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.

In the film, the cleverness just isn't there. There's still a lot to like about Chicken Little - the animation is top notch, and the characters, if somewhat recycled, still generate the requisite sympathy and chuckles.

The moviemakers are accomplished enough to make something coherent out of this tonal mishmash, but I was left with a "was this trip really necessary" feeling for all that.

When the secret is finally divulged, it’s such a letdown that it feels unfairly manipulative to have sat through such agonizing tedium.

Snoop's subtle performance in the captain's chair flips all the right switches, and Ryan Pinkston's timing as Arnold's "straight out of Malibu" son is perfect, but these two aren't enough to salvage the film.

Big and dumb and loud and entirely past its prime.

Ella Enchanted seems squarely aimed at 12-year-old girls, or, I don't know, maybe 8-year-old girls.

Better than I expected but still not entirely convincing. As a cautionary tale for demimonde-sters, though, it has its useful points--never argue about money while you're in a K-hole, that sort of thing.

While the concept is interesting, the whole thing comes off as a rather hilarious, um, disaster.

It really never amounts to more than a barely warmed over rehash of teen dance flick moves.

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.

What’s missing here is the amnesiac hook that made "The Bourne Identity" such a sleeper hit.

So stupendously funny at times that she (Streep) nearly salvages the whole thing.

Starts out strong and boasts a convincing picture of the post-war world as an anarchic desert. But it comes to ditch its fun stylization for vague themes of religiosity and morality, leaving you with a disappointingly muddled movie.

Just because it’s less campy doesn't mean the acting isn't awful.

I don’t quite cherish Thackeray’s novel, but a can-do feminist, multicultural contemporization of it strikes me as, well, unnecessary.

The result is oddly schizoid, but also so insubstantial that to call it oddly schizoid suggests a weight it doesn't have.

The Hitcher's main problem is that many of the title character's dirty deeds are done off-camera. Instead of seeing Ryder trap his victims before he kills them, the audience is treated to plenty of butchered corpses that seem to magically appear after Ryder leaves a room.

That Jarhead is an impressive technical achievement is a given, but ultimately this picture is the last thing any war movie should be: innocuous.

The dubious whimsy, devoid of any directorial voice, plays more like a very special episode of Dawson’s Creek.

If you have a propensity for motion sickness you would be best served staying away. This movie is Tarantino on speed, and without focus and style. It is in-your-face and proud of it with no apologies.

Machete is exactly what you expect. There's ridiculously over-the-top violence, plenty of nudity, and lots of grisly humor. It's mostly enjoyable, but isn't likely to be anyone's top 5 anything.

One of those outrageous stalker thrillers in which so much trouble could have been avoided if the characters had only thought to call the police.

If it makes anybody feel better, one character in the picture does point out that the whole "extraordinary rendition" concept originated with Clinton. So there's balance for you.

The arc of the story mirrors "Before Sunrise" and "Before Sunset," but the writing isn't nearly as strong, nor the characters as believable -- or likable.

Predictable, and stereotypical.

The idea for the film is engaging and interesting, but the result is bland.

Surrounding Council and Moore in this cacophonous, bleak New Jersey are a set of cops, neighbors, and relatives played by actors that the unimaginative Roth yanked directly from various TV gritty crime shows; it's like he thought HBO was his personal casting agent.

The religious symbolism couldn't be more obvious (or disturbing). Keep your religion out of our vampires, Hollywood!

I wonder if there was a point in the making of this film at which Hickenlooper might have realized he picked the wrong subject. [May 2004, p. 18]

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.

I'd like to say that Flightplan is one of those white-knuckle, edge-of-your-seat thrill rides that critics are always raving about, but instead, it's more like a transatlantic flight with no clear destination, where the cabin noise makes it impossible to sleep and the in-flight movie is a rerun.

There's no question that Death of a President fulfills its objective as a conversation starter, but as a movie, it's sketchy at best.

