Jeannot Szwarc does well in the director's chair, and Jean-Pierre Dorleac deserves special commendation for his costumes. But Seymour is given too little to do, and Reeve does too much.

For Hartley, the third time is definitely not the charm.

In an age when special effects and flashy cinematography often trump narrative, there's a particular charm to the plain-Jane story of self-discovery.

Zahedi has been compared to Woody Allen, and he shares Allen's neurotic sense of entitlement and navel-gazing fascination with his own sexual peccadilloes. Whether you find either man funny or infuriating depends in large part on whether you identify more with their narcissistic quests for self-knowledge or the collateral damage left in their wakes.

An improvement over the tedious "Saw II" (2005), this second sequel to the surprise 2004 hit still features the series' trademark gruesome "games" but shifts the focus to the relationships among the characters.

Though the story is formulaic, the bleakly naturalistic performances give it an uncomfortable sting.

Unfortunately, Virtuosity ignores character development in favor of slick set design and mindless action sequences. Consequently, it plays like an outdated video game.

A predictable moral tale enacted by blandly pretty young things who bear little resemblance to the average brainiac.

Though neither subtle nor particularly original, Gens' spin on the meat-movie classic has both nightmarish energy to spare.

The results are, quite surprisingly, fairly charming.

Todd Komarnicki's screenplay relies heavily on red herrings and a host of suspects (there are more murderers swanning around Hill's sleek offices than there were aboard the Orient Express) to keep audiences distracted from what, in retrospect, is really pretty obvious.

While we at home can't come close to experiencing the war in any real sense, we do come away from Scranton's film with a greater sense of the soldiers' everyday fear, helplessness and horror.

This formulaic adventure pays tribute to George Hogg, a true hero largely forgotten everywhere but China, where a statue of him now stands -- a rare honor for a westerner.

While not every artist Aaron Rose profiles in his documentary about one colorful corner of the 1990s New York Art scene is "beautiful," they're all "losers" and proud of it.

Perry certainly loves his divas -- the best parts are written for Scott and the wonderful Smith.

The film's depiction of life among the salt of the earth is blandly cartoonish; and the "Super Sounds of the '70s" soundtrack meticulously matches songs to action, as though the filmmakers didn't trust viewers to figure out what these one-note characters were feeling.

It feels as though everyone involved was having a rollicking good time, and while the film itself is wildly uneven, Lin and company get in a few pointed jabs at Hollywood fatuousness and self-delusion, cultural stereotypes and '70s fashions.

While rich in ethnographic detail, the film ultimately recalls nothing more than pulp fictions like Robert E. Howard’s "Conan the Barbarian," which validate their worship of ubermensch-ian brawn by way of sad tales of childhood victimization.

The film's underlying notion, that imperfection is the essence of humanity and the pursuit of bland flawlessness a kind of soul-killing drug, is far more compelling than its story of clichéd teen angst.

Falls disappointing short of its ambition to be both sympathetically straightforward and funny.

There are moments of genuine humor in the film, but Finney virtually sucks the oxygen out of the story, and even tempered pros like Gambon and Fricke can do little to save it.

Despite its philosophical pretensions, the film is fairly lightweight, and its good-looking cast and sleek production values are more memorable than any of its heady themes.

It now seems that style has completely replaced substance in Scott's films, and he leaves gaping holes in his heroine's character.

Director Kevin Reynolds isn't so much inspired as determined to tell it with period accuracy, without bothering to be historically accurate.

Rich with atmosphere but too similar to films ranging from "Children of Men" to "Doomsday" to carve out its own distinctive niche.

Luckily the story behind the suds is a pretty good one.

Bean fills in some empty spaces with heady thoughts about the nature of power and beauty, but the movie's real appeal lies in the simple but by no means inconsiderable pleasure of watching Tim Robbins take a hammer to a parked car as it wails pointlessly, deep into the night.

While far from the cream of the mockumentary crop, it's still a pleasant diversion.