The only one of the Hammer Frankenstein films not directed by Terence Fisher, this is, consequently, one of the weakest entries in the series.

A funny, savvy, camp yet family-friendly look at the Generation-X TV icons.

Here, some striking ideas, themes, and symbols never quite gel; the main problem is the plot, which never overcomes the implausibility of its premise. Yet the performances are solidly above average for the genre and, while TRESPASS might have been more compelling, it still displays far more style and intelligence than the average contemporary action thriller.

This failure is especially surprising because Zwigoff not only reunited with "Ghost World's" writer, ingenious graphic artist Dan Clowes, but he aimed to satirize a rarefied sphere both know all too well: the art world.

Often annoyingly vulgar and crude, Life Stinks is partly redeemed by Brooks's good intentions. He and his associates have attempted, sometimes with great success, sometimes not, to illustrate the difference between decency and deceit as well as the painfully thin line that separates pleasure and happiness from degradation and despair.

Although Myers is a brilliant comic, any potential he has as a romantic lead remains unfulfilled.

Rob Zombie's pitch-perfect evocation of '70s horror films about monstrous families and the unfortunates who cross their path is one of a handful of sequels that both improve on their sources and play perfectly as stand-alones.

A little slow-moving but ultimately rewarding.

It all feels like an insubstantial short that's been stretched to the breaking point.

Half as interesting as a rerun of Falcon Crest and twice as long.

It's all very well to say that laughter and tears are just a heartbeat apart, but both variations on Melinda's story bear the unmistakable mark of Allen's morose sensibilities.

But fabulous though the allusions, sets and costumes are, Busch's performance is the movie's heart, and like the screen idols whose every gesture he's lovingly absorbed, Busch can pack a world of meaning into an arched eyebrow and a slight crack of the voice.

A star vehicle for rapper Ice Cube (who also cowrote and coproduced), Friday is a lighthearted, comedic presentation of the realities chronicled in dramas like "Boyz N the Hood."

The title duo serves up more idiocy, this time by dispensing drugs from an ice-cream truck--a concept that will appeal to few these days. The failure to come up with a strong script, character development, plot, authentic humor, or basic entertainment doesn't improve matters any.

The film is a pleasant breeze that refreshes, mostly because it's a rare, thoughtful comedy clearly intended for grown-ups.

The film gets off to a slow start and runs long, but Gold and Helfand effectively stake out their own piece of a large and complicated issue.

Song of the South's cartoon sequences are as fine as anything produced by the Disney animators.

Director Saks, who won a Tony for his stage direction, works in his typically fish-out-of-water fashion here, trying to put some air into a stagebound work, but much of the spontaneity of the theater version seems to have been supplanted by the mechanics of moviemaking. The acting by a very talented cast is generally quite good, even if Danner doesn't convince as an old-fashioned Jewish mother type. More of a nostalgic piece than a story, the film shows an attention to the specifics of the culture on display which has genuine if modest appeal.

Unjustly underrated upon its release, GARDENS OF STONE is a quiet, respectful film filled with emotional power, exceptional acting (especially by Caan), and technical virtuosity.

Well-made but often-boring.

With Bruno, Baron Cohen essentially turns a carnival mirror on society, and some people simply aren't going to like what they see. This is satire at its most confrontational and incisive.

Compelling on a personal level.

Even though the screen is often divided into a Mondrian-like grid, each individual box containing its own discreet moving image, McDonald's film is surprisingly fluid and easy to follow.

Ira Levin is an eclectic writer who has done comedy-drama (Sleuth), adventure (The Boys from Brazil), thrillers (Rosemary's Baby), and science fiction such as The Stepford Wives. But Goldman's screenplay and Forbes's ponderous direction slow his exciting novel to a laborious pace.

There's also precious little chemistry between the players. Only Mol has any charm of which to speak, and, frankly, she deserves much better.

It's a light, silly instantly forgettable comedy peppered with action set-pieces and affectionate nods to its fondly remembered predecessor, including a gracious end-credits dedication to the late Don Adams and Edward Platt.

This is an extremely faithful film adaptation of Ira Levin's gimmicky stage play.

Doesn’t break any new documentary ground, but it does exactly what it sets out to do: Preserve a live event and make it available to a broader audience.