There is much to admire here. A surreal battle between Batman and the Joker amid skyscrapers and elevated trains in a miniaturized Gotham City stands out, as does an extended sequence in which our hero is hunted by police SWAT teams. The most impressive piece of animation is the opening credit sequence: a stunning two-minute, computer-generated 3D flight through Gotham City. This absorbing adventure should resonate with those who take the notion of heroism seriously--especially adolescent boys.

Though the portentous title is taken from the Old Testament -- Elah is where little David took on Goliath -- the film's concerns are painfully timely and forcefully articulated.

Although strictly standard fare, the material is elevated somewhat through Clark's skillful handling of such plot devices as obscene phone calls from the killer to the girls via the upstairs phone and a nicely handled twist ending, which provides a genuine shock.

The film itself is a lot of fun--but the audience-participation phenomenon has turned it into a one-of-a-kind cinematic experience.

Unexpectedly touching -- odd-couple buddy comedy.

It's not that the heckling isn't funny -- it is, at least sometimes -- but we just can't stand that smug, superior attitude, predicated on the notion that everything that isn't new and flashy is ipso facto ridiculous.

Hawks used more than 10,000 extras and handled the DeMille-type hordes well enough. The problems arose in the shooting of the small moments, the times when actors had to speak to each other.

Some four decades after the birth of the gay-rights movement, the excess and sexual abandon of gay life in the '70s seems more an aberration than an accurate picture of out-and-about gay life at the end of the 20th century.

The animation here is better than average, though not quite up to the quality of Disney Studios in its heyday. Still, this film has a lot of heart and is wonderful entertainment for both kids and their parents.

Polished, pokey and cloyingly formulaic, Denzel Washington's directing follow-up to "Antwone Fisher" is a Harpo -- as in Oprah spelled backwards -- Production all the way.

This poky and indifferently plotted film isn't much of mystery.

Director Yates, critically hailed for BULLITT (1968), seems to have little idea what to do with Redford, and the slowest parts of the film are the scenes developing his character into someone the audience still doesn't especially care about. The rest of the film, though, is quite enjoyable as the gang commits elaborate caper after elaborate caper, always finding their objective has just eluded them.

A beautiful, at times poetic exercise in excess from Brian De Palma.

There's something surprisingly sweet at the center of this grim prison drama.

Beautifully shot against Iceland's frozen landscape, the film is nearly as spellbinding as its strange heroine, whose essential mystery Gudmundsson preserves until the film's final frames.

A tour de force and an utter delight, studded with priceless supporting bits by Miriam Margolyes, Maury Chaykin, Rosemary Harris and Rita Tushingham, each of whom steals at least one richly deserved moment in the spotlight.

Rests on three excellent performances, of which the most difficult is Stephen Rea's.

A supremely slick piece of entertainment where style triumphs over substance.

Lawrence delves deep into the moral dilemma at the heart of Carver's deceptively simple tale. By deliberately making the young woman in the river aboriginal, the film also opens up yet another dimension in the reaction to the men's inaction: Would they have acted any differently had the murder victim been white?

Based on screenwriter Susan Isaacs' first novel, the film is nearly undone by Frank Perry's lazy direction. Good performances from the entire cast, especially Sarandon, save the movie.

Barnes, now in his seventies and relocated by the Witness Protection Program, is shot only in silhouette, but there's plenty of footage of him in his heyday, dressed to the pimpalicious nines and playing to the cameras like a movie star.

Probably the most lighthearted and enjoyable of Meyer's films, Faster, Pussycat was embraced by a new generation during its art-house re-release in 1994; many viewers detected a feminist subtext beneath its extravagantly campy surface.

It's a shimmering, thorny, and consummately self-aware valentine to a paradise, however illusory, lost.

Insipid, formulaic and suitable for the dumbed-down sensibilities of lowest-common-denominator couch potatoes.

It's all passably entertaining, but there's precious little that will stay with you; like so many contemporary movies, this one self-destructs five seconds after you leave the theater.

All behave in ways that may at first seem incomprehensible, but through Moncrieff's expert storytelling, each woman is finally rendered merely human.

Sexy and soulful like the smoothest slow jam, writer-director Theodore Witcher's debut feature is a classy, surprisingly accomplished romantic comedy focusing on life and love among of a group of young African-American Chicagoans.

A slickly crafted fable, however dark, but it's shot with haunting poetry.