowerment but survival. The movie crams a hell of a lot of dysfunction into its 88 minutes.

While it may be excruciating to watch a speller miss a word by a letter, it's just as exciting to watch another kid jump the hurdle.

The tension's palpable and the deaths are gruesomely inventive (and jarringly abrupt), but the clincher is so far-fetched you may end up wishing you'd opted for the relative reality of a week in Cancun instead.

Smushes together “The Bonfire of the Vanities” (the novel, that is), “True Believer,” and “Eyes Wide Shut,” only it does so without being nearly as good as any of the aforementioned.

By the end of the film, one begins to recognize specific birds, rooting for their safe returns and saddened by some of their failures.

Flashy, forgettable fluff.

Despite its Latin flavor, there is nothing new or original about Chasing Papi's girl-power story line and ridiculously stereotypical characters. But the film's charm lies in its ability to see itself for what it is.

It's churlish, especially these days, to try to split the difference between an immortal comedy classic and a mere laugh riot.

Zombie's film plays more like an experimental pastiche than an outright homage to those classic road-trip-gone-wrong movies.

There's much visual inventiveness and a good sense of fun here. But I was expecting something more spectacular.

Terrifically charming and energetic film.

Duvall delivers a bravura, Oscar-quality performance....The Apostle is a profoundly humane movie that crackles with the joy and sorrow of an old blues record.

A model of economic storytelling....It raised the bar for movie action to a bionic level. [1 Dec 2003, p.13]

Steven Spielberg turns the pure adventure of Saturday afternoon serials into a solidly entertaining spectacle.

Sandy, Danny, and their sexier counterparts Rizzo and Kenickie are spectacular fun to watch, especially in their non-TV-edited glory. Though it's virtually impossible to forget, and stay quiet during, the film's many songs, it's also surprising to remember all of the racy dialogue and double entendres in the original. Or maybe it's just that we never got them when we were ten.

At its most simplified, Sucker punches its way to the top of the Italian-western mountains, but never reaches the peak of its immortalized trilogy brethren.