This picture reminded me of one of the things I like best about "All the President’s Men": It doesn’t give a good godd--- about Woodward and Bernstein’s personal lives.

War is like Statham's other actioners "The Transporter" and "Crash" -- fun, but not big or dumb enough to be glorious.

For a while, it works, until it suddenly decides to abandon the "what you don't see is scarier than what you do see" for a ridiculous and ultimately insulting explanatory ending.

The dumbness doesn't kill Death at a Funeral, but it certainly weakens it.

As forceful as its title suggests, and sometimes unbelievably ballsy.

Superbad is just a great time, plain and simple.

As The 11th Hour's message of Profound Importance warrants a four-star rating, the film itself does not.

Noisome, fragmented mess of a movie, the fourth film based on Jack Finney's novel "The Body Snatchers" and the worst of them all.

If you don't play at all, you may find yourself enjoying this film more than anyone, because you'll at least get all the laughs with none of the cringing self-recognition.

It's goofy as hell but devilishly smart about it, which is why it's such great fun.

The movie becomes less fizzy once DeCillo decides to make A Statement (a rather incoherent one at that).

As fate would have it, Rocket Science might prove to be the handiwork of a burgeoning cinematic genius.

Chan still sounds silly talkin' jive, the action sequences are peppy if not exactly memorable, and the gags have been sitting out long enough to make penicillin.

Stardust is an eye-poppingly elaborate fantasy that's shot through with action-movie adrenaline and attitude.

Where Dans Paris truly pops, besides its spot-on leads or the slick curation of its fashions and locales, are in its mood-mixing musical moments.

The Ten has one foot in "Monty Python's Meaning of Life" and another in their "Life of Brian," but ultimately we get the David Letterman School of Comedy: mediocre jokes continually repeated until they sometimes become uncomfortably funny.

Hathaway's proven charms work magic here.

Most thrillers of this ilk have no qualms about going past the 120-minute mark, but I think Greengrass and company understood that overdoing it would turn mass excitement into massive headache.

Ichaso seems far too interested in what led to Lavoe's downfall rather than what made him great.

The fantasy here – dubious as life choices go, but great for a 90-minute comedy – is that you can stay 16 forever.

For adults -- even adults with fond memories of the TV series -- this is one bizarre mess.

I can’t say I was too surprised by how risible, grotesque, and incoherent I Know Who Killed Me is. But I can’t say I was prepared for its pretentiousness. If the picture has any use at all, it’s as a case study in what happens when the talentless attempt to emulate the inspired.

The kitchen action here is pretty diverting -- everybody involved seems to have boned up on their Bourdain and Buford, and having done so, sanitized what they've gleaned with Hollywood polish.

If this is in fact merely a longer Simpsons episode, it's a damn good Simpsons episode.

This Is England may be best summed up as a "coming-of-age" story that puts aside the clichéd baggage often carried by the description and ultimately ends up being moving, genuinely funny, thought-provoking, and highly recommended.

It’s a playful study of Arctic life, starring a polar bear cub, its prey, and a tagalong fox -- with the inevitable dramatic moments when bear meets walrus.

Ghosts is one of Forman's most ambitious and daring films; would that all of its ambitions were fulfilled.

This Hairspray really is a lot of fun -- colorful, sassy, and brisk.

So go on, pay your ten bucks and get your hate on.

The fact that Boyle and Garland have here created something close to an actual trip rather than the mere spectacle that most screen sci-fi contents itself with being nowadays is enough to recommend Sunshine.

Thoroughly irritating little film.

A droll, poignant comedy enlivened by two terrific performances.

Time is more than reasonably diverting.

Pheonix is smartly-constructed enough that non-acolytes interested in checking out Harry's world won't need too long to catch up.

Paths collide and allegiances form between the good, bad, and ugly, but under the incoherent direction of Chalerm Wongpim, a clunky dullness sets in whenever the action subsides.

One of the most diabolical things about this psychological thriller is just how open to interpretation it is.

This is filmmaking that's as rousing as it is strange.

Grab some popcorn and make a pit stop, then sit back and enjoy it. You signed up for a movie about giant robots.

Krasinski and Moore are an adorable couple, but marriage material they aren't, especially since they're given a mere ten minutes to form a full-fledged relationship before Williams breathlessly barges into the picture.

This is a movie, not a position paper, and Moore aims to entertain as he informs.

