It's a testament to Norton's utter immersion in the role that he can even halfway connect the dots between this fundamentally sweet, brainy kid and the magnetic, white trash monster who'll haunt our minds long after the movie's liberal pieties fade into static.

Living Out Loud becomes an ode to openness, to letting in everything that the world throws at you.

Benigni's movie made me want to throw up.

An aching roundelay, a triumphantly benumbed ensemble farce that mingles condescension and compassion in a manner that's disarmingly--and often upsettingly--original.

Weds an epic, sometimes visionary, depiction of the afterlife to a script and story with fewer psychological layers than the average Hallmark card.

The film, smoothly directed by David Dobkin, has a neat farcical structure but is too in love with its overly tight-lipped protagonist and deadpan pacing.

It has a gritty feel and a tight, methodical, one-thing-after-another tempo.

Pecker is a breezy, agreeable picture--a charmer, thumbs-up, three stars--but there's something disappointing about a John Waters film that's so evenhanded and all-embracing, even if its sunniness is "ironic."

The first real Jackie Chan picture crafted for the American market, is a terrific piece of junk filmmaking.

The movie's themes are enormously resonant, which makes its doddering tastefulness that much more frustrating.

Because I'm a sucker--I was entertained...The script is good at making you think that it has better cards than it really does. And the actors constitute a royal flush--OK, OK, enough with the poker metaphors.

There's something reassuring about the fact that The Avengers is so rotten: proof yet again that people with piles of money can hire wizard production designers but can't fake class.

The Slums of Beverly Hills never gels, but it has a likable spirit, and it's exceedingly easy on the eye, with lots of pretty girls and wry evocations of '70s fashions and decor.

Return to Paradise doesn't boast many surprises. It's straight-on, morally uncomplicated. Emotionally, though, it's dense and twisty -- and smashingly potent.

A thriller of serpentine excitement all the way up to that dud of a climax.

What Steven Spielberg has accomplished in Saving Private Ryan is to make violence terrible again.

Lyne has created, from a screenplay by Stephen Schiff, an earnest movie about a man who, by falling in love with his emotionally immature stepdaughter, ends up destroying himself.

Even when you're able to guess the next calamity, it's still a shock in its ejaculatory intensity. The Farrellys never throw in the towel. Pretentious Sundance independents could learn a lot from such pistols.

This is very much a first feature, with all the hyperbolic, sometimes indiscriminate cinematic energy of a student film. But it's also sensational, a febrile meditation on the mathematics of existence.

Armageddon is awesome, dude, but it's, like, short on awe.

Gallo’s movie is terrific, an original and disarming vision of a life that's all skids.

Soderbergh contrives the perfect voice for Leonard's prose--laid-back and grooving when it needs to be, but also taut, with the eerie foreboding of violence about to erupt.

The X-Files isn't so much a bad movie as it is a crackerjack piece of television. It's crisply made--not sodden like many of the "Star Trek" pictures. But it's as annoyingly open-ended as the rest of the series' episodes.

A sharp-witted, visually layered, gorgeously designed, meticulously directed piece of formula pablum.

It has been sexed up, opened out, and finished off with a disappointing bang-bang climax, but it's still good fun.

This is a rhythmless, stupefying work. A person with no discernible pulse ought not to be directing a movie about disco.

A truly unformulaic comedy of lust and greed, a farce that seems to write itself, slap-happily, as it goes along.

The film has a kamikaze comic spirit that's spectacularly disarming.