The general level of mayhem, the sudden transformations that are Plympton's trademark moves and the pervasive irreverence will no doubt delight Plympton's legion of fans; others may find 80 minutes of these shenanigans exhausting.

The film is sponsored by Lockheed Martin with the cooperation of NASA, both of which are deeply involved in the development of the ISS, so it's not surprising that none of the questions that have swirled around this project -- like, who'll foot the bill if any one country defaults on its contribution? -- are answered, or even addressed.

It's all surprisingly predictable. As for Sorvino, she can wear the clothes, but they don't necessarily make the man.

Feels forced and awkward, as though it's trying too hard to be weird, culty and profound.

The film isn't even enjoyably sleazy: It's just dumb and tacky.

Routine thriller.

This is as powerful a set of evidence as you'll ever find of why art matters, and how it can resonate far beyond museum walls and through to the most painfully marginal lives.

Bleak and complex moral thriller.

Paxton is impressively subtle and elicits remarkable performances from O'Leary and Sumpter.

Overall, the film feels a little stiff, perhaps because screenwriter Steven Peros adapted his own stage play. But the performances are a delight, especially Dunst's effervescent turn as Marion Davies.

It's hard to overstate just how awful this movie is, despite the efforts of the appealing cast.

The film looks great and makes sophisticated use of digital effects.

Run Ronnie Run! is an unfortunate mistake, but it's still better than actual reality programming.

Diop Gaï's performance is equally beguiling: She's both bold and mysterious, a femme fatale bursting with life.

This beautifully shot, 70-minute black-and-white film remains deliberately inconclusive.

Neither the appealing cast nor the bouncing, ska-inflected soundtrack can keep the party going.

Heartfelt but overly familiar film.

It's both funny and harrowing in the way that only a childhood nightmare come to life can be.

Béart and Berling are both superb, while Huppert -- imperious as a woman who turns her world into a moral prison to prove a point -- is magnificent.

Undermined by contrived suspense sequences, a pointless subplot involving Claire's flaky, trashy sister, and a formulaic thriller ending.

It's not the bomb on the plane that scuttles this film: It's the mugging, ham-fisted direction and total absence of comic timing.

Mehta says it all so articulately and with such good humor.

While not for every taste, this often very funny collegiate gross-out comedy goes a long way toward restoring the luster of the National Lampoon film franchise.

The movie's low budget shows, but the competent (many of them also sitcom veterans) cast keeps things moving smoothly.

MacDowell, Staunton and Chancellor are terrific, tearing into their juicy roles and reveling in first-time feature writer-director Jim McKay's sharp-tongued dialogue.

Too bad Australian actress Griffiths ("Hilary and Jackie," "Six Feet Under") is as underused as Amy Madigan was in "Field of Dreams": She mastered a realistic Texan twang for the role.

The film is little more than a stylish exercise in revisionism whose point -- we create, then destroy our own monsters in order to assure ourselves we're human -- is no doubt true, but serves as a rather thin moral to such a knowing fable.

Look carefully at that final scene; few happy endings have ever felt so downbeat.