That it's so flat as an action movie probably has a lot to do with why people might prefer to jawbone over its putatively controversial aspects--there's really not much of a “wow” factor to revel in.

Secret Window's premise is certainly new, even if King appears to be plagiarizing themes from himself.

This handsomely mounted film, in its cute ADD way, soon forgets its half-hearted attempt to make History Relevant to What Is Going On in the World Today and morphs into a sort of Classic Comics on acid, or, as a friend so brilliantly put it, "the longest Eurythmics video ever made."

As the phrase turns, it's better when things come off WITHOUT a hitch.

The lack of insightful commentary keeps the spotlight focused on Maher. That's not restraint; it's a missed opportunity.

An uneven love story but a picture-perfect love letter to Italy.

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

With his latest, the sci-fi–action–adventure The Chronicles of Riddick, Vin Diesel has established himself as the new face of morally ambiguous anti-heroes.

The music is catchy. The actors are likeable. It's all pleasant enough to watch but ultimately it's about as substantial as a pop song. Though it's unlikely to stay with you quite so long.

Finney, only seen in these flashbacks, is pitch perfect.

There’s an over-abundance of dialog that can be downright boring, especially when it’s sandwiched between fast-paced car chases and all-out gun fights.

Even if its premise weren't so achingly familiar, the film's bland humor and oddly conservative depiction of its central character, a flamboyant drag queen named Lola, would still make it seem like a museum piece.

Feels more practical than whimsical, more politically correct than sweep-you-off-your-feet romantic.

Silly, light fare made better by the over-the-top physical comedy of Bullock and King, but lacking the innate charm of the original.

Ironically, for all of Stranger's faults, director Simon West has probably made a perfect date movie: just suspenseful enough to keep you arm-in-arm with your beau or belle; but silly enough that you'll both laugh about it afterwards.

Part of the Clerks charm was that Kevin Smith made it for $27,000, and a bigger budget doesn't really help this kind of tale's authenticity.

Though McConaughey has proven himself game for romantic comedy contrivance in the past, his charisma is all wrong for the immature Tripp.

I'd gladly take the legend over this dreary pseudo-historical mumbo jumbo.

The problems with Tokyo Drift start with its ostensible hero; during the course of this movie, Sean makes so many dumb decisions it's a wonder that anyone wants to be associated with him.

The film falters in the moments where it can't decide if it's an entertainment about a likable criminal, or a serious commentary on the exploitation of the Third World.

Betty White is what makes this film memorable as Andrew’s grandmother. She steals every scene, and adds the sweetness that a film like this needs.

Flags of our Fathers really loses its way in the final half-hour, when the point-of-view abruptly shifts to James Bradley (played here by Tom McCarthy), who takes on the role of narrator, informing us of what happened to each of these men after the war ended and their names became yesterday's news. It's a jarring switch.

The controversial subject matter will undoubtedly hit close to home for many people, but a few genuinely uncomfortable scenes will either provoke the audience into serious thought or just cause them to leave the theater angry.

Though the series seemed like a great concept three years ago, it's now just a repeated assault on the senses, designed strictly for the gross-out crowd, and disturbs rather than scares.

Cocaine Cowboys might work better as a miniseries for television; as it is, the two-hour running time is fatiguing and some of the later material gets lost in the onslaught.

Earnest, respectful and thoroughly dull.

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.

Ramshackle one minute, pointlessly deliberate the next.

Parents might like the film, but will be too busy explaining the complicated plot to their children to really enjoy it.

Duchovny bookends his story with a modern-day framing device that takes all that has gone so well until this point and turns it cloyingly sentimental.

While Repo! is obviously no "Zauberflöte," it does offer up spectacle on an operatic scale.

Relatively harmless fun, although it does make you wish Ferrell would do more risky, rule-bending work like "Anchorman." Enough with the generic star vehicles man, write thee a screenplay again!

