The Man Without a Face marks a solidly crafted directorial debut for actor Mel Gibson, who approaches his melodramatic story with commendable restraint.

This film is no exception to the rule that philosophical debate seldom spawns compelling cinema.

Briskly directed by "Sex and the City" veteran David Frankel, the movie is far better than the source.

Plummer's fearlessness is awesome -- just try to imagine another actress willing to bare so much bony flesh wrapped in clanking chains -- but her character is nevertheless a ranting bore.

An engrossing, if occasionally ludicrous, hit tearjerker with Pollack, Streisand, and Redford doing a good job of bringing Arthur Laurents' script to the screen.

A good example of the now-neglected caper genre.

Overall, how funny you find it will probably depend on whether or not the mere sight of Stiller sucking in his cheeks, widening his eyes and striking preposterous poses makes you laugh uproariously.

A thoroughly respectable affair: Your high school English teacher would approve, and parts are terrifically enjoyable.

The film does, however, feature revealing performances from its leads, authentic production design, and atmospheric photography by Sven Nykvist.

It's a richly textured, psychologically acute film that takes an unblinking look at the tattered life of the returning soldier, and it's boosted by two powerful performances from Phillippe and the increasingly impressive Tatum, a former underwear model who has somehow turned into a fine actor.

Numbingly predictable.

The filmmakers' attempts come to terms with a recent catastrophe of indeterminate meaning but global consequences are often fascinating.

It's a clever legal thriller, one that thankfully doesn't twist itself into a knots trying to keep audiences off guard.

Mendez directs with remarkable assurance, using B&W footage to suggest the monochromatic clarity Santiago craves, as well as color to depict the riotous reality that threatens to overwhelm him.

But in the end it all comes to naught: Tantalyzing though the leads are, the paintings remain elusive.

Roth's screenplay, steeped in the peculiar rituals, lock-jawed repression and smug sense of superiority of the WASP ruling class that both shaped America's intelligence community and made it vulnerable, is less interested in derring-do than back-room deals and the day-to-day drudgery of spying, driven by the notion that espionage is a cynical high-stakes game played with people's lives and the ante is human decency and connectedness.

Jeremy Gosch's documentary about the origins of professional surfing shines a light on four wave riders – three Australians and a South African – who helped transform a counter-culture life style into a billion-dollar industry.

Lots of violence, typical of the Corman exploitation mill, but the film still shows the budding talent of Scorsese in his use of moving-camera and period detail.

Deftly employing split-screen and slow-motion techniques, Aldrich makes the most of Tracy Keenan Wynn's incisive script, aided by fine cinematography and tight Oscar-nominated editing.

Nicely directed with a great sense of the oppressiveness of the outdoors. Nature is the villain in this well-filmed second feature by Australian director Eggleston.

The original seemed to convey more tension and suspense. In the film everything is painfully predictable.

Day Of The Locust exudes authenticity, from the costuming to the cars, from the exotic clothes to the marcelled hair styles.

Claustrophobic and nightmarishly atmospheric, ISLE OF THE DEAD is kept moving along by director Mark Robson at a deliberate pace which becomes more and more creepy until the moment of the premature burial.

The story isn't particularly believable, the revelations not fresh or profound, but the film succeeds anyway because of its strong lead performances. A true family picture in the most entertaining sense, VICE VERSA provides laughs for both kids and adults.

Kindergarten Cop is actually fairly entertaining, buoyed by Schwarzenegger's self-deprecating charm and easy chemistry with his capable costar, Pamela Reed, and the hammiest bunch of tykes ever assembled for a movie.

The images of gods and ordinary Tibetans that Bush captures are more eloquent that his turgid narration, and overall the film works better as a travelogue than an introduction to Tibetan Buddhist beliefs or history.

Boasting some of the best use of rugged landscape since the westerns of Anthony Mann, First Blood is an effective, if outlandish, picture that exists merely for its big-screen thrills.

No matter your age, this is one great AGE to be at.