The filmmakers seem to have meant to offer up a spiritual message about community and faith, but it's muddled and hard to find with romance, comedy and phenomenal gospel performances all fighting for the spotlight.

A pastel-pretty and oh-so-dull coming of age tale.

Thoroughly preposterous on every level.

Sprawling, gooey and profoundly juvenile, this derivative thriller piles on the cheese: aliens, male bonding, psychoanalytic gobbledygook, childhood secrets, military black ops, gross-out special effects, explosions, bodily function humor and a retarded boy with special powers.

As the Bond series moves deeper into the 1970s, the emphasis moves away from the inventive scripts that made the best Sean Connery films fine examples of the spy genre and toward the kind of feats of daring and visual spectacle that abound in The Spy Who Loved Me.

The sequences are handsomely designed, but frankly, you might as well be watching someone play a video game.

Though more coherent than the disastrous Hellraiser: Bloodline, this psychological thriller with demons gets bogged down in too many "Is it real or just a nightmare?" sequences, and Sheffer's typically wooden performance as Joe makes it hard to sympathize with his travails.

Whaley's determination to immerse you in sheer, unrelenting wretchedness is exhausting.

A straight-faced throwback to the glory days of mutant wildlife on the rampage.

Ultimately Stokes remains true to his music video roots and relies on the film's flashy voltage dance scenes and frenetic pacing to keep viewers' attention from wandering.

The superficially cheery “Boogie Nights” is infinitely scarier.

A feeble attempt at comedy in the Damon Runyon mold (although based on a Louis Bromfield opus), this is a hit-and-miss affair with some offbeat casting.

A cheesy romance tricked up in cheap sanctimony.

While the film's erotic symbolism is surprisingly obvious -- all those trains and tunnels! -- it's otherwise bafflingly vague.

While there is some imagination behind the destruction of the title abode, the film quickly grows into a tired repetition of one long joke.

In the end it's the same old blood pudding.

The limp thriller plot Deery constructs to frame his theological inquiries is both artificial and not very interesting, a lethal combination.

A genuine oddity, the film is exceedingly well shot by cinematographer Alfred Taylor and has a creepy PSYCHO-like feel about it as well as some nightmarish surrealism.

Unless you grew up in an Italian-American neighborhood like the one featured in this contrived but pleasant enough comedy, you might not know that "chooch" is slang for jackass, a likeable loser who can't help but screw up.

A meandering mess of violence and aging stars who've seen much better days, all buoyed up by an in-your-face soundtrack that never lets up.

Director Blake Edwards takes a sitcom sketch and blows it up into a witless feature film that relies on pratfalls and slapstick.

Utterly predictable, noisy and stupid.

There's less than meets the eye in this tricky psychological thriller, one of a long line of mess-with-your-head brain ticklers in which all is not as it seems.

A likeable, if somewhat whitebread, farce in the Woody Allen mode about love in the big city.

The sequel retains only vestiges of the charm and bizarre humor which made the original a surprise cult favorite.

Production-designed within an inch of its life, this remake's best conceit is the casting of Crispin Glover as its socially maladroit rat fancier.

A lifelong baseball enthusiast, director and co-producer Mike Tollin -- persuaded many real-life baseball figures to make cameo appearances.

So formulaic it starts to fade from memory before the last punch is thrown.