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

The result is a disturbing look into the so-called Wonder Years of adolescence, with convincing, award-worthy performances from each of its key players: Hunter, Wood, and Reed.

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.

One of the funniest, smartest, most moving pictures of the year.

Its compelling cast and sincere matchmaking goals are reason enough to play along.

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.

At opening night, with every seat in the cafeteria filled, you realize that the students have not only carved out a fledgling drama department in this sports-mad place, they’ve updated Grover’s Corners to Compton.

Comedy-action lunacy of a truly high, and endlessly bizarre, order.

The actors and acting are so attractive--as is, per usual in a Merchant Ivory production, the scenery--that the movie’s less deft handling of the scenario’s various themes, not to mention some stumbling in the final quarter, when the story’s tone grows a little darker, doesn’t stand out as much as it might have.

The film is beautifully acted by all, but Nora-Jane Noone, as the sloe-eyed orphan Bernadette, is first among equals here, and a genuine find.

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.