What could have been an insightful, irresistible movie is instead a simple, self-contained fable, pleasing to look at but meaningless

What mystifies, too, is the complete absence of information about Salerno-Sonnenberg's private life.

If your name's on the marquee, chances are your agent's already dead.

The majestic pageant of images - no sylvan landscape has been this indelibly, dimensionally alive - is inextricably welded to the multifold spiritual / ecological questions about the future that Miyazaki is contemplating.

It's the film we leave most movie theaters wishing we'd seen instead.

Overlong, naggingly pretentious, more absurd than absurdist and a cruel, cruel bore.

As innocuous as the love songs on its soundtrack.

It's scant to the point of irrelevance.

An ecstatic sensory experience so overloaded it hardly matters that the narrative has been placed on a back burner.

A dimwitted, fill-in-the-blanks horror opus that slanders a fine and useful mammal.

There's enough sexual manic depression to justify house calls from Dr. Laura.

Feels like it could go blow up at any time. It implodes instead, and the meltdown, though visible in one of the final sequences, is still corrosive.

A momentously, shockingly moving fit of shape-shifting by a filmmaker grown tired of the macabre.

It's the rawest, most hot-blooded, provocatively audacious, dangerous movie to come of out Hollywood this year.

Like a guy who finally gets what he wants, you just want to go home once it's over.

Makes a term like neo-noir seem like a fatuous catch phrase.

The least opaque of Antonioni's films, unburdened by stylishness and his imagistic inflammations.

There's an unstable genius brewing beneath Mary Katherine's scarlet headband. As "SNL" women go, only Gilda Radner seemed as willing to rib so much of herself for our pleasure.

Boys Don't Cry's intensity sneaks up on you like a snake.

It's soft-edged fun that loses direction (or, given the scattershot plot, directions).

Not as predictable as the rest of its ilk.

An impressively competent "how will male teen star get with female teen star at high school dance?" romance.

A work of strangely bold, distinctly American pop art - proud to be ashamed, ashamed to be proud, unafraid to ignore its commercial bearings.

A document of vexing (and vexed) immediacy.

Entertainment made well enough that you can overlook its absurdities.

The story of a trainer and three of his boxers trying to break away from the confines of a gym in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. Each story is strong, gripping in its own way. But you've heard them all before.

Often grating in its presentation.

A flyweight, humongously entertaining ensemble number.