The supporting players do a serviceable job in their roles, but no amount of Oscar-nominee nuance from Giamatti or Linney can salvage what amounts to a candy-striped trifle for post-collegiate slacker existentialists.

This film should have soared, but doesn't quite get off the ground.

From an audience perspective, the title’s fairly apt as well.

Although it wasn't quite the comedy we had hoped for, the idea behind it is pretty cute; we just wished the laughs weren't so awkward and forced.

In the age of reality television, Paparazzi feels desperately out-of-touch, the jaded grousings of an industry burnout.

Blunderingly out-of-touch, star-studded embarrassment of a sequel.

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

This booming, cartoonish confection is a transparent attempt to take a property Disney owns rights to, and to try and create a Harry Potter-like franchise.

Little Man only proves that some should just stick to the sketch comedy, and leave the big screen to "Big Daddys" like Adam Sandler who the critics tend to snub, but who know how to make an audience laugh.

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.

Lichtenstein's putative switcheroo on the Vagina Dentata trope is to play it as some kind of token of female empowerment, but it's pretty clear that the writer/director didn't think things through on any counts, contenting himself that the putative outrageousness of the concept could see him through.

Ultimately, the reason Charlie St. Cloud loses its momentum is because a love triangle between a grieving man, a beautiful woman from his past, and a spectral shade is just too strange.

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

Who knows what might have been if everyone involved had a little more fun with the project instead of just going through the motions?

Sticky, saccharine, bordering on diabetic, Honey overindulges.

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

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.

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.

Close is the best and worst thing about the film, delivering a performance that upstages even Christopher Walken (!), taking her over-the-top Cruella de Vil turn to its saccharine-sweet opposite.

A thin sprinkling of exuberance and a couple of choice cameos, that's about all this underwritten and overly choreographed spectacle has to tease us with.

These site-shifting extravaganzas sometimes reach an exhilarating level of near-abstraction. So it's too bad that just about everything surrounding the action scenes of the picture is such unmitigated cr--.

The sheer absurdity of the presented relationship is redeemed by a sort of surprise ending, but by the time it arrives, you wish it had come sooner, as the pain of viewing has already been interminably long.

The silver lining in the film is Paul Rudd, who brings some nuance to his character that, given his past work, you can assume was all his doing. Jason Biggs, in his role as Ashley's gay best friend and catering partner, carries out an interesting, if somewhat left-field plot twist.

Clichés are often a big part of what makes suspense films enjoyable. But Firewall goes out of its way to promise something more than business as usual, and then makes no attempt whatsoever to deliver.

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

The heretofore nothing-but-delightful Simon Pegg stumbles in the long-anticipated feature film directorial debut of -- ta-da! -- David Schwimmer, who takes the sow's ear of a script given him by Pegg and Michael Ian Black and deep-fries it into a burnt pork rind of a movie.

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

What begins as a pleasantly utilitarian thriller gradually decays into a mediocre suspense drama and ends as an irritatingly feeble love story.