For all the tear-jerking plot twists, it's a glumly dry-eyed affair.

The script, based on a Dark Horse comic-book series, is hugely predictable, but the robot effects by veteran Phil Tippett are nastily entertaining.

This coming-of-age drama scores big points for trying to honestly tell a story rather than just pass the time.

An intensely internalized portrait of external pandemonium, a slippery, insidiously haunting work of poetry rather than brilliantly realized pulp.

Campy hogwash.

Caustic and despairing, Shrader's film lacks the delicate beauty of Atom Agoyan's "Sweet Hereafter," but has just as much bitter power.

First-time feature director Tucker displays an astonishingly assured touch, allowing his phenomenal cast to creep into their characters' skins and surrounding them with images of shimmering and slightly threatening beauty.

Exactly the kind of sporadically clever, button-pushing fright-fest that keeps genre fans hanging on until something more fulfilling comes along.

Courtroom dramas that favor the courtroom over the drama are always in danger of eye-glazing dullness.

The most impressive thing about it is that the actors manage to sound so earnest while mouthing the most shameless cliches imaginable.

Williams isn't really playing Adams: He's once again playing himself, and the act is getting tired.

Joe himself is an amazing creation, less personable, to be sure, than the original lovelorn King Kong, but a far more fully realized character than any of the flesh and blood humans by whom he's surrounded.

Predictable but sometimes moving.

In a film about the ruthless corporate destruction of small businesses, it's hard not to flinch at the prominent placement accorded IBM, Starbucks and AOL logos.

Features a first-rate voice cast and state-of-the-art animation that's nothing short of miraculous.

Boorman's original script is razor sharp and very funny, and Gleeson's portrayal is nothing short of brilliant

Their downward spiral is like a slow-motion highway pileup: You might think you don't want to watch, but you can't tear your eyes away.

This delightful, fast-paced and entirely fictional imagining of Shakespeare's life during the writing of "Romeo and Juliet" brims with witticisms predicated on the determination to have a rollicking good time exploring the link between libido and creativity.

This film is the product of artists working at the peak of their powers.

It's an interesting story, more accessible to non-Trekkers than previous entries.

The cloying odor of therapy hangs over this preachy holiday fable about a boy whose neglectful dad dies and comes back as a snowman.

Actress Jane Horrocks is so good in this drama that you'll hardly notice -- or care -- that the rest of the film isn't quite up to snuff.

Van Sant's film feels as dated as Hitchcock's, and Hitchcock's has the better excuse.

The saucy repartee will amuse adults, while the climactic showdowns -- yes, there are more than one -- are gripping entertainment for the whole family.

In a world filled with crude movie sitcoms, Berg's bitter, worst-possible-case scenario really does stand alone.

The film boasts slick production values and a charmingly modest turn from the charismatic Barrymore, but it's too trifling and uneven to be a good date movie.

Destined to be a crowd-pleaser though it may be, this collection of Irish quirks and "charm" tied together by a slender plot also leans heavily in the direction of predigested commercial claptrap.

Filled with moments of real poignancy and gentle epiphanies, the film is also marked by strong Christian undercurrents, but, like everything else in Salles's film, they're handled with extraordinary delicacy and never feel exclusionary.

Self-indulgent wallow in privileged malaise.

Intermittently snappy and featuring slicker animation than its TV incarnation, this popular children's cartoon may satisfy its youngest fans, but it'll be a big snoozefest for the rest of the family.

Tony Scott's thriller is flashy, but it's not dead stupid and it's never dull.

It doesn't pay to look too closely at this sumptuous fantasy, but if you're in the right mood to let it wash over you it's very warm and fizzy indeed.

The less you demand of this bloody, by-the-numbers sequel, the more you'll enjoy it.

The conspicuous lack of emotional resonance makes this film "Queen Margot's" poor cold English cousin.

Zwick frequently sacrifices dramatic urgency in the name of sobriety.

It's a shimmering, thorny, and consummately self-aware valentine to a paradise, however illusory, lost.

No one does deranged quite like Kathy Bates (the film's running gag involving Bates and the delicacies of Cajun cuisine is hilarious).

