The performances, surprisingly, are not bad at all. Kristen Minter does well with what she has, as does Vanilla himself. However, it's impossible to take anything seriously--the film's dramatic premise is utterly insupportable and David Kellogg's direction renders the choices flat.

The runaways' actions provide anything but responsible models for the children who make up the film's target audience, and the likable cast flails against the rampant idiocy and gross commercialism.

The original English scripts certainly were peppered with sly, topical asides aimed squarely at adults. Paul Bassett Davies' updated screenplay attempts to follow suit, but what passes for topical these days is pretty much limited to industry inside jokes and constant allusions other movies. Thankfully, the animation itself is thoroughly inspired.

For some reason, producer Wisberg decided to revive the long dead Hercules craze, and luckily it didn't take.

It's only too bad nobody lectured the producers about creative cowardice. If someone had, Another 48 Hrs. might have been another good movie instead of just another damned sequel.

Like so much dope humor, Soling's logic is fuzzy, and you'd have to be pretty high to find any of it funny.

This bare-bones plot is merely an excuse to string together a series of gross-out jokes involving bodily fluids, private parts, food and genetic deformities.

The result is sometimes strained, but often fresh and funny. And the sequence in which the entire cast sings "Avenues and Alleyways," bombastic '70s crooner Tony Christie's lush ode to thug life, is worth the price of admission in itself.

With friends like these, the poor guy took what he probably thought was the easy way out.

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

Although the story is as predictable as can be -- "surprise" twist ending included -- the performances are better than those in most super-low budget horror pictures, and Jessica Gallant's super-16mm cinematography is surprisingly handsome.

The story is treacly sweet, told in a simplistic animation style that has lamentably become an industry standard. Kids will enjoy the events, however, and parents might be mildly amused by the cast of famous voices. But at close to an hour and a half, MY LITTLE PONY pushes the limits of a younger child's attention span.

An extremely loud and simpleminded cross between TV's "WWF Smackdown!" and "Dumb and Dumber."

Its misogyny, homophobia and overall grossness undermine the tired gags, and its relentless portrayal of African-American women as money-grubbing hootchie mamas (the sole exception is, of course, Dre's mom) would be wholly unacceptable if a white filmmaker had been at the helm.

As to the dream sequence featuring Lonnie's and Brandy's trash-talking babies, it's just creepy.

A ridiculous and totally insipid film.

Cocky, vulgar and very noisy picture.

Steve Austin is conspicuously inarticulate and uncharismatic. Former soccer lout Vinnie Jones, whom no one will ever mistake for Laurence Olivier, acts rings around him.

Sally Field has actually made a likeable movie.

Its real problem is that Matilda Dixon, apparently conceived as a cross between the Blair Witch and Freddy Krueger, is an oddly characterless bogeyman, perhaps because she's 100 percent special effects technology with no actor underneath.

An offbeat, sometimes gross and surprisingly appealing animated film about the true meaning of the holidays.

Sleek, pointless action picture.

Director Arthur, who struggled for eight years to get this film funded, claimed that her right to final cut was revoked by the producers and that they trashed her version and released what she describes as a more exploitative cut.

Has a sour undertone that strangles its cheap laughs.

The old talking-animal routine gets a bit of an update in that this time the animal is vulgar and profane in a way Mr. Ed or Francis the Talking Mule would never have been. But that's about the extent of the inventiveness in this unfunny comedy.

Directed and co-written by country singer Dwight Yoakam, this film just screams "vanity project."

Bodrov's staging and cutting does a perfectly good job conveying their anthropomorphized feelings and motives; the spoken drivel is just a distraction. The film's human characters are largely inconsequential.

The film is a harmless extension of the skit, aimed at fans and best viewed as a showcase for Meadows's considerable talents.