Like its seven subjects, it can't see past the immediate demands of addiction, and the film becomes a seemingly endless string of scenes depicting shooting up, nodding out and waiting around for the next fix.

It's actually quite interesting, albeit in a supremely self-conscious and artsy-fartsy way.

Watts is good -- occasionally very good -- and her willingness to be filmed at unflattering angles, in pore-wallowing or with bright blue ice cream smeared on her face is admirable.

Directed with flair by George Pan Cosmatos and filled with sly references to Moby Dick and The Old Man and the Sea, this film is a successful blend of terror and humor, played with some real fervor by Weller.

A strange movie that doesn't seem to know what it wants to be. Sentimental, biting, satirical, whimsical, and self-righteous, it begins with a romp at high speed, then goes straight into a hole from which it never emerges.

Coming at a time when the settlements on the Gaza Strip are being dismantled, Cedar's film offers a sly critique of their origins, and refreshingly different point of view.

An erratic but compelling film that lingers long after the fade-out.

Ultimately, aside from the valiant efforts of pros like Elizabeth McGovern and the effortless Bill Pullman, The Favor is virtually indistinguishable from recent direct-to-video exploitation comedies

Where the hero of Maupin's novel learns some valuable lessons about love and faith, the film strikes a darker, even angry tone that's far more understandable and, in the end, far more convincing.

Everything looks fabulous, but the fight scenes are stagy, the dialogue stilted, the characters underdeveloped and the tone superficially cynical.

Not one to overstay its welcome, this suspenseful tale is an economic exercise in delivering the goods for those who are interested in a two-fisted Liam Neeson vehicle to soak up, bask in, and then leave behind as soon as it's over.

Should be shown in theaters that offer seats with tissue dispensers built right into the arm rests.

The inspired pairing of "Talledega's" Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly, two actors smart enough to play dumb and make it work.

Ask New York-based filmmaker Amos Poe, who badly botches this profile of the artist with a sloppy structure, careless editing and amateurish optical effects that detract from what's actually good about the film: Earle's music.

Striking lack of originality.

Most of what goes wrong here can be blamed on the script, which provides little of the smart and snappy dialog needed to pull off a film like this.

Mona Demarkov may not be a convincing woman, but she's an awe-inspiring embodiment of the female principle at its most devouring, Medusa, Kali, and praying mantis all rolled into one frilly, garter-wrapped package.

Everyone does his or her own singing--a mistake, except in the case of Presnell. Eastwood talk-sings effectively, a la Rex Harrison, but Marvin sings so badly that his numbers are camp classics.

Very possibly the most ruthlessly irritating comedy since the dreaded "S.F.W." attempted to put its finger on the pulse of young America, and that's saying something.

Kilmer slips in and out of a series of ludicrously elaborate disguises, some more convincing than others, while poor Shue shuffles through the role of a sexy, book-reading babe pretending to be a dowdy lady scientist in kneesocks.

Henkel's directing debut isn't incompetent: It's just derivative, pointless and tediously repetitive.

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

Shot in gloomy shades of gray, this earnest but banal story about the legacy of bad parenting strands fine actors in a contrived situation and lets them squirm.

The slim story gets swamped by the stunning visuals.

Uneven and inaccurate as it may be, it's hard to wash out entirely with a movie that explores as neglected an aspect of classic gangster mythology as this one; at the same time, you can't help but wish it did so more successfully.

Like Larry, Cadillac Man doesn't know quite what it wants to do. At first the film seems to be a low-key comedy about a small-time hustler, then it becomes a kind of Dog Day Afternoon-style melodrama. Ultimately it is an uneasy mix of the two.

THE SHADOW is the worst kind of homage, recreating childhood enthusiasms in a manner so clunky and unsophisticated that it's actively off-putting, while entirely missing their essence.

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 bad news is that Seitz's protagonists are almost all insufferable: Smug, self-important, opinionated and relentlessly convinced that they're far more sensitive, intelligent and interesting than they are.

YOUNG GUNS is simply not a very good movie--western or otherwise. Fusco's script provides little character development and muddies the narrative with some unlikely supporting characters. Still, it proved to be popular enough to lead to a television spinoff and a sequel in 1990.

Although director Rosman spices up the predictable murders with some stabs at surrealism, a slasher movie is a slasher movie is a slasher movie, and this one soon wears out its welcome.

Slightly better than average Presley fare, Roustabout boasts a better cast than most of the King's films--with Stanwyck's presence lending the production status.

The special effects are unrealistic, as are the dialog and performances. However, despite everything, the picture still makes for great fun.

