The name of Hugo Colace ought to be known to the film world. He is the cinematographer of an Argentinean film called Intimate Stories. Not since some Tibetan films have I seen such vastness, sparsely inhabited, almost ringing with immensity.

All political thrillers, good or less good, have moral implications...Walk on Water, one of the better ones, has grave moral implications and does not ignore them or merely utilize them.

Like some wines, The Best of Youth travels well. From its earliest moments the film is intelligently seen.

It's agreeable to see a picture that holds us without perspiring to do so. We are treated not as an audience but as café chums to whom a story is being told

In every aspect, his film is superbly made.

Turtles Can Fly, is masterly: it courses before us with grace, a control that paradoxically bespeaks love and anger.

At the last, My Mother's Smile conveys that, if Bellocchio is just doggedly hanging on to a career, he is still able to make us feel nostalgia for those high Italian days.

There is not much progress in the film: actions are repeated and repeated...Yet the film is sustained--and, for the most part, well sustained--by the children.

The overall effect is of a young director treating some old problems with the cinematic lexicon of his time. So he is able to create warmth without slush.

Burns with sincerity and serious intent.

The film holds us principally because of its Napoleon. Philippe Torreton doesn't perform the role: he exists.

Weitz's dialogue has sparkle and snap.

What Radford has retained of the original, he treats warmly and intelligently, and with a few welcome surprises in the acting. But he has produced a different work, moderately successful in itself, out of materials provided by Shakespeare.

Sympathy for a pedophile is difficult, but surely comprehension may be possible, and Bacon evokes it.

This same film, shot for shot, line for line, could have been much more solid and engrossing, much farther up the Parnassian slope, with a better actor as Hughes.

The result is almost like a film we have seen before but don't mind seeing again. The dialogue is generally fresh, the relationships ring true.

If we can watch this picture at all, it is because this universally admired person (Eastwood) is in it.

The finish is so asymmetrical that it, too, seems a comment on the kind of film this might once have been.

Mathilde's story is well enough handled by Jeunet to be endurable, and the rest of the film is a reward.

After the three hours--though it seemed longer--I was still bewildered. Stone is a unique and fiery talent. Why did he make this film?

Leaves the viewer with the sense of a writing-directing talent concocting complexities. Everything he touches is well-turned, but he now feels compelled to put the pieces together in something other than a lucid design.

Dismal and heavy, and the failure rests chiefly with Johnny Depp, who plays Barrie.

Throughout the film a question tugs at the viewer. Kinsey's work was inarguably important, but his life is not especially interesting.

Just a series of episodes: it has no trace of the structure that has supported drama and comedy for two millennia.

Ardant is marvelously genuine: fiery, petty, exalted.

Birth is one of those films occasionally encountered that make me question my nativity or that of the film-makers. Were they and I born on the same planet? If so, how could we now have such vastly different criteria of a film story's believability?

That climax stretches credibility, but the whole point of the piece is that the Joe of the opening has become someone else.

Payne's directing is alert, warm, patient. He knows that the surface must keep us interested until we go below it, and his confidence holds us.