Director Attenborough's film version has a couple of pleasant numbers which serve as oases amidst the dullness.

Generally amusing -- if occasionally overly sentimental.

The results feel slack – sometimes funny, but slack.

As a debut it holds out the promise that Montias might do something more interesting in his next film.

Moore's film is unusually sharp looking for this sort of documentary, and comes complete with a nice soundtrack. But most important, it's as comprehensible as any "Dummies" guide, something even non-techies can enjoy.

It's a dumb movie, but it's good for a few profoundly undemanding laughs.

This beautifully shot, 70-minute black-and-white film remains deliberately inconclusive.

The satire is broad and easy, while the romance is thoroughly unconvincing.

The bizarrely entertaining relationship that blossoms between Sciorra and Piven is far more amusing and convincing, which only underscores the lack of chemistry between the dewy leads.

Unfortunately, this flawed but interesting film will be Wassel's only legacy; the director was murdered in 2001 by Nathan C. Powell, who helped finance this film.

It's hard to imagine anyone who isn't familiar with Graham and her place in 20th-century dance history getting drawn into Move and Herrmann's hall of Martha mirrors, but for the right viewer it's a fascinating exercise in self-reflexive mythmaking.

The cast, a mix of beauty-contest winners, models, veteran actors and newcomers, is as diverse as the characters they play and work together surprisingly smoothly.

If you were watching it at home you wouldn't feel compelled to pause the film before going into the kitchen to fix a snack.

It's hard not to be charmed by scenes like the one in which Briggs gives his posies a little pep talk, assuring them that just because they sprouted behind prison walls doesn't mean they can't compete with those hoity-toity flowers at Hampton Court.

It will certainly appeal to its target audience, and Bynes is charming enough to carry the whole film on her shoulders, which is a good thing considering that she's in just about every scene and leading man Tatum is a stiff.

Clearly, there's the germ of a good -- potentially even great -- movie here, but it's thoroughly smothered by a pair of lazy, self-congratulatory star turns by Hoffman and Travolta.

The 'Burbs offers a delightfully complicated portrait of suburban voyeurism, a portrait taken to its absurd extreme by Dante's introduction of foreign elements among his xenophobic characters, in a devastating satire of suburban values.

An unsatisfactory feature treatment of beloved characters from the world of television.

A thoroughly captivating romantic adventure in the grand tradition of the screwball comedies of the 1930s and 40s. With a plot flavored with elements from such classics as the Carole Lombard-Fredric March romp NOTHING SACRED and Frank Capra's delightful masterpiece YOU CAN'T TAKE IT WITH YOU, this Tom Hanks-Meg Ryan outing is writer-director John Patrick Shanley's gift to moviegoers who are tired of films distinctive only for their excessive violence, sex, gutter language, or a combination of all three.

The two leads are honestly played, and there is a nice feel for the scariness that sex has for adolescents, but the screenplay gets bogged down in silly subplots and stereotypes.

This movie has pretensions to mediocrity, a goal far too high for it to reach.

(Griffith's) appearance often verges on the grotesque. Which, come to think of it, could be said of the movie as well.

The first hour of The Tomorrow War is really quite dumb fun. The second half pumps the brakes on the wacky sci-fi and just goes in for gross-out action.

A failure on every level.

Writer-director Pan Nalin's film is at its best when he focuses on the meticulous, hands-on preparation of herb- and mineral-based drugs; it's also genuinely provocative to hear Ayurvedists argue that healing should be a vocation rather than a career.

Climaxes in an ending of such sleazy preposterousness that it's almost worth the price of admission alone.

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

From her speech patterns to her body language, Roberts's performance is wrong for the period.

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.

The real reason for the existence of this unexceptional film is to show off the artistry of special-effects man Savini.

Alan Parker's big-budget adaptation of Andrew Lloyd Webber's surpassingly shrewd stage spectacular isn't a big fat failure. But it isn't a resounding success, either: It's an awkward hybrid, neither lavish eye candy nor credible drama.

Rather than concentrate on Ann's disappointed infatuation and providing a satisfactory reason for its failure, Minot and, one suspects, Cunningham in particular, chose to flesh out the character of Buddy.

Before it goes down in a soggy mess of scary movie cliches and insultingly stupid plot contrivances, director and co-writer Nick Willing's adaptation of Madison Smartt Bell's novel Dr. Sleep gets in some good, seriously creepy licks.

