The movie's primary narrative weakness is that its racism plot points seem ripped from the headlines of a "Geraldo" newsletter and stretched into a string of terribly executed car chases.

A dashing fusion of the literary and the cinematic.

Ruiz has made the most ambitious adaptation of a Proust work yet.

It's the year's best movie sex.

Staggering, gorgeously ambiguous.

There are episodes of "Rugrats" with stronger sexual suspense.

This is not the addictive, hot-wired movie you want.

Szabo doesn't bring the film to its senses until just past the halfway point.

The writer-director has come up with a sumptuous, happy piece of fluff.

Most of American Pimp feels like you've been slipped a Mickey.

A film where suspense and exhilaration are incompatible, and a receding plot line is merely the platform for cars to fly through panes of glass.

An undernourished exercise in pop critique.

A high-spirited, big-bottomed Polaroid of the comedian in a fat suit.

Funny enough that it could make buddy pictures respectable again.

Fans likely to rave about Living.

Moore can't help but be rotten. She has no grace and little nuance, which is why she's always best as a hard-ass in movies.

With a few quiet, moving scenes and a lovely ending, the film betrays an artist's touch, no matter how hard Kitano tries to make it look easy.

It's downright boring.

Woo delivers a vintage breakneck, break-arm, break-face 20-minute finale.

Parents should note the PG rating. There's little bloodshed, but several fight scenes, lots of loud roaring and some overwhelming special effects sequences could vex younger viewers.

Stooge-filled farce offers low laughs but lacks a point.

Slightly more mature and better assembled, Road Trip goes one better on "American Pie" by teasing out the idiosyncrasies in four guys existing in a personality grab bag.

It's a movie so foul even the folks at the NAACP Image Awards would have to look the other way.

What makes Shadow Boxers special is how Bankowsky restores the woman's touch that always seems intentionally excised from coverage of the sport without comprising their participation in the sport.

Aiming to keep it real, the cast of the new dance casserole Center Stage sweats spunk.

If filmmaking has ever been less thrilling and more disengaging, I'd like to see it.

Hamlet finds in Hawke's greatish performance a Great Dane for this, or any other, modern moment.

Things stay standard-issue French self-analytical from here.