Simultaneously nakedly formulaic and oddly clumsy, particularly in terms of character introduction.

With all the glossy sex, you'd be forgiven for thinking Zalman King was directing, except that even King knows you don't need such a ludicrously complicated plot to show pretty people having sex. Each character is so burdened with gratuitous back story that it's exhausting trying to separate the grain from the chaff, until you realize none of it matters at all.

Once LL Cool J, easily the film's most magnetic presence, is out of the game, the whole thing falls apart in a hazy, confusing mess.

This dopey swashbuckler offers little action but lashings of DiCaprio's soft, hairless flesh.

The CGI is well-done, but Garfield's presence among the otherwise live cast is a constant distraction.

Lame and inane, but a huge hit in Spain.

Director Thomas Schlamme's unsure handling of scenes and indiscriminate use of unappealing close-ups of actors emoting at full steam only emphasize the material's weakness.

Davis not only wrote and directed the film but edited it as well, all of which is no mean feat. Too bad she couldn't have lent some of her own gumption and self-assurance to her pathetic heroine.

It's really all about the cars, kandy-kolored nitro-injected streamline babies with sweeter curves than a Playboy photo spread, more personality than Rome, Brian and Monica combined and enough juice to send a fleet of rockets to the farthest reaches of the known universe.

Yes, it's really silly, and no, you won't remember a thing about it the second it's over, but adults looking for fast moving, non-violent fun that kids might actually enjoy could do a lot worse.

Ugly, stupid, loud, offensive, and pointlessly violent--let's not mince words--this film should be called "Total Reject."

Purely literary stuff that's always the first to go whenever a book is adapted for the screen. Unfortunately, as this thin and entirely ill-conceived adaptation from director Neil LaBute demonstrates, that stuff happens to be the lifeblood of Byatt's wonderful book.

March has the requisite child-woman quality and evinces some sly humor but she, too, is stymied by the schematic screenplay. She is far more convincing as an emblem of nostalgic, adolescent eroticism than as one of France's most distinguished future writers. Small wonder, then, that Duras herself has publicly disowned this adaptation.

The tone is inconsistent -- sometimes it seems to be straining for black comedy, other times it seems dead serious.

Despite the Lear-like trappings and the talented young cast, which does its work with considerable grace, it has little momentum or punch.

Among the disconnected scenes are a few that are downright hilarious, and the actors do their best to rise above disjointed material.

Though the film certainly isn't awful, the filmmakers couldn't decide on their focus. Did they want the picture to be be a fun little piece full of black humor, or did they want to go the usual blood-and-gore route?

Tierney's so-serious script lacks any trace of humor, which might actually have made this depressing film feel a bit more real.

Heartfelt as Reno and Applegate are here, the film strands them with an impotently blustering, straw-dog villain and a limp, directionless story.

While there's little to be gained from over-critiquing a child's performance, it must be said that director Alejandro Agresti badly miscalculates the appeal of his young star; the fact he not only dominates each scene but provides the film's narration means there's not getting away from young Noya.

Bad enough that the plot is shopworn, but the tough-gal talk is unintentionally hilarious, and the complicated narrative structure is annoying and pointless.

Despite the handsome production values and best efforts of the attractive young cast, it's hard to get deeply involved with the frantic "what's going on?" sturm und drang.

Screenwriter Lona Williams doesn't seem to have gotten much beyond the petty absurdity of theme headdresses and ludicrous talent competitions.

Slight, smart-alecky romantic comedy.

UNDER CAPRICORN is talky and static, with little of Hitchcock's trademark suspense.

Bronson does his usual violent-teddy-bear number believably, and the other actors do what they can with the formula script and hack direction.

To make up for the lack of blood, the film provided more gratuitous nudity than had been seen in the previous installments of the series.

The few minutes of footage devoted to a performance by bona fide jazz artist "Little" Jimmy Scott, an eccentric cult favorite, is more genuinely evocative than anything else in the film