Writer/director Craig Rosenberg is no master of subtlety -- in fact, he seems to have only two settings, whacking excess and treacly pathos -- and the film is awash in ponderous whimsy.

Gutierrez keeps some of Leonard's tart dialogue, but not enough to hide the fact that the story has no momentum -- those gratuitous shots of pro-sufers shooting curls don't compensate -- and there's zero chemistry between the whiny Wilson and Foster, who has yet to make the transition from model to actress.

How well you'll tolerate this utterly unhinged quasi-feminist comic book fantasy depends on your Lori Petty threshold. As the title character--a smartass riot grrrl who rolls through a fanciful postapocalyptic landscape in a tank, occasionally pausing to snuggle and bicker with her mutant kangaroo boyfriend (Ice-T) -- Petty's onscreen virtually nonstop, and her hyperkinetic mugging, jerking, whining, and sassing wears thin after a while.

Sadly, this inane vehicle was not worthy of the talents of the two great vets.

The film lacks the emotional complexity and classic status of previous Disney films.

For all its sensitivity, the film abounds with movie cliches about the developmentally challenged.

Offers up more of everything: more bloody zombie dogs, more crazy corporate evildoers, more Milla Jovovich unclothed and more over-the-top action scenes.

If Jean-Luc Godard at his most Maoist had felt compelled to make adult movies, he might have cooked up something like pop-art punk-porn auteur Bruce LaBruce's slab of revolutionary raunch.

Only Sol and Sara even approach being real characters; the supporting players, Black and Jewish alike, are shrill stereotypes.

Contains some nicely observed moments, but they're buried in an unrepentantly sitcomy script.

It's too bad screenwriters Gough and Millar didn't have enough faith in their premise to play it straight; if they had, they might have produced a classic rather than a "Blazing Saddles" without the courage of its convictions.

Essentially a supersize episode that ignores a slew of fifth-season developments and adds yet another monster to the mix, one that owes a striking debt to "Alien."

No one expects a light teen romance to be "Madame Bovary," but this is Colorforms filmmaking.

Bad editing, uninspired direction, and a script that teetered precariously on the verge of parodying a John Wayne movie combined to make Joe Kidd nothing more than a plodding shoot-em-up.

Inspired mockumentary-a-clef so clotted with in-jokes that it should come with a crib sheet.

This sequel to AIRPLANE! is just as crammed with sight gags and sophomoric humor as its predecessor, but the novelty has worn off and the humor worn thin. A cast of mainly Hollywood has-beens and unknowns enjoys itself in this spoof of disaster movies, this time centering around a space shuttle headed for a crash. The various bits and cameos flash past without providing the laughs AIRPLANE! delivered.

The film looks great and makes sophisticated use of digital effects.

Routine Dangerfield vehicle in which he plays an inept, slobbish baby photographer who must give up his bad habits if he wants to collect a $10 million inheritance from his snooty mother-in-law. Pesci plays the ringleader of the smoking, drinking, overeating cronies that Dangerfield must resist. It's all an insult to the great Geraldine Fitzgerald, who must have wondered during filming if it had all come down to this. If you're not already a Dangerfield fan, remember he's an acquired taste--like Spam.

Although the performances by the star-studded cast are generally excellent, only Billy Crystal really manages to transcend the dour misery of Allen's script: His witty turn as a dapper Satan is a blessed relief from the neurotic gloom.

Although shot well and boasting some effective 3-D work, this is a woefully inadequate effort, and the series began to slip into inadvertent self-parody.

There are people who eat this kind of thing right up -- if you're one of them, dig in.

The technical razzle-dazzle that lets Jordan dribble on the cartoon court and inserts Bugs and Daffy into the "real" world is, sad to say, less than dazzling: This is no WHO FRAMED ROGER RABBIT. Can we go now, please?

The film is based on the Ephron novel detailing her marital break-up with journalist Carl Bernstein; but although the book had a distinctive bite, the film is a colorless adaptation.

Strident and bombastic.

The slim story gets swamped by the stunning visuals.

Gives off an air of clammy desperation that feels all too authentic without being especially funny and bogs down early in repetitive shtick. (review of re-release)

Infantile, pointless tedium aimed at kids, to whom the fact that it features the entire cast of TV's Power Rangers ZEO will presumably mean something.

Allowing for the fact that any Pokemon movie is essentially a feature-length commercial designed to make little kids want Pokémon stuff, this one has its moments.

Despite cameos by many superior comic actors and well-known celebrities, this episodic would-be laughfest comes up wanting as many of Brooks' elaborate gags fall flat.

