OK, Time Warner, a joke is a joke, but the time of tolerance has passed. Get your creatures out of our faces unless you're willing to regale us by afflicting them with Mad Pokémon Disease.

The story doesn't exactly startle with surprises and has a tendency to hammer and rehammer its points.

Brosnan and Rush are a smooth fit, playing off each other like a snappy shirt and tie.

The gritty, Oscar-nominated "Traffic" is a limo ride compared with the bloodletting in this year's foreign-film nominee from Mexico.

By emphasizing surreal humor and fast-paced action instead, Rodriguez has crafted a prepubescent version of James Bond without aping that series' style.

This is 90 minutes of gags of the lowest order, yet Poirier occasionally injects them with more energy than anything in "Heartbreakers."

A blah romantic comedy that has the bad taste to force the heavenly Ashley Judd into being an insecure, date-desperate, quirky career gal.

The pace is fast, many of the performers are attractive, and even the end-credits montage is zippier than usual.

The nasty, overlong and undisciplined sourball of a sex farce about a mother-daughter con team will nonetheless satisfy bigenerational libidinous fantasies.

It's so-so. As in mediocre. Even gross-out comedies need the stink of genius.

Annaud's epic might have worked better dramatically as a smaller, more focused picture. The best scenes simply involve Law and Harris playing sneaky professional games (less cat-and-mouse than cat-and-cat) with each other.

Has the unanticipated craft and artfully ambiguous appeal of last year's "Croupier," a movie whose art-house word-of-mouth success could be duplicated here.

Dramatically moving and good-naturedly humorous, it transmits a sharp picture of humanity that inspires both awe and laughter.

One of the film's strengths is that nobody -- male, female, gay, straight or Jewish mother -- is reduced to stereotype.

Clumsy urban thriller.

Calling a cave of rocks home while spouting invective worthy of the Juilliard attendee he once was, homeless-by-choice Samuel L. Jackson worms his way into one of the least compelling mysteries in years.

As entertainment, such dark material can only stretch so far, and Series 7 comes awfully close to being as numbing as the genre it mocks. But its power can't be denied.

Someone should have treated See Spot Run like a bone and buried it.

Superstars usually avoid movies this spiritless, and it's tough to believe anyone could read this script and fail to realize the movie wouldn't end up going anywhere.

An odd mix of seediness, sideburns and even scorpions, the movie nearly matches the Lisa Marie-Michael Jackson marriage for weirdness.

Wildly uneven collage of effects and live action is no Disney-bland vision of dreams gone bonkers. There's enough Freudian material to reupholster a thousand therapy couches.

This remake is shorter than its predecessors, a welcome earthly reward.

A few chuckles will be had by both the rabble and more learned brains.

The result is passably speedy on the level of other TV retreads that seem miscast on the big screen.

November is when we eat turkey, and Sweet November is pretty much a fat, juicy gobbler passed off as Valentine's Day date bait.

Not just stupid, but brain dead.

Hopkins' Hannibal is no longer mysterious, Clarice is no longer vulnerable, and the overextended Florence scenes dash any hopes of early momentum, even if Giancarlo Giannini is perfect as the cop.

A stylistically fastidious, exasperatingly affected package that will put most people in the mood for slumber.