In terms of cleverly hidden exposition, this ain't "The Sixth Sense."

Pretty hysterical.

Middlebrow art has its built-in pitfalls, not the least of them sentimentality and intellectual flabbiness -- both of which are in abundant supply in Bagger Vance.

There are lots of elements that make no sense whatever.

Better to wait for movies like Bedazzled on video and watch Fraser in the theatre when he goes back to playing with Gods and Monsters instead of the Devil.

Belongs somewhere in the low middle of Altman's output -- not up to "Cookie's Fortune," but way better than, say, "Beyond Therapy," which remains his worst film by some margin.

Kay doesn't seem to know the meaning of moderation.

By the end, we simply have no idea what he (Lee) feels or what the film is really about. And we are too worn out to care.

Never before have two such skilled actors been so monstrously squandered in a movie so replete with failed gags and pathetic gaffs.

Chilling and technically proficient and, also, fairly hollow.

Perfectly effective when judged on its own merits, but is that really enough anymore?

Generally engaging.

It more or less makes sense and it's not dull -- more than can be said for many similar attempts.

Worth watching.

What distinguishes The Watcher from all the films it consciously or unconsciously emulates is the intermittently witty, offbeat writing of debuting screenwriter David Elliot.

Solidly entertaining if not remarkably innovative.

A must-see movie, simply for its awe-inspiring production values, but you'll feel nothing but punished by Tarsem's ghoulish parade of images.

Pop junk, an airport paperback, literally, turned into a mid-budget devil thriller.

Better in the end to skip it, and make Mother go it alone.

The film becomes so much urgent nonsense, its killing spree neither cheaply thrilling nor even more cheaply cathartic. It's only gory.

A teen screamer with enough implants for the boys and enough bitchiness for the girls.

An utterly competent, systematically entertaining summer movie.

Offers, on a drop-by-drop basis, more semen than a Ron Jeremy flick.

For me, the Farrelly Brothers never rise beyond the late-night tittering of kids at summer camp.

Redeems itself with a bold and grungy action-adventure flavor.

Singleton's lack of influence makes Quentin Tarantino's "Pulp Fiction" look far funkier in comparison.

It's a comedic caper with a slap-your-head-in-kookiness that ends up making Allen, at this age, seem like an old man desperately still trying to ham it up at the dinner table.

The Big Kahuna -- for its superb performances -- wants to be too much, but is about too little, working better as a series of fine monologues than as a cohesive story, the film's makers trapped somewhere between potential and reality, deal unclosed.