Witty and beautifully textured.

The medium overwhelms the message, but music video director Hype Williams' feature debut still has far more on its mind than it first lets on.

It's Norton who makes the film such an enlightening experience, and he's mesmerizing.

Ostensibly an "adult comedy" about serious things, screenwriter Richard LaGravenese's disjointed directing debut rings profoundly false, a story about class distinctions and suffering conceived and executed in privilege.

James Woods adds another hateful, embittered creep to his gallery of losers, neurotics and junkyard dogs with vampire slayer Jack Crow.

Benigni wants to tell a poignant fable rooted in the love between a father and son, but everything hinges on whether one finds his gags inspired or tasteless. Humor can only save some of us.

His (Ross) sophisticated handling -- and the efforts of his able cast, notably the stellar Joan Allen -- produces a surprisingly accomplished cumulative effect.

Do director Bryan Singer and screenwriter Brandon Boyce really mean to suggest that the roots of genocide lie in homosexual desire?

It's all pretty tasteless, but surprisingly chaste and not very funny.

The horror of the images is unforgettable, but what lingers are the small particulars of the survivor's stories, recalled as if it all happened yesterday.

[Solondz's] blistering, brilliantly transgressive satire is sure to rattle even the most jaded filmgoer. It's also a remarkably compassionate profile of American life at its most desperate.

They've taken material with the power to insinuate itself directly into the realm of the imagination, and made it strangely inert and lifeless.

You can see the outline of an interesting movie beneath the cutesy-pie characterizations and heavy-handed mockery of small-town small-mindedness, but any chance it might have had is short-circuited by director Griffin Dunne's overwhelming inability to establish a consistent tone for the admittedly off-kilter material.

God bless Jennifer Tilly, who attacks her role in this third sequel to 1988's killer-doll picture CHILD'S PLAY with incomparable slutty brio.

This creepy and cryptic early film from director Arnaud Desplechin isn't as assured as his MY SEX LIFE... (OR HOW I GOT INTO AN ARGUMENT), but it has its own intriguing charms.

The movie's tone fluctuates wildly, suggesting that no one was exactly sure what kind of movie they were making.

Although it begins promisingly enough, with a documentary-like look at the options available to young African-American men who grow up in the "ghetto life," this visually polished film stumbles when it comes to actually telling a story.

The camera never ventures outside, but remains fixed on the action at the table, gliding languidly past the same sepia-toned tableau: In the film's universe, people are indistinguishable and the setting never changes. Hou does succeed in one key respect: His films evokes opium addiction, a narcotic delirium fading into a dreamless sleep.

Adults also are more likely than kids to snicker at jokes.

Steve and Doug's story just isn't funny, and it would take far better writing than Kattan, Ferrell and Steve Koren can muster to make it less than an ordeal.

The insidious influence of too much therapy permeates this misguided and very long picture.

Between Nahon's pressure-cooker performance and the director's assaultive style (he's fond of brooding long takes interrupted by shotgun blasts of lurching, skip-frame edits and bold intertitles), the film would be an unbearable expression of rage, except that Noé's winking, nearly absurd sense of humor offers a disconcerting reminder of the unreality of it all.

Nasty fun all around.

Frankenheimer pretty much ignores everything that's happened in the action and thriller genres since 1975, and mostly that's a good thing.

Fun if you like this kind of thing and don't expect too much of it.

We've come a long way from the filthiest people in the world: Who knew Waters could be so bland?

The fewer movies like this you've already seen, the better this one will play.

The crime story here is lazily constructed, mostly an excuse for the give-and-take between Tucker and Chan, which is shrill and raucous without being especially clever.

The framing story is pointless and almost insulting, even though it's part of former New York Times columnist Anna Quindlen's novel.

James Ivory's direction is meandering in the best sense: Rarely obvious or predictable, he quietly builds a complex portrait of a intimate family.

This cautionary tale, complete with the swank cars, cool clothes and depraved babes that inevitably accompany degradation Hollywood style, is based on former sitcom scribe Jerry Stahl's lurid tell-all memoir of his descent into heroin addiction. Under the witty surface, the moral seems to be "The devil made me do it." Even by sitcom standards, that's old.

