Implausibly dainty.

Shows how Tinseltown sensibilities can be well thought out even on a low budget.

An au natural (read: graphic) tryst-a-thon whose fashion sense is outweighed only by its bulky sexual intellectualism.

A piece of baseball fluff...Costner cinema, pure and simple.

The comedian's thankful willingness to do anything for Blue Streak...is its redeeming grace.

Spirited, madly educational docu-quickie.

No-fat filmmaking aided by Berri's muscular formalism that, here, occasionally assumes the gritty focus of a taut, action thriller.

This is the most-off-the-mark adaptation of a novel since Brian DePalma's what-was-that "Bonfire of the Vanities."

The finest element in de la Pena's carefully assembled account is how she doesn't simply state the obvious, but lets the meaty facts speak for themselves.

Ineptly written and shot like a fashion mag, rings hollow throughout. It's a long, long way from "Jules and Jim."

A satire whose dead aim stops wounding - and starts making - stereotypes of white middle-classness.

Fancher's placid, eerily subdued first directorial feature.

There's gangsta rap with funnier insights into the opposite sex.

Just another in a long line of blue-collar-kid-at-prep-school movies, and it may be the worst of the lot. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is original in this movie.

In tackling 1000 A.D., (McTiernan)'s suddenly an unwieldy, clunky filmmaker.

Stinks from the Earth to the moon.

The needle on the laugh-o-meter barely budges.

Crime-by numbers-cop drama.

An infuriatingly indulgent piffle of adolescent wish-fulfillment.

As insulting as taking the queen to the Olive Garden.

The art direction is reliably vivid and hyperreal, but director Satoshi Kon and company can't articulate how mentally taxed Mima is without confusing us.

Its finest moments come in sequences such as Alice and Darlene's prison break and the girls' final wrenching plea for freedom.

Priceless enough to flush "Metro," "Dr. Dolittle" and "Holy Man" from memory.

It feels like a trumped up trifle, disinterested in narrative exercises, using instead technique (cinematography, editing and, omigod, a soundtrack!) to swing moods and heighten reality, then send it crashing to earth.

McTiernan's film mines what substance it has from its two stars, but is admittedly about keeping up its own appearances.

Turturro tricks you into thinking there's magic realism streaming through this ode to art and commited love - despite there being little magic and not a trace of reality to speak of.

Ultimately affecting mix 'n' match weeper.

Madhouse satire manages to disarm the second you realize it's laughing with you - and sometimes harder.