Worth seeing, if only for the great cast and John Alcott's always-impressive photography.

As a film, it is earnest, cliched, often awkward and unlikely to inspire anyone who isn't already thoroughly sold on its message of salvation through community activism.

A ludicrous foray into psychological horror.

SUBWAY is DIVA with no brains--a film of all style and little substance. Ah, but what style!

Readers hate to see their favorites messed with by filmmakers, and though devotees will notice changes from Brashares' novel -- some slight and some more substantial -- the film remains true to the book's spirit, and the deviations shouldn't alienate them.

Fun at times, but somewhat long.

Garofalo and Thurman breathe some eccentric life into the cliches, and charming Chaplin is a walking warning to Hugh Grant, almost adorable enough to warrant all the trouble.

There's also precious little chemistry between the players. Only Mol has any charm of which to speak, and, frankly, she deserves much better.

Here the message -- it's not nice to ridicule, mistreat or ignore people just because they're different -- verges on the oppressive; more of the Farrellys' trademark over-the-top comedy would have lightened the load.

Though smartly written and handsomely produced (the film's visual polish is remarkable, given its modest budget and the swanky settings the story dictates), this film would benefit greatly from more bite.

This stodgy film version of the famous Broadway success was one performance too many.

There's nothing hugely original going on here, but as twisty-turny crime thrillers go, this one is perfectly entertaining.

This beautiful but notoriously disappointing film is one of the most overblown epic Westerns of any decade.

The film is an encouraging effort from McCrudden -- he manages to avoid the staginess of the recurring two-characters-in-a-hotel-room set-up -- and features a standout performance from Williams.

Performances are really what count in a character-driven romantic comedy like this, and each is well above the indie average.

It's periodically enlivened by unlikely cameos, including Lou Diamond Phillips as an undercover cop posing as a transvestite hooker and Gladys Knight as a forgotten Motown singer.

The original Carly Simon songs are well performed, but their soothing lullaby qualities may cause those with short attention spans to nod off.

The film's meandering narrative, melodramatic conclusion and underdeveloped characters overshadow the genuinely shocking abuses it condemns.

The frat brothers have some surprisingly touching moments, and their diverse but perfectly matched personalities generate a fairly steady stream of laugh-out-loud moments.

The film's biggest flaw is its excessive running time: The jokes start wearing thin after the first hour and, by the time the credits finally roll, it's become the kind of straightforward gorefest it started out ridiculing.

Woody Allen is among a very few people in the history of film who have provided audiences with really intelligent humor. But even Homer nods, and never has Allen more obviously fallen down on the job than in A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy, a trifle that owes much to Ingmar Bergman in style and to Groucho Marx in content.

Repetitive and uninspired, it panders to the lowest expectations of horror buffs and squanders the efforts of a competent cast.

Although Myers is a brilliant comic, any potential he has as a romantic lead remains unfulfilled.

Sadly, the only aspect of this well-intentioned film that doesn't feel completely formulaic is its refreshingly unromantic picture of an inner-city neighborhood in the early '70s: Life in Nicetown is hard and very, very poor.

if son Nick's adaptation isn't in the same league with Faces or A Woman Under the Influence, he also can't be accused of dropping the ball: He's just not experienced enough to overcome the structural weaknesses of a sporadically brilliant piece of writing.

Fluff in the tradition of Hollywood's screwball comedies of remarriage, lacking the wit or grace of such classics as "His Girl Friday" (1940) and "The Awful Truth" (1937).

Cult New Zealand director Vincent Ward (THE NAVIGATOR) pushes perhaps a little too hard for popularity with this oddly truncated, though engrossing, epic.

Smoothly enjoyable, undemanding entertainment and features a couple of knock-out giant croc attacks.

In all, about a third of the film (most of it contained in three extended sequences) is audaciously funny and genuinely disturbing. The rest will sorely test the devotion of Carrey's fans.

But beneath the bombast it's pure paste and tinsel and, robbed of the thrill of live performance, the show's deficiencies are glaringly apparent.

A tale of conscience lost and found becomes little more than a smart but tepid ghost story for idealists and '60s survivors, and not a terribly spooky one at that.

Though occasionally enlivened by fanciful sequences suggesting the surreal power of Kahlo's vivid inner life, it's often mired in the mechanical accretion of incidents that blights most biographical films.

This is a film for hardcore film fans and Francophiles. Everyone else may find little to sustain them beyond the pastiche and shots of Paris.

