It puts almost everything it has into its explosive set pieces, but manages to instill the audience with just enough emotional involvement. If, Ah-nold decides to come bach again, this installment should ensure he has an audience.

The movie falls flat at the end, unnecessarily linking all of the characters in what seems to be an attempt to show how it really is a small world after all.

The genuine article, a hard-core horror picture from start to finish... Prepare to get seriously stresed.

As for me, watching this overripe, ignorant parading of Hollywood privilege an hubris put me in mind of a different song--Neil Young's "Revolution Blues." Specifically the bit about Laurel Canyon being filled with famous stars . . .

Had the picture maintained a sense of lightheartedness, it may have better lived up to its genre. But, as is, Alex & Emma is flat, neither whimsically romantic nor consistently comedic.

Fun, fun, fun. [July/Aug 2003, p.26]

Lee’s use of split-screens and dynamic transitions makes the process of actively interpreting his monstrous vision a fresh and unrivaled experience.

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

Since the story really is about nothing more than who ends up with which bag of money, those eccentric details--that cow, the butchers' language--don't feel organic, but rather cosmetic. They're glamour to conceal the mundane.

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.

The movie is a mess, but Harnett and Ford are likable enough to make Hollywood Homicide a unique addition to the cookie-cutter spectacles that usually grace theaters during the summer months.

Surely it’s a credit to this luminous cast that the characters can behave in such despicable ways yet still command one’s sympathy.

Until the point that changes everything, Manito is more a portrait of a neighborhood and its various characters--and this is the even more impressive part of the film. Once the disasters start to domino, the story becomes a bit familiar, a bit manipulative.

A brilliant little exercise. As a horror movie, it packs one genuine scare after another, right up to the moment of its inconceivably ghastly end. As a mystery, it unfolds with an almost supernatural elegance. And as a metaphor for the movies themselves, it's truly exceptional.

Singleton’s film is, in fact, pretty enjoyable if you look at it as the B-movie it really ought to be, rather than the E-ticket major studio release it actually is.

Jarecki does a remarkable job with this easily exploitable material.

It may be a crowd-pleasing escapism, but it's that feel-good shmaltz that ultimately plays the film off-key.

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

I don't think we're going to see a better--a funnier or more genuinely heartwarming, for that matter--comedy this year.

Albert Brooks is expertly cast as a hopelessly neurotic, fanny-pack-wearing podiatrist.

The potential for real offense is palpable, but Bruce Almighty never gets there; the script is too lazy and incoherent--truly effective blasphemy takes brains and rigor.

In the annals of Mediterranean island love stories, Respiro reflects the effortless charm of a film like "Il Postino," rather than the untidy manufactured romance of another "Captain Corelli's Mandolin."

Overburdened with themes and symbolism, Baltasar Kormákur’s latest effort seems more apt for a term paper than a movie review.

The intellectual aspirations of this series are just window dressing. Which left this viewer to enjoy the freeway chase sequence (which really is cool), Hugo Weaving’s smirk, and even the PlayStationish stuff.

Moves easily between manic humor and soft, touching moments that get to the heart of what it means to be a parent.

Strikes me as more of a thesis piece than anything LaBute has put his name to thus far. Its characters don't seem to be people as much as they are stand-ins for ideas.

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 true sensory delight is when the two men share screen time, and the palette is bombarded with their contrasting hues, the score (by Pascal Esteve) even meticulously interlacing their two musical personalities.