Despite, or perhaps because of, a flurry of 11th-hour recutting and reshoots -- the film feels rushed and unfocused.

Most of Halim's script is a laundry list of offensive remarks that he no doubt means to serve as titillating spoof, but none of it's funny or even the least bit provocative, just offensive.

Just know there's a whole lot more great stuff out there than just what Evolution has in store for you -- namely, the anime that it was based on.

Wilby's father and the neighbor's dog get all the credit, but younger viewers will delight at knowing who really performed the heroics.

This ersatz jungle adventure is really a thinly disguised Sunday School lesson in faith, charity and the savagery of life without Christ.

An enjoyably ironic rethink of a beloved fairy tale.

Hartley's score is lovely and he makes excellent use of digital video, but the film's paucity of provocative ideas is its undoing.

The usual John Grisham legal hokum, tranformed by director James Foley into surprisingly grim and affecting stuff.

The cast is little more than the sum total of golden skin, firm flesh and blindingly white teeth, but in a film that demands them to be half-naked and soaking wet most of the time, looks trump technical acting skill every time.

His (Crowe) emotionally charged performance stands in contrast to Ryan's annoying, movie-star turn.

Film's real sticky wicket is that the bad guys not only threaten to nuke a major American city but do it — a conceit that might have been more amusing before terrorists destroyed the World Trade Center using hijacked commercial jets. Witnesses said the WTC attack looked like a movie; they didn't say it was a movie they wanted to see.

The film has all the pregnant pauses, exaggerated reaction shots and melodramatic scoring of an overripe telenovela, but, unlike a good soap opera, the sisters' separate story lines are clumsily balanced.

Penn, in particular, is so subdued he's hardly there, while Hurley's seductive, hyper-articulate Adaline is actually ludicrous, sucking suggestively on ice cubes and reciting poetry like a phone-sex operator pretending to be a book-reading babe.

To call this scattered and cliché-ridden film less-than-cohesive would be generous, and Moore lacks the ability to imbue hackneyed dialogue with resonance.

Of course, no creepy movie worth its salt would be complete without an appearance by Udo Kier, and Parigi doesn't disappoint: Kier appears as Kenneth's louche, hookah-smoking next-door neighbor and, as always, is a disturbing delight.

The script originally began life as a stage play, but still feels underwritten.

The goofy use of animated, Flubber-like blobs aping Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love" video (by way of illustrating the irresistibility of desire itself) makes it hard to take the science seriously, which is the BLEEP problem in a nutshell.

Though filled with strong performances from all the principals, THAT WAS THEN...THIS IS NOW is thin material. We watch as Estevez's tortured character tries to come to grips with adult emotions and responsibilities, but we never really get a handle on what is inside him. Screenwriter-actor Estevez fails to provide any insight. What is refreshing about the film is that the teenagers seem real, with a keen sense of detail in the portrayal of their environment.

The childish narrative, doubtless inspired by a spate of similar duds such as Conan the Barbarian, is marred by poor story continuity and terrible transitions.

First-time feature director-writer Kevin S. Tenney imbues his picture with a surprisingly slick sense of style and employs some clever camerawork when the narrative warrants it, refusing to bore the viewer with the endless evil-point-of-view shots favored by so many other horror directors.

The Good Son is a second-rate thriller with first-rate production values. On a lower budget and without the hottest child star in America in the cast, Ruben and McEwan might have made a meaner, tougher and more successful thriller.

More interesting than entertaining and too long by far.

There's little room for ideas when there are flaming cars to be crashed, and overall the film is an infelicitous hodgepodge that lifts as liberally from "The Quatermass Experiment" (1956) and "28 Weeks Later" (2007) as "Body Snatchers" while leaving all the best bits behind -- even the iconic pods are gone.

Could as easily be called "Spurlock: Cultural Learnings Of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation Of America."

Pitch-black and bound to offend anyone who's not on its wavelength, Nick Guthe's entertainingly slick debut is a mordantly funny slice of lust, crime and sleaze life set in the world of L.A.'s industry elite: Call it 9021-noir.

The result is strictly for those who like their comic-book movies short and stupid.

Fans of 50 Cent, whose own endlessly exploited past keeps him surrounded by Kevlar and bodyguards, will probably see the film for what it is -- a weak, watered roman à clef -- while admirers of Irish director Jim Sheridan (My Left Foot, In America) will marvel that he had anything to do with such a trite variation on the venerable "Star is Born" scenario.