Even the dramatic heavy hitters, who include Cox, Gleeson, O'Toole and Julie Christie, as Achilles' mother, are powerless in the face of Pitt's yawning hollowness.

The city looks breathtakingly lovely, the movie's Brazilian characters are charming and filled with joie de vivre, and using excerpts would take care of the fact that the pacing's a bit sluggish for such fluffy material.

The primary difference between the original and the remake is that the latter is in color, though a deliberately subdued color. In addition, the zombies created by Everett Burrell and John Vulich, are far more elaborate than those in the first film.

While the film completely unravels shortly after the opening scene, there a few good performances (notably from Robert Loggia) and the gorgeous cinematography of Robby Muller to cling to as it sinks into a confused abyss.

COMA wastes a superb performance by Bujold on a simplistic, predictable series of cliched suspense scenes, seasoned with some last-minute moralizing about contemporary medicine.

Ultimately, despite striving mightily to give everyone a fair shake, the film kindled the ire of conservative Christians and Muslims anyway.

While The Vampire Lovers is an interesting and entertaining effort, containing excellent performances from both Pitt and Cushing, writers Harry Fine and Michael Style and director Roy Ward Baker seem to shy away from actually addressing the questions of sexuality and repression inherent in the material.

The stepping is terrific and the climactic sequence, a knowing nod to the infamous Bollywood "wet sari" number, is a knock out. But the united colors of we-can-overcome cuties, predictable class conflicts and sanitized keeping-it-real bluster bring the story's intensely formulaic nature into the.

Between the stereotypes and endless tire screeching, there isn't much to care about here.

It's not that the heckling isn't funny -- it is, at least sometimes -- but we just can't stand that smug, superior attitude, predicated on the notion that everything that isn't new and flashy is ipso facto ridiculous.

Beatty hired some superb talents to remake Love Affair, but many of them are dragged down by director Glenn Gordon Caron's velvety kitsch style.

It's a far more interesting film; unfortunately, it's locked inside a maudlin coming-of-age story that barely registers.

The final moment of Minac's film is a powerful tribute to Winton's heroism and the magnitude of his achievement, easily eclipsing the 90 minutes that precede it.

The glammed-up Kinski looks the same age throughout and only has three expressions: angry, wistful, and someone's-killed-my-dog.

Painfully cliched. The music is throbbing and the leads are cute, but there's nothing here viewers haven't seen before.

The actors -- especially Klein and Bernthal -- deliver startlingly powerful performances.

Mega-budget action extravaganzas don't get much sillier than this.

Done in by its tone.

Although Body Snatchers is a competent genre piece with Freudian fillips, there's little there to justify another go-round for what is by now very familiar material.

A smart but disappointingly conventional portrait of an artist who had little use for convention.

The film delivers some genuine laughs — Diggs and Anderson are a hoot throughout — and real rapper Snoop Dogg all but steals the picture with his brief voice turn as Ronnie Rizzat.

This genial little picture, which has been kicking around for more than a year, doesn't have a mean bone in its body.

The real irony is that for all its integrity, the film isn't nearly as thought-provoking as Steven Spielberg's recent "A.I. Artificial Intelligence" or "Minority Report", and nowhere as entertaining.

"Saturday Night Fever" with designer drugs and duds.

What should have been an important addition to popular films about women's rights winds up being the most insulting courtroom drama since "Ally McBeal" was put out of its misery.

In all, it's fairly harmless, tolerably sentimental and mildly entertaining: just the thing for the kind of holiday afternoon when you've had way too much of your relatives.

If director Brad Silberling had taken this cast to their natural extremes, he might have delivered a raucously funny sci-fi comedy -- think "Anchorman" meets "Jurassic Park." Instead, Land of the Lost is an utter misfire -- not bad enough to hate, not good enough to remember.

When the average comedy is aimed at juvenile 12-year-olds of all ages, the fact that Russell's target audience is precocious 12-year-olds of all ages is a significant improvement without actually being a triumph of mature wit over boorish puerility.

One of the most frustrating films of 1990, an epic without epic scope, a muted, strained, unnatural affair that never comes into dramatic focus.

John Sayles' screenplay never takes itself seriously, so the badinage is relaxed and often funny, avoiding the ponderous.

The movie's low budget shows, but the competent (many of them also sitcom veterans) cast keeps things moving smoothly.