Flashy, "MATRIX"-style action sequences trump ideas; it's hard not to feel you've just watched a feature-length video game with some really heavy back story.

Set mostly over the course of a single evening, the film is lugubriously paced and filled with improbable turns of events.

Medicine Man tries hard to be a film for all tastes, but it ends up appealing to none.

There's a surprising sweetness under its crude exterior.

This movie misfires in its attempt to combine a children's dog story and adult comedy by pairing Benji and Chevy Chase. Silly and slow-moving.

Handsome and sometimes creepy, but formulaic in the extreme.

A caper comedy without chemistry is just a bunch of waiting around for something to get stolen.

Hokey, slow-moving thriller.

This tale may well weave a more compelling spell on the page; onscreen it's simply ponderous.

Smacks of a certain kind of TV movie filled with pious uplift, even as it makes token concessions to contemporary lifestyles.

Watching this string of sketches about small town wackos is like channel surfing a heavy sitcom zone.

Don Johnson and Mickey Rourke preen and posture on motorcycles and off in Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man, a futuristic action adventure that feels desperately like a vanity project.

A spoof of "political correctness" on campus, PCU is a sanitized rip-off of NATIONAL LAMPOON'S ANIMAL HOUSE that's neither smart enough to qualify as satire nor offensive enough to entertain.

The film's tone is hard to pin down, especially with the actors dubbed flatly into English.

In the end it's simply another Chucky movie -- whether that's a recommendation or a warning is entirely up to you.

Lasse Hallstrom's leisurely drama about remorse, forgiveness and spiritual healing is a film of big emotions and ferociously small gestures.

A pale imitation of the John Cassavettes original.

Herzfeld's sophomore movie is one long howl of rage over the relationship between criminals, journalists and thrill-hungry audiences.

DMX delivers a surprisingly solid and convincing performance, but he's easily overshadowed by the very talented Ealy, who makes his secondary character truly memorable.

The film's gotcha! payoff doesn't justify the gloomy journey.

A Kiss Before Dying is one of those films that may play absurdly in a theatre, eliciting hoots, groans and sighs of relief at its end from the audience, but on video provides a mindless, undemanding diversion.

It's a gee-whiz kiddie movie imagined by pervy grown-ups who get a giggle out of mixing bloodless fight scenes with close-ups of rubber-wrapped butts and baskets.

If this is even a reasonably accurate account of someone's real life, then we as a culture may be in worse shape than we imagine.

Not even the high-caliber talents of Gene Hackman and Morgan Freeman can save this stagy, ridiculously over-baked psychological thriller.

The film's underlying themes dovetail efficiently with the action but don't generate the emotional gut punch the movie needs; overall it feels padded and logy.

The movie exists only as a showcase for the animation technology known as hyperReal, a photo-realistic simulation of space, figure and movement that hopes to one day erase the line between animation and live action once and for all.

The film's poky pacing is a liability -- the setup takes an awfully long time.

Pinter's adaptation is uninspired, and this half-heartedness, combined with Schlondorff's heavy-handedness, serves to crush Atwood's feminist concerns through overkill and to turn a provocative novel into a screen polemic that invites no discussion. This isn't filmmaking; it's haranguing by celluloid.

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

So clotted with back story that the Romeo and Juliet-style romance between a warrior vampire and a reluctant werewolf never has a chance to breath, Len Wiseman's revisionist horror tale is all look and no bite.

The actors do their best with their one-dimensional roles, and the film is worth seeing, if only to watch Garr, Harry Dean Stanton, and Allan Goorwitz. Tom Waits provided the Oscar-nominated score. (review of original release)

Chase delivers a one-note performance, consisting mainly of predictable comebacks and salacious leers, while the characters who become the targets of his witty rejoinders are weak and silly stereotypes. FLETCH LIVES is a custom-built Chevy Chase vehicle throughout; the other performers are only along for the ride.

Some great things can found in this fluidly kinetic film, well-directed by X-Files series and movie veteran Rob Bowman, including no-nonsense dialogue, epic photography and a terrific score. It's too bad the story is so sloppy and stupid.

None of this is especially funny, nor is it particularly exhilarating; at best it's throwaway entertainment.

Though his film is breathtakingly art-directed, Greenaway wallows in epater le bourgeois nastiness -- his inner naughty child could use a good paddling.

The trouble with director and co-writer Laetitia Colombani's debut feature is that the story isn't really interesting enough to be told twice, let alone dragged out another 20 minutes after that.

Formulaic but performed with some verve.

