Despite the testosterone-charged violence and jaw-dropping sexism, the tone is one of self-conscious excess - a strategy which constantly undercuts the film's celebration of male bonding conventions.

Leaden, laden with effects, short on imagination.

Craven aims for an archetypal confrontation between childlike innocence and wicked step- parent cruelty, but the results are more grim than Grimm.

The twist at the end is devastating, forcing you to view the film as a character study rather than a thriller, which places it in the Detective Story and The Offence bag...Gripping, though.

If you don't take it seriously, it's a lot of fun.

Savoca skilfully negotiates the nastiness of the opening scenes: four Marines organise a party, the object of which is to see who can bring along the most unattractive date. She is almost as successful with the potentially maudlin central section, after Phoenix has picked up Taylor, and remorse segues into affection and tenderness.

For this rites-of-passage drama, screenwriter Jenny Wingfield draws on personal recollections; but while she brings intelligence to the depiction of teen angst, her attempt to follow formula means that the heart-warming tone steadily becomes overheated.

This tale of a 34-year-old quarterback's return to college football is marginally less funny than wearing a jock-strap on your head, and less original than putting Ralgex down your opponent's shorts.

Floridly romantic and serenely excessive (men shot a dozen times don't die, guns never need reloading), it has the bravado of a minor classic.

Potentially potent and not without naive charm, but ultimately a masturbatory ejaculation of all too personal juices.

Terminally boring.

A gritty, naturalistic comedy blessed with a wry, affectionate eye for the absurdities of the band's various rivalries and ambitions; and the songs are matchless.

Utter rubbish, and badly dressed at that.

A misfire.

The idea of two Van Dammes must have seemed workable on paper, but both exude the charisma of a packet of Cup-a-Soup, and not even Van Damme seems able to tell himselves apart.

Caton-Jones views all the characters with undisguised affection; the whole thing bubbles along nicely in a fresh, witty, unselfconscious manner, making you forget the dated Capra-corn message.

Like a sex education film made by semi-liberated nuns, the movie keeps its sticky truths hidden beneath a veneer of leering cleanliness.

This 1990 documentary does for voguing what David LaChappelle’s ‘Rize’ recently did for krumping: provides a fascinating portrait of a complex, materially disadvantaged subculture structured around intensely competitive aesthetic displays later plundered for a Madonna video.

The grim, black humour of yore sporadically breaks through the glossy sheen, providing moments of vintage vitriol.

The war scenes are extraordinary, although thrown in far too liberally; even better are the daft tableaux vivants which seem to comprise Archangel's only entertainment.

The mix of comedy, '90s sensibility, and swashbuckling action is more hit than miss, even if the overall effect is rather slapdash. Spirited, irreverent stuff, but not for those who like their myths kept sacred.

This is a sassy little comedy of wit and intelligence from the director of Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. As Swell, Applegate is appealing and resourceful, while Coogan's dope-head Kenny contributes to a wonderfully dry, on-going marital spoof. Getz is the unctuous boardroom chauvinist to a tee, and Cassidy rounds off the picture's relaxed Cosmo-feminism as Swell's scatty boss.

Instead of showing how prejudice seeps into the private intimacies of daily life, the film turns its attention to the other characters, including Flipper's junkie brother Gator (Jackson), who fuels a subplot evoking the destructive effects of crack on black society. Sadly, this aspect, which allows Lee his most unsettling and impressive scene, seems loosely tacked on to the main thrust of the film.

This boisterous comedy allows Mayall to be completely naughty, to shock, to offend...and to exasperate beyond belief.

Writer-director Columbus never really hits his stride (is this a drama about overcoming loneliness, or a comedy about a domineering mother?). Worse, he can't resist indulging in overwrought fantasy sequences which, far from being funny, serve to undermine the prevailing tender mood.

Keshishian's record of the 'Blonde Ambition' tour is memorable not so much for the live footage (electrifying, but brief), nor for the few risqué moments contrived to provide hype, but for its study of the loneliness of stardom and the ties of family.

Stuntman turned director Baxley piles on the corpses, punch-ups and exploding cars with the passion of a pro in this formulaic action fodder.

Raffill's heavy-handed direction is jam-packed with product placement, and interrupted every ten seconds with yet another plug for a boring MOR rock song.