Swinton lends Margaret an air of grace under pressure, and fleshing out feelings of domestic dissatisfaction -- a key element that otherwise remains buried in the subtext.

What is grating is the filmmakers' perennial tendency to underestimate their audiences; their lack of faith leads them to drive home each nuance with a hammer.

This sequel to Alfred Hitchcock's classic is surprisingly good. In Psycho II, Norman is a victim of crazed people who insist on persecuting him and, as a result, seems incredibly sane by comparison. Unfortunately the end to Psycho II contradicts this development, turning Norman into a leering loon in preparation for another sequel.

Extremely well-shot espionage thriller that might have worked as an old-fashioned guy's-guy movie if the guys involved had any real, human personality and the espionage were actually thrilling.

Sally Field has actually made a likeable movie.

The film makes a noble attempt to present history in a realistic, nonheroic light, but Hudson is done in by a dull script and some ludicrous (curiously unrealistic) casting (Pacino as a Scot, Sutherland as a Brit, and Kinski as an American).

It's a shame to see such dedicated performers flay their psyches in the service of such fundamentally shallow material.

The story is told with uncharacteristic restraint and benefits from fine performances by Nelligan and Hirsch.

Still odder is the movie's sexual worldview, which is simultaneously infantile and fetishistic. Boys wear rubber, lipstick, and spandex, but don't seem to have a sexual bone in their unmuscled bodies.

Mildly amusing and as obvious as it is good-natured.

The film delivers lots of high-pitched hysteria but never manages to make its spoiled protagonists interesting.

With its flashy, music-video style edits, rock-scored montages and septuagenarian cast, it’s hard to say who, exactly, is the right audience for this unusual comedic drama.

The result is a gracefully plotted spy film in the classic mode, with just enough self-consciousness to keep things interesting.

The all-too-vivid simulation of terrorist attacks, including a prolonged scene of a building collapse in which people are seen plummeting to their deaths and crushed under falling concrete, may strike a very different chord with post-9/11 American audiences.

The unique musical ending is worth the wait.

Outrageous Fortune is an effort on the part of Disney to prove it can distribute adult films, but it only shows that it has no real perception of what such pictures are all about.

Your ability to enjoy G-Force will correlate directly with how funny you find the idea of guinea pigs as action heroes.

Though Argento's plot is often confused and grotesque, he has a remarkably energetic visual style (mobile camera, slow-motion, careful lighting, creative editing) that is never boring.

Alnoy's narrative is better suited to a trashy thriller than a vehicle for weighty political themes.

Unpleasant stuff, and Clark pounces on the material with his usual relish and a discomfiting combination of moralizing and prurience.

Formulaic film recounts the tumultuous birth of Israel.

Here we go again--it's time for a 747 to meet disaster once more with a host of colorful characters to worry about as they go down--and this time they go down 50 feet into the ocean.

The high point of the picture is the antics of Merlin; at one point he's hilariously funny in his absentmindedness, and the next he shows his cunning.

This often-funny film fails to sustain its premise through its entire length. Cambridge is hilarious in his role, but many of the gags are cliched, uninspired, and just what one might have expected from the situation. In order to work, comedy must offer surprises.

Though the film contains many haunting images, the absence of a solid emotional foundation makes its increasingly preposterous story developments feel arbitrary and ultimately pointless.

More of the same, but it's now so far removed from any sense of reality, and done with such ham-fisted insistence, it's become a clumsy parody of itself.

The resulting film is compellingly watchable and consistently entertaining, even if it does feel somewhat disingenuous, given the pedigree of talent involved.

Well-acted first-feature.

Hawn has the right screen persona to carry it off, but her character is lost in a barrage of weak comic moments and absurd action.

Not quite as fresh as the first NAKED GUN, but what can you expect from a film subtitled "The Smell of Fear"?

The film is rather haphazard in its visual style and plotting, tallying up to a confused condemnation of our lack of morality.

The puppets are depicted simply but effectively, mixing real puppets, undersized actors in costumes, and stop-motion animation. Richard Band's haunting, waltz-timed theme music is back, and visuals expert David Allen, who animated the puppets in the first film, steps behind the cameras here for a somewhat wobbly job of directing.

Mark Orton's overused fiddly score is nice enough, but can't disguise the essential emptiness of overlong scenes.

Features some strikingly intimate footage of Noonan's extended family, but lets Noonan himself drives the show and his colorful tales of villainy that cry out for more context than MacIntyre provides.