There's about half an hour's worth of sickly amusing material here...Unfortunately, that leaves a solid hour's worth of witless screaming, running around and expiring in a welter of icky special effects.

The film's greatest asset is Linney, whose prickly, finely calibrated performance as the doomed Harraway makes her loss resonate more powerfully than any of the point-counterpoint rhetoric.

Ryan Schifrin's first film is a pleasant surprise, an old-fashioned monster movie that relies more on genuine suspense than bare breasts and blood.

Sorry excuse for a comedy.

Andreas' cast and crew, however, have done an admirable job of backing up that hilarious title with an intelligent little film that knows its limitations and makes the most of a shoestring budget.

Francis Ford Coppola falls down and goes boom with this depressing, ill-conceived comedy.

For all its maturity - and nice performances from Johnson and Phoenix - the film winds up dancing around the 500-lb gorilla in the middle of the room rather than facing the pathology of its real subject head-on.

For the first hour director Arau and his co-writer and wife, actress Arizmendi, negotiate the story's tricky mix of comedy, social satire and science fiction with surprising aplomb.

"Alien" redux.

Rarely have moviegoers seen such a two-fisted wrecking ball of vengeance such as the one realized here by Ray Stevenson.

Utterly amateurish.

This amateurish picture was built around surfing footage that Mikelson shot for a Compaq computer ad and developed with an eye for accommodating a series of lush tropical locations: It's no wonder the plot and characters feel like afterthoughts.

But what truly distinguishes the movie is Cage's performance, which is so off the wall that even if you don't like it you have to watch in awe.

Says many things at once without much perspective or clarity.

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.

The whole sorry business is incontrovertible proof that Hollywood learned all the wrong lessons from 48 HRS.: Bring back Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy, please!

This madcap paranormal love triangle is charming on its own terms.

Although his film biography features beautiful production design and more than 1,400 costumes, it is unfortunately perfunctory, flat, and predictable.

Anemic chronicle of money grubbing New Yorkers and their serial loveless hook ups.

By the film's finale the descent into unintentional parody is all but complete, with a big death scene for Jackson complete with an angelic choir on the soundtrack -- the surprise is that they aren't singing "Dixie."

Bloated and incoherent.

Most of the occasional chuckles are provided by the spunky York, who really gives Diesel a run for his money.

Another failure in Harmon's attempt to move from TV to the big screen.

A poorly made and utterly laughable film that has gained a minor cult status with "bad film" fans.

The special effects, supervised by director John Buechler, who was the effects man on GHOULIES, are pretty poor, essentially slimy rubber creatures with a limited amount of movement and the seams from their molds clearly visible.

The best thing about this forced film is the special effects at the finale.

The winning cast makes the twist-heavy plot plausible.

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.