Antoine Fuqua’s second-rate retread of his own "Training Day" is a bloated, multithread drama concerning three burnt-out cops at the end of their seemingly unconnected ropes.

The movie isn’t quite suitable for the extremely young, but its apocalyptic tint may be catnip for smart preteens. They’ll breathe in the chilly air of a mysterious forest--the way forests should be.

It’s impossible to believe these three clashing personalities would put up with one another for whatever loose change they could split as Washington Square Park buskers. You’re better off giving your money to a real street performer.

Still a mystery: Harlan’s own sense of guilt. But there’s plenty to go around.

Desperation oozes from every frame of Cop Out, which front-loads its best joke -- then spends the rest of its running time endlessly spinning its wheels.

Unlike Romero’s film, what’s missing is a trenchant sense of connection to our historical moment.

Why do we care? Because never before have the steps to thugdom, as depressing as that destination may be, been so rigorously detailed, neither romanticized nor negated. Don’t miss.

Despite the unsubtlety of the movie’s stance, a dizzyingly complex portrait emerges: that of pissed-off museum neighbors, arrogant critics and even the NAACP’s dignified Julian Bond, articulating a racial component.

The dialogue is blandly speechified and the film’s pro-Taiwan agenda seems to have taken precedence over our enjoyment.

Instead of pushing deeper into any psychological dilemmas, this dirty-laundry doc gets lost in a sensationalistic flurry driven by a serious emotional unraveling.

It’s a shame that Toe to Toe adheres so stridently to Indiewood clichés.

Even though the Bello-Hurt thread is unconvincingly brought up to date at the end, this inside-out movie gets good mileage out of letting us watch characters watch each other.

Geraghty’s performance is harrowing: Clinging to the phone and tortured by his ecstasy, he weaves empathy out of a flawed loner’s dysfunctional fetish.

Shutter Island is slumming: minor but enjoyably nuts.

You can’t deny the inspirational qualities of the story or Parker’s screen presence, any more than you could accuse the film of subtlety or of masking its conspicuous pro-Christian agenda.

Polanski has made a genre piece with a verve and vitality that’s in sadly short supply.

Such passé testosterone worship might have been passable if the filmmaking weren’t so amateurish--every emotional exchange is accompanied by insipid, high-volume pop songs--and the film’s self-satisfied chest-thumping didn’t extend to its creator as well.

This film will make you cry tears. They won’t be happy ones.

Offers not just a rare portrait of urban septuagenarians, but one without a hint of dewy-eyed nostalgia.

Kleine forgoes good-old-days nostalgia in an effort to examine a generation that braved the new America sans a rule book. But it’s the central mystery of Cindy’s own life--did Phyllis ever love Harold?--that turns this sociological examination into something profoundly personal.

Sly and suggestive, Lourdes is a cosmic black comedy that bumps up against the metaphysical.

Speed can be a virtue, but there’s something extremely off-putting about the way The Wolfman, Universal’s latest horror classic redux, races through its opening scenes.

Mirthless, episodic fantasy saga.

The surprising thing here is how smoothly this over-iced cake goes down.

Jersey Shore may be the hyped example of trashy onscreen “reality,” but this portrait of an upstate working-poor family forsakes guilty-pleasure exploitation and simply wows you in every other way.

Stunning, eerily atmospheric.

Roberta Torre’s debut takes true incidents from the Mafia wars that plagued Palermo in the late ’80s and kicks them into a deliriously gaudy farce.

His own worst enemy, Finkelstein has both trouble and tragic writ large on his brow.