This film is really blatant right-wing propaganda loaded with a stunning amount of racial and political stereotypes.

Crowe preserves the original film's plot twists and turns, but his version lumbers when it should be whipping along, daring you to keep up. The wall-to-wall pop music soundtrack eventually becomes oppressive, and Cruise's oily smile doesn't really constitute a characterization.

A wildly overblown, unpleasantly smirky mess of a film.

This is really just by-the-numbers moviemaking, the kind of project that would have been made with more zip back in the Corman glory days--if, in that pre-sequel crazy climate, it would have been made at all.

This flashy and ultimately conservative morality tale relies on shockingly frank sex talk to cover the fact that the characters are shockingly poorly developed.

This one has more talk than a Senate filibuster and is only a tenth as interesting.

Clearly, there's the germ of a good -- potentially even great -- movie here, but it's thoroughly smothered by a pair of lazy, self-congratulatory star turns by Hoffman and Travolta.

Added bonuses: A nice selection of oldies on the soundtrack, and an amusing third-act cameo by Rosie Perez as Ray's second wife.

Director Meir Zarchi may have been trying to make a point about the horrors of rape, brutality, revenge, and reprisal, but he simply isn't a good enough director to extract any relevance or nuance from his exploitative material. Watch Wes Craven's Last House On The Left instead.

Despite the impressive special effects, Honey, I Blew Up The Kid offers few surprises. The visual gag of a giant-sized infant is the only real joke the film has and it wears thin in a hurry. The plot is perfunctory and simple, presumably to cater to the attention span of a pint-sized audience.

As a piece of theater, Oleanna's stylized dialogue and strict three-act schematic structure probably worked in the drama's favor; but on film, the techniques are jarring within the naturalistic settings. Mamet, who has written and directed three previous films, should have known better than to preserve the excessively theatrical aspects of his material.

This testosterone-driven, car-crime picture evokes the testosterone-driven, surf-crime picture "Point Break."

If Griffin were a jowly Southern redneck, his mean-spirited rants would make him a pariah.

It's probably just passable for children, but adolescents won't sit still for this bland mixture of mediocre jokes and soft-core action.

In the long, hit-and-miss career of writer-director Alan Rudolph, this misbegotten comedy falls squarely into the miss bin.

Jelski's screenplay, a finalist in the fiercely competitive Walt Disney Screenwriting Fellowship competition, is repetitive and stagy.

Rymer's film doesn't revitalize vampire clichés in any significant way and, frankly, "Velvet Goldmine" is a more seductive movie about sex, death and rock and roll -- and it's not even about vampires.

Fresnadillo's film is little more than a gloomy and attenuated Twilight Zone episode, reminiscent of Alex Cox's portentous "The Winner" (1997) without the truly breathtaking conclusion.

The homoerotic twists and gender-shifting turns are fun, but they can't hide the fact that the film is little more than a tedious shaggy-dog story with oblique mythological references.

Smith brazenly ignores plot conventions and concentrates on an apparently endless stream of crude and occasionally clever one-liners.

Its real star is the picturesque tropical scenery.

Never has the adage "You can't help who you fall in love with" been more lavishly illustrated than in this historical drama.

Steers clear of historical accuracy. Herzog is obviously looking for a moral to his fable, but the notion that a strong, unified showing among Germany and Eastern European Jews might have changed 20th-Century history is undermined by Ahola's inadequate performance.

Perleman has little control over his characters; they simply go to pieces in the most ludicrous ways. He has even less control over Kingsley, who soon slips into full-blown Yul Brynner mode.

An Arthurian tale minus everything the average person knows or cares about Arthur and his knights.

The shame of it all is that Kane somehow managed to assemble an extraordinary cast, whose fine performances can't surmount the tedium of his script.

Alba, constantly sporting off-the-shoulder tops a la "Flashdance," brings no depth of feeling to her character, and her average -- often wooden -- moves make it hard to believe she's a uniquely talented hoofer and sought-after choreographer.

Overall the film is a stylish lark with no resonance, a mean-spirited one-night stand of a movie.