The diverse elements of the plot are fairly complicated, but Lumet is a strong director who knows how to effectively weave these components together. Gere, in one of his better performances, is the all-important connecting factor. The secondary roles are well cast, with Washington and Learned giving the most assured characterizations.

Disappointing effort from Siegel, although not without some interesting philosophical "hero-antihero" questions.

Since each is more adorable than the one before - and together they're an irresistible mass of squirming speckles - the whole elaborate edifice holds up pretty well.

Unfortunately, the film suffers from the weak script's predictable situations and underdeveloped characters, and the pathos and cliches become hard to take, making Honkytonk Man more of a curiosity piece for followers of Eastwood than a truly compelling story.

This film is pure, empty (if gorgeous) spectacle, and the decision to loose the tongues of the ape planet's humans (they were mute in the original) undermines the contrast that lies at the heart of the story's power.

It's a bad sign when audience enthusiasm peaks during the credits sequence.

Further proof that so-so books often make better movies than good ones.

Though the film's fanciful premise seems more naturally suited to comedy, Bose exploits its more sinister implications surprisingly skillfully until the combined weight of narrative threads involving incest, suicide and murder eventually bog the story down.

The script is often obvious and much of the acting is amateurish (Rakesh's comic sidekicks are just dismal), though Purva Bedi is a shining exception — she's got star quality to burn.

The stunts in Smokey are excellent but the comedy is numbing, and the acting is on a par with a junior high school production of Our Town. Even Gleason comes across badly, and that's a major feat. Adolph Coors and Sons must have been very happy to have a 97-minute commercial for their brew.

Has an intangibly charming goofiness about it that is somehow endearing: here is a movie about teenagers that contains no excessive profanity, no drug references, and no explicit sexual activity.

Music video-trained director Francis Lawrence whips up a witch's brew of gray-on-gray atmosphere, but for all the end-of-the-world mumbo jumbo, nothing much ever seems to be at stake.

Despite Jack Nicholson's galvanizing portrayal, Hoffa is a cold, remote, neo-religious pageant.

There are a few inspired set-pieces -- Ruber's creation of a mechanical army is really quite something -- and the score by David Foster and Carol Bayer Sager is generally fine. But overall, this is a bloodless entry into an already highly formulaic genre.

It's handsomely shot by Stuart Dryburgh and nicely acted, and if it tastes a bit bland, you'll soon forget that, along with just about everything else about it.

The film's resolution is both haunting and satisfying.

The plot line is as simple as they come, and Badham's direction is as mechanical as his star. The human actors are secondary, for the real star of the show is Number 5. He's really pretty charming, though his unusual antics aren't enough to carry a feature-length motion picture.

Despite the impressive special effects, Honey, I Blew Up The Kid offers few surprises. The visual gag of a giant-sized infant is the only real joke the film has and it wears thin in a hurry. The plot is perfunctory and simple, presumably to cater to the attention span of a pint-sized audience.

Labyrinth packs enough surprises to captivate an audience of children and provides enough wisecracking to keep adults laughing.

Although SWAMP THING was definitely aimed at a different audience than THE HILLS HAVE EYES, Craven fails to capture the gothic quality of its comic book inspiration--which had some genuinely frightening and grotesque moments. Instead, the whole thing is merely silly and not much fun.

The premise of LITTLE NIKITA is a great one--worthy of Alfred Hitchcock--but the execution here by director Benjamin is as rickety as can be. About two-thirds into LITTLE NIKITA, the film deteriorates so rapidly that the characters cannot help but fall through the holes. Adding to the frustration of watching this otherwise-promising movie fall apart are the superb performances by Poitier and Phoenix.

A strong cast that flounders in profoundly unappealing material.

Ambitious thriller, which never quite lives up to its aspirations or its cast.

The cast is strong and work together flawlessly, and romantic comedies that take an unabashedly male perspective without being relentlessly vulgar or misogynistic are rare indeed.

It's a frequently funny diversion that doesn't have a mean-spirited bone in its body.

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.

It's cool and spare, but there's an essential lightness to the film's tone despite the heavy material, and Deborah Eve Lewis' glistening B&W cinematography is simply luscious.

Rises above its low-budget limitations by pandering to the most outrageously paranoid fantasies of unhappy office drones.

This surprisingly grim comedy-drama is about as good as director Joel Schumacher gets.

The impulses that produced this project, which brings together three short, English-language films by African female filmmakers into a feature-film package introduced by rap icon Queen Latifah, are commendable, but the results are uneven.

