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

A chick-flick on a sugar high, so giggly-bouncy and nostalgic for the fantasy-girlhood of its audience that the DVD, which should follow relatively quickly, should come packaged in big pink bows and include a coupon for a free pony ride.

You won't see the twist coming, thanks to a clever and precise piece of casting, but that's the best compliment that can be paid to Awake, a plotty and unfocused medical thriller.

Viewers should hope Jeepers 2 is the final act in this series. The once-promising Creeper, who we see up close this time, has emerged as a garden-variety killer.

Dawson is lovely to watch, and when Smith isn't furrowing his brow and looking concerned, he's not so bad himself.

Are these iconic, antihero relics smartly satirized in a post-slasher, or is FVJ just more dated, third-wave trash? Disappointingly, it's the latter.

It's the sourest and most borderline misogynist picture the Farrellys have yet made.

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 problem here, which vitiates the picture's ingenuity and causes it, finally, to sink like a stone, is in the physical execution of the material.

Technically, it rewards with nothing less than painterly cinematography and a seamless surge of organic soundscapes, but the story is entirely predicated on a weather metaphor so obvious that even an unplugged Doppler radar could detect it.

Might have been a tasty black comedy if treated as such, but the twisted sense of humor is never allowed to elevate beyond the cutesy sensibilities of a romantic comedy.

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.

Ultimately Hitman is about bullets, blood, and bombs. For die-hard fans of the videogame, there is much to relish in terms of cobblestone car chases, punishing fistfights, cool weaponry, impossible physical feats, and ear-popping gun battles that rage through exclusive hotels in exotic locations.

The new film is also sleeker, sexier, and, thankfully, shorter than the original.

Skillfully manage to adapt some key details of the show -- namely, the high-flying car chases and hillbilly narration.

Irritatingly, Fleder's flair for broadcasting plot twists treats the audience with the same patronizing indulgence as Hackman does his potential jurors.

From the beginning, something doesn't feel quite right about their latest romp. The characters are sketchier, the situations more contrived and the laughs are fewer and far between.

Too bad the movie was assembled by Hollywood types -- Joel Schumacher directed, Jerry Bruckheimer produced -- who like to have things 15 ways at once. Hollywood types don't like journalists, so while they're lionizing Guerin, they go out of their way to make almost every other journalist depicted in the picture despicable.

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.

One-dimensional fluff piece.

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.