The slapstick-comic set pieces involving Remy and Linguini's cooking struggles might solicit the admiration of Buster Keaton and Jacques Tati.

A mistake was made: Evening is a book that would have been best left on the page.

An unexpectedly retro throwback to '80s actioners and '90s hacker movies, totally preposterous in both its heroic near-death escapes and abstract tech-jargon explanations for how anyone with geeky inclinations can remotely override any computer system with a few easy keystrokes.

While 1408 is no classic, it is refreshing to see a horror picture that just wants to do its job rather than prove to its audience how ruthlessly nihilistic it is.

The film wraps up in a neat, environmentally friendly package that might keep some kids entertained but will leave adults yawning.

What does not work, in a movie where almost everything, including dramatic rhetoric, has been kept on a modest scale up to this point, is the heavy-handed way Winterbottom (and Jolie) contrast the pain of loss with the pain of begetting toward the end.

You'll laugh, you'll groan, you'll never buy wool again.

It's the stuff of countless advice columns, daytime talk shows, sitcoms, romantic comedies. Quite frankly, it's tired. What makes a difference here -- although really not enough of one -- is the people.

It's a decent comic-book movie that delivers its goods with good humor and a minimum of bloat.

At the end of the movie, the only mystery left unsolved is where your time and money have gone.

The film is punctuated by a literal knock down, drag out affair that has all the perverse curiosity of watching a "late career" Mike Tyson bout. But by the end, the real knockout is the discovery of this comic gem.

With its use of aggressively cheerful hues that are equal parts Technicolor and Tim Burton Candyland, Fido is a "boy and his dog" movie thrown into a horror movie blender. This is perfectly realized in a jaw-droppingly funny "Timmy's trapped in the well" sequence that almost seems like it could have been made in the 50s had George Romero ever worked on "Lassie."

As the caper reaches its conclusion in a swirl of turnabouts and twists -- you'll never guess in whose favor all of them go -- Thirteen delivers more than enough gaming satisfaction for one such picture.

Fails in what amounts to its only distinct purpose: to smugly push the envelope of depravity farther than anyone else.

Up will still make you feel like you've caught a big wave.

More often than not laugh-out-loud hilarious.

We'd really like to crawl into William Hurt's head and experience whatever movie he thought HE was making.

Directed with little flair, a one-sided perspective and a questionable sense of moral responsibility by Dan Klores (his negligent lack of an editorial voice in the couple's lunacy reeks of train-wreck exploitation), Crazy Love is a disturbingly captivating tabloid horror, but that's not Klores' doing.

The crazy fantasy world of this saga is plenty compelling and quirky.

Even Depp's increasingly tired antics can't lighten the dour mood; in fact, Sparrow is completely overshadowed here by Rush's lively turn as Barbossa.

A charming midlife crisis of a movie that bottles the "La Femme Nikita" director's typically high-concept inclinations in a modest indie package.

Paprika ain't no kiddie 'toon, even if its thumpin' techno-pop and bubble-gum thrills have the same splashy palette as an episode of "Pokémon" or "Dragon Ball Z."

The result is a kind of very faux documentary style, which, along with the subject matter, has suggested to some the influence of the BBC television series "The Office." Von Trier says he's never seen an episode, and I believe him.

It's just a spectacularly lazy movie that's content to trod the same well-worn ground as its predecessors.

Movies in which the same person serves as writer, director, and star should carry a special warning for audiences, even if that individual happens to be an actor as endearing as Luke Wilson.

As a fan, it's upsetting to admit that Dumont's ideas and insights have narrowed with this picture, his relaxed pacing now lethargic, his physically and mentally thick characters too familiar, and his ice-water shocks a bit predictable. It would seem self-parodic if it weren't so damn tragic.

Once may not boast stellar production values or elaborate dance numbers, but in its own scruffy way it captures the spirit of the genre better than any recent Hollywood musical.

The actor that comes off the best in The Ex is Grodin, who spouts some hilariously cranky one-liners that sound too off-the-cuff to be scripted.

A gruelingly tense, deftly plotted, and slyly intelligent piece of work. And also it's really really disgusting.

One of those celebrations of idiocy that never seem to go out of vogue.

And so it goes, leaving an awful taste and the inevitable question: Jane Fonda made a comeback to do dreck like this and "Monster-in-Law?"