Though apparently conceived as a revisionist Western, Tombstone falls prey to the cliches of the genre, and its last third is a muddle.

Despite the considerable creative and technical talents of those involved, Fat Man And Little Boy is slow, stilted, and stultifying.

LeRoy's direction is apparently nonexistent, but what this movie really lacks is a good musical score with tunes by someone like Harry Warren, Richard Rodgers, or Cole Porter.

The film's wittiest moment comes before it starts: the familiar MGM lion is replaced by a roaring crocodile when the studio's logo appears.

This winning comedy joyfully embraces every possible permutation of love; cupid, it turns out, is indeed blind, and doesn't care much about gender either.

Playing straight man isn't really Barrymore's strength, but former "Simpson's" writer Larry Doyle's script is funny and Stiller is even funnier; he turns even the more juvenile moments in something to laugh at.

The film is a mess from start to finish with several main characters who appear and disappear throughout. No character development, no thematic development, no narrative development. No life. No force. No dice.

Though the clash between old-world parents and their American-born children is familiar territory, New Jersey-born, Taiwan-raised director/cowriter Bay-Sa Pan gives the conflict a culturally particular spin and elicits strong performances from her appealing cast.

Shot on digital video as murky as Masuoka's imagination, its creeping sense of dank dread is as slow to build as it is hard to shake.

Disjointed and underdeveloped. John Badham's direction is equally uninspired, though the climactic race, shot on location during the Coors International Bicycle Classic, is filmed with an abundance of breathtaking helicopter shots that capture the beautiful scenery.

An action thriller from the Joel Silver school of Big Bang filmmaking, Passenger 57 smashes on the runway, an inflated cartoon of excess without a modicum of charm, wit or sense.

Unfortunately, director Robert Wise has no feeling for Trek's pop insouciance, and the movie unfolds ponderously.

The material played upon all the best aspects of the socially conscious movements of the 1960s, and then perverted them by preaching that violence is indeed the solution to problems as long as it's for the right cause.

The animation, courtesy of Don Bluth's studio, is exceptional, and some fine musical moments are provided by Melba Moore.

No, there's nothing intelligent here--just a couple of likable fellows trying to stop mad Brewmeister Smith (Max von Sydow) from gaining control of the world.

As so often happens in Hollywood, what is advertised as daring and provocative turns out to be glib, essentially tame, and largely soporific.

Pacino is a one-man three-ring circus, blustering, capering, cursing, raging and weaseling his way through this predictable morality play like a trickster Satan on speed.

Sadly, Management is formulaic indie romantic comedy at its core.

While it is true that nothing all that original happens during the funny parts of the movie either, the family's Puerto Rican heritage gives the movie's comedy a unique spin.

There's nothing blatantly wrong with it (except perhaps the red-assed baboon ex machina), but it's 100% shock-free and coasts to a formulaic conclusion.

If the roller-coaster plot twists lose you, there's always the satisfaction of Douglas's take on a script rife with amusing double entendres.

It's almost three hours long, and that's a lot of time to invest in what is, essentially, a theme-park attraction you can't ride.

In the end, the sheer obviousness of Shainberg and screenwriter Erin Cressida Wilson's take on Diane Arbus' perverse determination to examine and document the forbidden overshadows even Kidman's beautifully modulated performance, which takes Diane from brittle neurosis to a vaguely predatory ingenuousness.

Not a terrible movie exactly, just a dark, edgy idea relentlessly worn down into mildly diverting blandness by the mega-wattage presence of stars Mel Gibson and Julia Roberts.

The film is all a little Lit Crit 101, but it's extremely well played and often very funny. But beware: Solondz uses humor as a booby trap, so be careful what you laugh at.

A startling about-face for Australian director Alex Proyas, and an unwelcome one as well.

Schwarzenegger proves to be mildly amusing, but DeVito seems to be coasting on his past reputation as an audience pleaser.

A funny, entertaining little film that pales in comparison with the original, but has enough value in its own right.

For a slick pop entertainment, more than the usual quotient of timely ideas rattle around between the relentless product placements and futuristic geegaws.

Everyone involved seems to have been operating from the presumption that gross and blasphemous equals hilarious. Would that it did.

Surprisingly compelling, if not up to dealing with the larger political issues it raises.

This bizarre hybrid of romantic comedy cliches and less-than-subtle social commentary defeats their best efforts to make it sparkle.

Most of the gags recycle the same tired old romantic comedy schtick, with special effects.

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.

This picture never moves past dull, sitcom humor.