A good, breezy once-over-lightly on the life and times of a Hollywood titan, but not much more.

Herbie without the herb has never been my cup of tea.

But for a lightweight summer romantic comedy, The Perfect Man delivers the goods and includes a couple of scenes that are, surprisingly, fresh and quite funny, both of which, incidentally, involve the music of Styx.

Lacks the energy and vibrancy of the best films to come out of the city in the past few years.

Will make you glad to be living on the same planet as Miranda July.

My Summer of Love may sound like the title of a hot teen flick, but it is a truly refreshing grown-up big-screen film, a rare gem in this summer of duds.

The mild but affable story of an ad man's midlife crisis, King of the Corner is an actor's film in every way.

All of the story is so absurdly humourless that it is dramatically inert, as if Nolan had decided the only way to make the Batman character more substantial was to put weights on his wings.

Alas, around about the third act, the idea grows tired and the whole thing gets derailed. Too bad, because it's a good ride until it isn't.

The filmmakers have also advertised that their new movie eliminates the "Pow! Right in the kisser!" threats of spousal abuse that permeated the original series. The question of audience abuse has yet to be addressed.

For a movie aimed at children, Shark Boy and Lava Girl is gloomy.

With its bold screen-filling imagery, this is definitely a movie to be relished on the big screen.

Wilder's created world is alive with his erudition, his sympathy for his characters in their loneliness and flawed goodness. This film doesn't do him justice but it's a gesture in the right direction.

In 5 x 2, the 2 are terrific; it's the 5 that needs work.

With the notable exception of Martin Scorsese's opus, most boxing flicks suffer form a certain amount of raw-boned sentimentality, the sort of easy melodrama that pits naive underdogs against corrupt overlords, or age against youth, or purity against prejudice. Even the recent "Million Dollar Baby" succumbed in the final act. But this one, where "Rocky" meets "The Waltons," has us reeling under its saccharine weight.

So the questions arises: Why bother watching the contrived fiction when the eye-popping fact is readily available? Answer: Why, indeed.

Since there's no evidence in the film that Green teaches his students how to compose, improvise or experiment with the music, presumably the next wave will come from somewhere else.

For such a mush-ball teen movie, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants carries a welcome amount of grown-up emotional truth.

Though Sandler's resemblance to a pro athlete is indiscernible, his mockery of authority and his penchant for buffoonery and slapstick violence make him more of an heir to Reynolds than might be expected.

Credit Madagascar with negotiating a hopeful truce in the ongoing battle between the computer and the animation. Judged merely by appearances, its look is a lovely compromise. Too bad everything else has been compromised right out of existence.

There's almost a perverse pleasure in watching occasionally weak performers mar an essentially sound screenplay. That's the saving grace of Saving Face -- Wu gets the hard part right.

Unlike "Microcosmos" (all insects) and the acclaimed nature doc "Winged Migration" (all birds), Genesis is bogged down by its intentions and too vast a "cast."

The greatest story ever has finally been told. Or, if you prefer, the damn thing has come to its merciful end.

While Mindhunters aspires to be a psychological thriller, it's really just mindless entertainment.

Luckily for the viewer, Ferrell is an irresistible presence. His occasional moments of unwarranted weirdness are the only thing that makes this otherwise pedestrian movie bearable (let alone interesting) to watch.

Add them up and the sum has a certain mathematical inevitability: Really annoying characters, really annoying movie.

In its defence, the movie means to incorporate Jet's conversion into its theme, serving up his new pacifism as a choice morsel of irony. But it doesn't taste ironic, just bland, and we aren't biting either.

The considerable charm of Mad Hot Ballroom can be traced directly to its choice of subjects. They happen to be 11-year old kids, and the lens loves every precious one of them.