Director Shortland frames the story against the apt grey, off-season ski town, but her attempt to match it with deliberate pacing just makes the film feel chilly and too long, just like Heidi's depressing routine.

The sequel to 2003's unexpected and rousing hit offers a lot of the same elements that made the original so enjoyable, but the humor doesn't have the same freshness.

The movie has some pleasures, but can be heartily recommended only to those who like their entertainments equally inoffensive and inconsequential.

Ma, who portrayed the stone-faced General in the Coen brothers' comedy "The Lady Killers," once again plays his role largely silent. As the despondent Ed, Ma says more with a few facial expressions & twitches than most performers could hope to with a three-page monologue.

A clichéd rock-star film.

Jason Statham is back as the fast-driving, fast-kicking Frank Martin, but this sequel fails to deliver the charm of its predecessor.

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

If you subtracted from the story and style components recycled from landmark sci-fi films of Hollywood past, you’d be left with Will Smith wisecracking over a box of unformatted floppies. I, Unimpressed.

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.

An inoffensive piece of seasonal movie-muzak.

A moderate success, if a bit clunky. Somewhere beneath the syrupy melodrama and the scenes that should have expired long ago, there is an intelligent, thoughtful western in waiting.

In my cut of the film, it ends after Jones opens the parcel from his son that's been sitting on his kitchen table since shortly after he left. I recommend viewers leave the theater at that point. You won't be sorry that you did.

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.

As preposterously awkward, naïve and contrived as this movie is, it's still a curious sort of pleasure to witness-especially the gospel singing scenes.

I hold Soderbergh in high esteem, but as handsome a technical achievement as it is, The Good German plays to me as a failed experiment.

When confronted with real problems--and there's enough melodrama here to top a movie-of-the-week marathon on Lifetime--these otherwise empowered characters seem helpless to defend themselves.

Feels like little more than a stale rehash with a promising cast whose talents haven't been tapped.

Dennis Quaid is mostly lost at sea as Lawrence Wetherhold, the Carnegie Mellon lit professor; he apparently saw fit to tinker with his performance as filming went along, greeting us in some scenes as a noticeably swishy highbrow, while at other moments he's channeling the smiling, drunken menace of Nicholson's Jack Torrance.

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

Too slack to do much harrowing and falls back on some very raggedy commonplaces at the points when it should be delivering knockout scares.

There's a lot of "stuff" here, and Kelly's biggest problem -- he's got more than a few -- is that he can't tell his good material from his bad.

This is a perhaps even more misbegotten remake than the Farrelly Brothers' update of "The Heartbreak Kid."

Not charming, but not cynical, The Spirit is wholly unrecommendable, but made with greater care than many movies that are.

It would be sad if Tinseltown used this poorly executed remake as proof that there's no audience for female-driven films, because that's not the case at all.

All told, however, this bland little movie fits right into it's late January slot. It's a little bawdy - the fat-lady thong bit was funnier in "Shallow Hall" - and it passes the time.

For his fourth paycheck-cashing run through “J-Bruck’s” action-hero gauntlet, Cage lazily plays Benjamin Franklin Gates-the first of many overstuffed social-studies references.

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

The filmmakers may have wanted to deconstruct any sense of a formal, cohesive narrative; instead, they have merely demolished it.

Unstylized, inconsistent, unconvincing, and familiar to a fault.

Time doesn't just slow down while you're watching Catch and Release -- it actually comes to a dead stop.

The reason for all this dull-to-offensive story stuff is, of course, the dancing, which has its moments but overall seems so calculated to impress that it loses all other reason for being.

Clunky and riddled with clichés from start to finish, which is a shame because the cast is able and is led by Oscar-nominated director Mike Figgis.

With its cheap scares, its defiant lack of special effects, and the most blatant usage of a red coat as a stand-out prop since Schindler’s List, Godsend is as much an experiment-gone-wrong as its Frankensteinesque plot.