A perky though not terribly imaginative feature aimed primarily at youngsters.

A good idea for a sophisticated comedy lurks within the latest Jon Favreau-Vince Vaughn collaboration, Couples Retreat, but the filmmakers lack the courage of their convictions. So the payoff is mixed at best.

The film lacks the juice promised by the teaming of such extraordinary filmmakers with a cast as large as a Hooverville encampment.

Definitely has its amusing moments, but ultimately all that improvised shtick gets mighty tired without any real break in the nonaction.

An initially intriguing plot line makes a messy getaway in this throwback heist movie.

The story is a sketchy, dramatically muddled rumination on familiar Williams themes about the Old South and its brave, beautiful, rebellion women always on the brink of love, suicide or madness.

With its intelligence at the level of the simple-minded, however, the film is not likely to attract moviegoers who seek something more than a screen filled with kaleidoscopes of colored metal. Fan boys will no doubt love it, but for the uninitiated it's loud, tedious and, at 147 minutes, way too long.

9 never adds up to much. It's a dark adult film that gives itself over to the chases and frights of a kiddie movie.

Might do good business at home and abroad among audiences unconcerned with the finer points of characterization or psychological insight.

In Arnold's absence, an important ingredient of the "Terminator" iconography -- namely, the fun factor -- is in short supply.

Although the movie was clearly made on the cheap, cinematography, sets and costumes belie the modest budget. No one will be thunderstruck by the insights buried in "Valentine's Day," but couples seeking romantic fluff probably will find just enough humor and heart to satisfy them.

Turns Jane Austen's nimble satire into a lumbering gothic romance.

Trite, grim and feebly provocative.

Dunderheaded delirium from writer-director Bobcat Goldthwait.

A campy pastiche of horror and high-school movie cliches, the film only rises above standard-issue scare fare by dint of Cody's sneaky sense of humor.

A couple of rather Dickensian supporting roles by Robbie Coltrane and Maximilian Schell fall embarrassingly flat as they are more creations of costumes and makeup than actual flesh-and-blood. But then the same can be said for the entire movie.

Fukunaga clearly exhibits a flair for spirited storytelling, but when Sin Nombre departs from the specifics of its unique world in favor of more conventional genre execution, it leaves the characters and audience adrift.

Though it's nice to see Mendes take a looser, not quite so studied approach to his filmmaking, some stops along the way -- like a detour to visit Burt's suddenly single brother (Paul Schneider) -- feel dramatically off-course.

In "Virginia Woolf," George and Martha are locked into a symbiotic, disturbingly needy relationship that absolutely feed off their acidic battles. But for Revolutionary Road's Frank and April Wheeler, you wonder: Why don't they just get a divorce?

It might well be time for a creative rebooting; the freshness, if not the viscera, has begun to strongly diminish.

Unfortunately, the whole seldom adds up to the sum of its illustrious parts, and Jarmusch's trademark deadpan quirks seem to have gotten lost in the translation.

There is nothing we haven't seen here before in terms of chases, intrigue and betrayals, so for all its A-list cast and production values, the film comes off as routine.

Hard luck conspires with bad sex in this unspectacular Austrian tale of crime and punishment.

One long wallow in sordidness.

The film, written (with Steven Rogers) and directed by Richard LaGravenese, is long and drags in places. But the chief problem is that "P.S." feels like a gimmick.

Maybe Humpday needed more characters and a less claustrophobic atmosphere. Maybe the film needed to be bolder and break a few boundaries itself. Maybe it could have better explained why these two men still need to be friends. Whatever the case, it certainly needed a better payoff.

But nothing taps his own particular talents to unsettle audiences with truly edgy material. Funeral gets no more edgy than a potty joke and a corpse tumbling out of a coffin. This is nothing more than juvenile slapstick.

At best, Racing Stripes should play nicely to youngsters with the cutoff for enjoyment extending no further than midteens.