Natali's film has a fabulous look, a nerve-wracking, claustrophobic mood, a number of genuinely suspenseful set-pieces and some sublimely stomach-churning special effects.

Hong Kong action pioneer Tsui Hark is in high form here, tricking out the bare-bones story with disorienting camera angles, trick photography and virtuoso action sequences.

"Saturday Night Fever" with designer drugs and duds.

The few good lines go to Kristofferson and the ever-amusing Kier, but Snipes's considerable energy is buried under an affectless, Terminator-style demeanor.

Anderson pulls it off, thanks in large part to his witty writing, punchy editing and a likable supporting cast.

The horror of LaBute's articulate, self-deluded characters is that they're both sharply drawn and just vague enough that you can insert face here.

The story's not much, but this dark comedy contains moments of unexpected wit.

This big-budget bore looks lovely but is so miscalculated that you can't help but wonder whether anyone involved had ever seen the original.

The film flawlessly captures the directionless alienation of youngsters whose families are in no shape to guide them through the turbulence of their teenage years.

This lushly produced, lightweight romance embraces every cliche of the genre without so much as an ironic shrug.

Despite solid performances from the leads, it comes shrouded in a heavy cloud of ethics-class complications that makes it feel like a "dilemma of the week" TV movie.

The identity of the bad guy is ludicrously obvious; and his public unmasking relies on the dopiest contrivance in recent memory.

This efficient fright machine features a knowing cameo by Curtis's mom -- "Psycho's" Janet Leigh -- a couple of bloody good scares and a genuinely affecting performance from Curtis.

Is it funny? Sporadically.

Once upon a time there was a feisty young woman who didn't sit around twiddling her pretty thumbs and singing "Someday My Prince Will Come." That's the revisionist spin on Cinderella, and it twirls very nicely.

Goldbacher's film is lovely to look at, but the blurry heart of the film only suffers by the comparison.

The technology for twinning a single young actress is considerably more seamless than it was in 1961, and Lohan is a perky charmer.

This taut crime thriller is a welcome antidote to brainless action extravaganzas in which the mayhem is the message, and rests on two shrewd, perfectly modulated performances.

The movie's greatest strength lies in phenomenal performances that reach from the leads right down to the smallest supporting roles.

While Poirier's gentle touch is part of the film's overall charm, it's also what may lead some to find the whole journey a little draggy. Nevertheless, it's a good way to spend a couple of hot summer afternoon hours: It's often very funny, the acting is fine and the gorgeous CinemaScope cinematography manages to capture all the raw beauty of Brittany without ever coming off as pretty-pretty.

Lyne's direction is sometimes overblown -- debauched playwright Clare Quilty's (Frank Langella) appearance amid the pale fire of exploding bug-zappers really is a bit much -- and the unfortunate fact is that the novel is one long tease, an intricate, seductive game in which words are as important as deeds.

Old-fashioned fun that goes down as smoothly as a vintage cocktail.

The laughs are low -- very low -- and the comedy often flags. But two elaborate sequences involving a bad-tempered little ankle-biter are standouts.

Its power lies both in Aronofsky's evocation of tightly wound paranoia and in his flawless dovetailing of personal obsession and cultural anxieties.

Cynical and contemptuous of its audience, this lazy sequel oozes an insufferable air of self-satisfaction.

Bindler's slice of the American pie is a slim one, but it's fascinating none the less.

Yes, it's a testosterone cocktail, but at least it doesn't leave you feeling as though you've been tumbled around in a gem polisher for two-and-a-half hours.

Gallo's poor, poor pitiful me routine wears very thin, very fast, but Ricci is incandescent, a softly-glowing dumpling of a dream-girl in powder-blue fishnet tights and sparkly tap shoes: She's the diamond in the dirt.