The charismatic Rajskub, who played a prickly computer geek on TV's "24," has nothing to do as Jack's loyal secretary.

For all its cute contrivances, Six Pack isn't a bad film and is guaranteed to warm the hearts of Rogers' fans.

There's no meat on this film's borrowed bones: They're polished to an exquisitely tasteful shine, but efforts to class up exploitation are pointless.

If the movie is remembered for anything, it will be for the feature-film debut of fiercely talented Jonathan Jackson: His performance truly transcends its dour setting.

Hoch's very funny satire on racial stereotyping cuts both ways.

To say that the film is unenjoyable would be an overstatement; a good time can be had counting the number of reassuringly stock characters it offers up.

The phrase "Everything happens for a reason" is heard more than once, a risibly simplistic cliché that not only stands as this film's hackneyed theme but also as a surprisingly honest confession as to just how calculated the entire film is.

Has a terminal case of the cutes.

Cox, a fifth-generation Mormon whose own story isn't too far from that of Elder Davis, shows how much of Aaron's strength derives directly from his faith, while even the most homophobic of Cox's characters demonstrate a capacity for both charity and, possibly, change.

It may be a simple matter of cultural dissonance, or maybe just a bad translation, but it's hard to see why this obnoxious romantic comedy about a lifetime-long relationship between two mischievous adults locked in an ongoing game of "Dares" was such a huge hit in its native France.

While the film has striking moments, it feels padded with events that seem freighted with narrative weight but end up not mattering at all to the story.

While the target audience won't be as familiar with the voice of Gervais as with, say, Eddie Murphy, they'll no doubt love his dirty bird humor.

Gets the details right while missing the big picture.

This light-hearted fun is made to work thanks to the performances of a well-chosen cast, though the overall pacing drags and the editing is rough.

As in the Friday the 13th movies the only real interest here is observing the outrageous lengths filmmakers go to in devising "Can-you-top-this?" murders.

Largely vapid, borderline homophobic, and surprisingly treacly.

Lunkheaded but entertaining action flick.

An uneasy mix of frat-boy yocks and "Twilight Zone"-style science-fiction.

History gets short shrift from screenwriters William Nicholson and Michael Hirst -- starting with the not insignificant fact that in 1585, Elizabeth was 52 years old – but Kapur is clearly more interested in spectacle and soap opera than dusty old facts.

Pride and Glory would be a pretty cool movie if it were made in 1982.

The results are a bit amateurish, but wholesome and achingly sweet.

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).

Jefferson in Paris is a rich confection indeed, filled with tidbits about fashion, customs, art, and commerce in 18th-century France and America. But like a meal consisting of nothing but petits-fours, this lavish biopic is too much dessert and not enough main course.

On its own low-bar terms, it delivers the goods: pole-dancing, gut-chomping and Jenna J.

This modern-day hybrid of "The Prince and the Pauper" and "The Parent Trap" is a slickly contrived showcase for the professionally cute Olsen Twins, late of TV's Full House.

There's just not enough good material, however, to sustain the comic pace.

The sequel retains only vestiges of the charm and bizarre humor which made the original a surprise cult favorite.

To call the film noisy and brainless isn't even a criticism - it's unadulterated auto-porn, as shallow and shiny as it wants to be.

I like Amanda Bynes movies…and I’m a dork!

The result is a one-joke movie.

Fresh from being terrorized in Halloween, Jamie Lee Curtis stars in this slasher clone set to the wonderful thump of disco music. Prom Night is better than most slasher movies, mainly because it's funnier.

It all adds up to an unfortunate misfire: a film at odds with both its source material and itself.

Fun for a while, but soon turns grating before ending on a startlingly tragic note.

Crowe preserves the original film's plot twists and turns, but his version lumbers when it should be whipping along, daring you to keep up. The wall-to-wall pop music soundtrack eventually becomes oppressive, and Cruise's oily smile doesn't really constitute a characterization.

Rather than portraying these girls as one-dimensional victims, Harada offers a complex portrait of teenagers who've learned to make their exploitation work for them.

Norman Jewison's honorable but stodgy exercise in ethical outrage, based on Brian Moore's acclaimed 1996 novel, fairly aches to be called a thinking man's thriller.

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.

McKenzie's mercurial performance is the centerpiece of this sad, surprisingly absorbing story.