Not much happens on the surface of Hou Hsiao Hsien's latest film...Nevertheless, it can break your heart.

Generally amusing -- if occasionally overly sentimental.

Allows the supporting cast to steal the movie.

Affleck is no more convincing as a flesh-and-blood action than as a superbrain, Thurman is cruelly photographed and director Woo appears to be imitating his own worst work.

Simultaneously groundbreaking and remarkably faithful to the classic play.

Though the ballets themselves are beautifully shot, they lean heavily in the direction of gimmicky and prop-heavy pieces; they're visually interesting but, by and large, they're not great dance.

Young Tamimi is a terrific rider but a lackluster screen presence, and the film's brevity ensures that her trials have a perfunctory quality that keeps them from being truly compelling.

In the end it appears that the problem is less divorce per se than immature and deeply selfish parents who should never have had children in the first place.

Ricci's less flashy characterization of the immature Selby is equally skilled and meshes seamlessly with Theron's uncompromising performance.

From her speech patterns to her body language, Roberts's performance is wrong for the period.

They're answers that will either earn your respect, or further damn him as the architect of an American nightmare.

Perleman has little control over his characters; they simply go to pieces in the most ludicrous ways. He has even less control over Kingsley, who soon slips into full-blown Yul Brynner mode.

The film's heart is the relationship between Elsa and Julien, and stars Bouanich and Serrault have a lovely onscreen rapport that's truly endearing.

The caliber of the cast, led by Mirren and Walters, elevates the material above movie-of-the-week level, and viewers can relish seeing these fine actresses play against type.

You don't have to be Jewish to love Jonathan Kesselman's uneven, profane and occasionally flat-out hilarious parody of vintage blaxploitation pictures, but it helps.

Despite its length, the film only starts feeling as long at the end -- or, more correctly, ends. Serious fans of the novels will be prepared for the serial codicils, but the uninitiated are likely to think the film is over several times before it actually is.

The excuse given here that Gerron couldn't resist one last opportunity to direct, even under the most grotesque circumstances, is really no excuse at all.

Webber's assured directing is evident throughout; in addition to eliciting strong performances from his cast, he always knows when to linger on an image and when to move on.

Norman Jewison's honorable but stodgy exercise in ethical outrage, based on Brian Moore's acclaimed 1996 novel, fairly aches to be called a thinking man's thriller.

All the money in the world couldn't have saved actress-turned-filmmaker Troy Beyer's lewd, obnoxious, product placement-laden remake of the sweet and simple romantic comedy "Can't Buy Me Love."

A whiz at crafting conventional Hollywood screenplays, Meyers's direction is overreliant on close-ups and medium shots; there's no life to any of the images. Still, the film coasts along smoothly on the charisma of its stars.

Here the message -- it's not nice to ridicule, mistreat or ignore people just because they're different -- verges on the oppressive; more of the Farrellys' trademark over-the-top comedy would have lightened the load.

There's enough information packed into Paul Devlin's documentary about the woes besieging the former Soviet republic of Georgia for two movies.

Subtle performances and the "you are there" immediacy conferred by digital video give Roy's film the feel of a series of stolen moments.

Such astringent details as a banjo player plucking a few ominous notes from "Dueling Banjos" when Ed first lays eyes on the Norman Rockwellian beauty of Spectre ensure that the story's fundamental sweetness never becomes cloying.

Davidson's young cast is remarkable, engaging and guilelessly funny without being so cute that their calculated actions ring false.

Alba, constantly sporting off-the-shoulder tops a la "Flashdance," brings no depth of feeling to her character, and her average -- often wooden -- moves make it hard to believe she's a uniquely talented hoofer and sought-after choreographer.

Unwilling to offend, Zwick whitewashes a culture in which brutality and contemplative beauty were inextricably intertwined and, afraid to alienate audiences, he shies away from the story's logical downbeat conclusion, replacing it with an "ambiguous" ending that recalls, of all things, "The Road Warrior."