Richly atmospheric but a little thin in the character department: It feels oddly truncated, despite nicely textured performances.

Irving's dead-serious sense of spiritual purpose is here replaced with weepy sentiment and saccharine comedy. But knee-deep in syrup, the film manages to stand on its own -- mainly due to a terrific performance from young Smith and a host of winning supporting players.

Natali's film has a fabulous look, a nerve-wracking, claustrophobic mood, a number of genuinely suspenseful set-pieces and some sublimely stomach-churning special effects.

Hong Kong action pioneer Tsui Hark is in high form here, tricking out the bare-bones story with disorienting camera angles, trick photography and virtuoso action sequences.

"Saturday Night Fever" with designer drugs and duds.

The few good lines go to Kristofferson and the ever-amusing Kier, but Snipes's considerable energy is buried under an affectless, Terminator-style demeanor.

Anderson pulls it off, thanks in large part to his witty writing, punchy editing and a likable supporting cast.

The horror of LaBute's articulate, self-deluded characters is that they're both sharply drawn and just vague enough that you can insert face here.

The story's not much, but this dark comedy contains moments of unexpected wit.

This big-budget bore looks lovely but is so miscalculated that you can't help but wonder whether anyone involved had ever seen the original.

The film flawlessly captures the directionless alienation of youngsters whose families are in no shape to guide them through the turbulence of their teenage years.

This lushly produced, lightweight romance embraces every cliche of the genre without so much as an ironic shrug.

Despite solid performances from the leads, it comes shrouded in a heavy cloud of ethics-class complications that makes it feel like a "dilemma of the week" TV movie.

The identity of the bad guy is ludicrously obvious; and his public unmasking relies on the dopiest contrivance in recent memory.

This efficient fright machine features a knowing cameo by Curtis's mom -- "Psycho's" Janet Leigh -- a couple of bloody good scares and a genuinely affecting performance from Curtis.

Is it funny? Sporadically.

Once upon a time there was a feisty young woman who didn't sit around twiddling her pretty thumbs and singing "Someday My Prince Will Come." That's the revisionist spin on Cinderella, and it twirls very nicely.

Goldbacher's film is lovely to look at, but the blurry heart of the film only suffers by the comparison.

The technology for twinning a single young actress is considerably more seamless than it was in 1961, and Lohan is a perky charmer.

This taut crime thriller is a welcome antidote to brainless action extravaganzas in which the mayhem is the message, and rests on two shrewd, perfectly modulated performances.

The movie's greatest strength lies in phenomenal performances that reach from the leads right down to the smallest supporting roles.

While Poirier's gentle touch is part of the film's overall charm, it's also what may lead some to find the whole journey a little draggy. Nevertheless, it's a good way to spend a couple of hot summer afternoon hours: It's often very funny, the acting is fine and the gorgeous CinemaScope cinematography manages to capture all the raw beauty of Brittany without ever coming off as pretty-pretty.

Lyne's direction is sometimes overblown -- debauched playwright Clare Quilty's (Frank Langella) appearance amid the pale fire of exploding bug-zappers really is a bit much -- and the unfortunate fact is that the novel is one long tease, an intricate, seductive game in which words are as important as deeds.

Old-fashioned fun that goes down as smoothly as a vintage cocktail.

The laughs are low -- very low -- and the comedy often flags. But two elaborate sequences involving a bad-tempered little ankle-biter are standouts.

Its power lies both in Aronofsky's evocation of tightly wound paranoia and in his flawless dovetailing of personal obsession and cultural anxieties.

Cynical and contemptuous of its audience, this lazy sequel oozes an insufferable air of self-satisfaction.

Bindler's slice of the American pie is a slim one, but it's fascinating none the less.

Yes, it's a testosterone cocktail, but at least it doesn't leave you feeling as though you've been tumbled around in a gem polisher for two-and-a-half hours.

Gallo's poor, poor pitiful me routine wears very thin, very fast, but Ricci is incandescent, a softly-glowing dumpling of a dream-girl in powder-blue fishnet tights and sparkly tap shoes: She's the diamond in the dirt.