Contrived, meandering, clichéd and just plain preposterous.

The bar scenes are the only reason to sit through this jello shot of a movie.

Increasingly preposterous, thoroughly credibility-straining escapades.

A lightweight parody of the porn industry and daytime talk shows that has the look and feel of a middling direct-to-video feature.

Something of a cop-out, lacking the courage of its convictions.

As the mismatched interrogators, Travolta and Nielson seem to be in two different and incompatible movies.

Mr. Destiny is by no means a good movie, but James Belushi is unquestionably a good actor, and his portrayal of Larry Burrows almost makes the film worth watching.

Neither the appealing cast nor the bouncing, ska-inflected soundtrack can keep the party going.

Bighearted and wistful, but with no fresh spin or anything new to say.

Duvall at his worst is still an accomplished performer; Pedraza is a modern-day Ali McGraw, lithe and beautiful but no kind of actress. For all her fluidity on the dance floor, she's a dead weight who drags the film down.

This obvious attempt to tap into the same audience that flocked to THREE MEN AND A BABY (indeed, it could have been titled "Two Men and a Toddler") is about as lifeless as they come. Not only is THREE FUGITIVES a scene-for-scene remake of Veber's French original, it is actually shot for shot the same film. Not surprisingly, the resulting film feels mechanical, despite engaging performances from Short and Nolte.

Cross an episode of "Friends" with an issue-of-the-week movie about gay parenthood and you have this glossy vanity project.

Director Scott Kalvert returns to wring every last cliché out 1950s juvenile delinquent movies, without adding anything particularly fresh to the formula.

This one may be just excessive enough to develop a cult following. It also proved quite popular with German audiences, for reasons we've been unable to fathom.

The acting is top-notch and some scenes are authentically well-observed.

Overall it's a harmless disappointment, hampered by the thin story and a surprisingly dreary looking video-game setting, heavy on the floating platforms, cartoony future-cityscapes and goofy gadgetry.

It can hardly help but outrage at least some of the people some of the time.

Contrived, shallow, distasteful, and ultimately pointless, BODY DOUBLE is more an exercise in empty cinematic style than an engrossing thriller. Although cinematographer Burum executes some absolutely breathtaking camera moves, his effort goes for naught when pitted against director De Palma and cowriter Avrech's insipid narrative. What De Palma has done here is simply take elements from two superb Alfred Hitchcock films, REAR WINDOW and VERTIGO, and combine them into one insipid film. While Griffith is sexy and appealing in her role, Wasson's character is so bland that he generates little interest.

As for first-time feature director Mark Piznarski, he should be cited for excessive use of slow motion, sun-dappled trees and golden light; one more cliche violation and his license to direct would be forfeit.

Pearce can sing, but Drum's trademark "speaking out" -- free-associative ramblings that recall Jim Morrison of the Doors at his most embarrassingly pretentious -- falls far short of the hypnotic effect Tyler describes.

Even the inclusion of Simon's classic songs isn't enough to solve all the problems of this comedic misfire.

Yes, it's a deeply formulaic buddy movie predicated on geezer charm. But the surprise of this comedy about two former Chief Executives forced to get along and get in touch with the real America is how sharply written it is -- almost sharply enough to overcome the crude direction that grotesquely overemphasizes the picture's inevitable sentimental interludes.

Given that most fans are very young, ignoring a key aspect of the Pokemon mythos is bound to confuse and disappoint them.

The film had the calculated feel of a movie made simply because the title was guaranteed to pull in audiences on opening weekend. Sadly, it's the kind of effort that gives horror films a bad name.

In stripping her potentially lurid material of salacious appeal, Martel also makes it murky and oddly arid, a mind-numbing exercise rather than an experience.

The movie's selling point is Schneider acting goofy, chewing on worms, making goo-goo eyes at a she-goat and licking his private parts.

The downside is that it all feels like a big in-joke, and you're not in on it.

A reductive spook show in which a bunch of puny humans get chased around by scary monsters.

The "Bullet" is an amusement-park roller coaster, and the title is a ham-fisted metaphor for facing your fears.

The kids are fine, the original songs range from OK to wretched, and Barney is annoying as ever -- even more so, given his big-screen size and Dolby-enhanced guffaw.

For all the bad press Ishtar received, it does have a certain odd charm... The biggest problem is that any attempted subtlety is swamped by May's bid to turn the film into an epic adventure story.

The Singing Nun was created in the style of MGM's popular family musicals of the 1940s, loaded with gloss and sugary sentimentality. The direction shamelessly panders to these elements, resulting in sluggish development.