This incarnation of Spider Man seems to forget that its source material was a comic book that wanted to transcend its genre. This is a movie that's content to be pretty good within its genre, with the main distinction of being much bigger than any of its competition.

It's an awful shame that Shelly will not be making any more films, but all the more reason to celebrate Waitress now.

Lawrence too often errs on the side of embellishing details that didn't need to be expanded upon.

This tale has been told so often (in fact, its roots can be traced back to Fellini's 1953 coming-of-age classic "I Vitelloni") the only way to keep it remotely fresh is to keep changing the time period and the professions of the principal characters.

Constructing the narrative (made up mostly of dramatic reenactments, although given the static nature of many of the scenes, the word "dramatic" is pushing it) obliquely, Devor and co-writer Charles Mudede weave in the thread concerning the individual referred to as "Mr. Hands" into the film almost casually.

Deeply nuts and exhaustingly hilarious.

Vacancy could have been some sort of satirical masterpiece had this whole scenario been finally revealed as an extreme form of couple's therapy designed to get Beckinsale and Wilson back together.

Those who still relish the sight of Anthony Hopkins portraying an evil criminal mastermind will get the most out of Fracture, which is not so much a whodunit -- we see Hopkins' character putting a bullet in his wife's head in the movie's first few minutes -- as a howdunnit.

Like the equally dull romantic drama "Catch and Release," which was in theaters for a nanosecond back in January, In the Land of Women strains to convince the audience to that it's telling a real story about real people. But with its glossy visuals and photo-shoot ready cast, the movie ends up presenting us with the very opposite of reality.

Its punchline, imagining the worst that could happen to Auteuil's slimy exec, is weak and kind of dumb, but the rest of the film is genial, appealing, and brisk.

It's the stuff of not quite dreams, and it's rendered with such accuracy and hilarity that I am tempted to call Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film For Theaters the most successful full-on surrealist film since Bunuel and Dali's 1930 "L'Age d'Or."

Green, the first feature Coupland's written, doesn't really make any innovations to the Almost 30-Underachievers genre, but it's an endearing, solidly-crafted example.

Resnais employs all the tools of studio-bound moviemaking, silent-era to post-modern, in a way that is not only is consistently dazzling in a purely visual sense, but contains an empathy that lifts the picture to tragic heights even at those points at which it seems practically weightless.

Year of the Dog would have benefited from a stronger hand behind the camera (White's general aesthetic basically involves cribbing heavily from Wes Anderson and Jared Hess), but as a showcase for Shannon, it ends up being strangely moving.

Rock the Bells doesn't just delve behind the scenes; it makes a showstopping guest-MC out of each crazy new obstacle.

As much as I enjoyed much of it, I hope Grindhouse doesn't start any trends. Exploitation cinema is combustible stuff that only highly trained professionals should be permitted to play with.

Wheeler's script is a buzzing contrivance, and Hallström's direction is brisker than almost anything he's ever done. So by all means enjoy The Hoax -- it's smart fun. Just don't buy it.

Some of the effects are squirm-worthy, if not actually frightening. Amid all the fake profundity, those moments -- you know, when the film is actually entertaining -- are rare.

Black Book is Verhoeven's best film since "RoboCop": audacious, smart, shamelessly entertaining.

It is trim, fast-moving and often quite funny, particularly in the exchanges between Ferrell and Heder -- the former's trademark clueless oafishness meshes nicely with the latter's alternating current of petulance and sweetness.

With his directorial debut, screenwriting stalwart Scott Frank concocts a compelling variation on a reliable film noir convention.

Meet the Robinsons is a mess -- a sometimes fun but mostly frustrating mess.

Burnett creates an insistently poetic, devastatingly ironic world and work.

It does move along at a nice clip, and delivers exactly what belligerent action fans on both sides of the political aisle want -- a wholly admirable figure blowing up a lot of bad s---.

As a fan of the genre, and someone who genuinely loves such recent horror efforts as "The Descent" and "The Host," I respectfully suggest that the atmosphere for horror movies might be better if moviemakers stopped making ones like this.

A thoughtful, involving and sometimes moving film that almost (and I do mean almost) justifies its use of 9/11 as a dramatic device.

Best appreciated as a rather amusing farce called The John Malkovich Show, the movie's every scene is anchored, then stolen, by the commanding thespian's Alan act.