One could criticize A Night at the Roxbury for being a comedy that provides not a single laugh. That would be too easy.

A humongous animation event that ratchets up the level of the computer art that Hollywood is swooning over these days.

I Stand Alone ("Seul contre tous" in French) is a portrait of a pathetic soul, but it is also a cautionary tale. The butcher cannot be dismissed as a monster, nor is this a creep show. Something like the butcher's story can be found almost every day in newspaper crime reports.

It's got unpredictable plot twists and unexpected laughs coming out of dark corners. The sharp-edged film also looks terrific.

Ronin eventually becomes tiresome, but the pairing of De Niro and Reno never gets old.

A premise so rock-solid, so guaranteed to please, that it almost doesn't matter that the movie is otherwise a routine slasher, and not a particularly scary one.

The film is never truly funny, but it's an amusing novelty, gaining strength from smart characterizations and sly cogency about the way people are exploited under the limelight of celebrity.

Director Ted Demme (with a terse script by Mike Armstrong) keeps it darkly funny while exposing raw nerves in a buildup to unexpected tragedy.

Though Mom is ditzy and, at times, irritating, we come to recognize her as the family's most original creative spirit.

This good-natured comedy is set off by the high spirits of its stars.

By now, fans of the studied loveliness of Merchant Ivory films savor that they aren't pat, slick or especially action-packed. A Soldier's Daughter Never Cries is a fine example -- themes percolate and evolve into poignancy.

Ben Stiller seems the perfect actor to play Hollywood writer- turned-junkie Jerry Stahl in Permanent Midnight. He's got that bitter humor, the intense eyes betraying an inner life of pain. And he comes off as pathetic. The trouble is that it's hard to care -- even though the film is well-acted, artfully shot and at times haunting in its bleakness.

It should have been the poker equivalent of "The Hustler." But it suffers from iron-poor blood. No energy. It just lies there.

The film, "suggested by" John Irving's novel "A Prayer for Owen Meany," is so unabashedly manipulative -- and implausible -- that even while crying, many viewers may also feel abused.

Cube falls into the dreaded trap of allegory -- aaaaaargh! -- and the clunky dialogue makes a midnight bull session seem brilliant by comparison.

It's not a bad film, but Towne and his star, the charismatic Billy Crudup, never fire the imagination in the way their inspirational, respectful biopic is obviously intended to.

The ridiculous complications might have worked if there had been an awareness of how absurd they are.

Amusing and holds interest largely thanks to its re-creation of a glitzy, flamboyant era, not to mention its soundtrack of disco songs that sound a lot better today than 20 years ago.

The overall premise, involving mental illness and suicide, isn't all that funny, at least not in practice, and the picture begins to seem labored and long.

This is an embarrassing film. It's a sex comedy that sets itself up as a satire of middle-class mores, except there's no truth behind any of its observations. LaBute tries to be shocking and manages only to be shockingly puerile -- tasteless in a high-school-boyish sort of way.

Both actors are so appealing, you root for the inevitable meeting to happen somewhere in the vicinity of Wonderland.

Big as it is, Blade' is meticulous and subtle, not just in its camera technique but in the way it works its themes and creates a mood.

A viewer may even blink his eyes to be sure the turn of events is actually happening.

Writing and directing her first feature, Jenkins mines her life for nug gets everyone can relate to.

I'm not denying that a 40-year- old woman might be self-conscious about going around with someone this young. But the subject isn't interesting or provocative enough to sustain an entire movie.

It's a completely botched effort -- botched in its direction, its writing and editing.

A potential problem with the movie is that it can be a challenge watching people hand-wringing over moral decisions. But the acting is so good that it makes it worth sticking with during the slow patches.

De Palma seems to be trying too hard to make somebody else's great movie, once again an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Would someone please tell this guy to relax?