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.

This joyless coming-of-age travelogue is such a downer that not even breathtaking locales can provide a lift.

Wenders creates an imaginative, stylized cityscape, but what's missing is the compelling story that could bring the setting to life.

A nose-bleeding mass murderer wears a mask that suggests Roger Ebert is knocking off a group of lifelong female friends.

At least the models' avarice and teasing provide a chuckle or two, as their dates line up panting at the door. Purely by default, their contribution makes this a slightly better working-woman romance than "The Wedding Planner."

Ragged but with an appealing comic edge, the movie is certainly funnier than most of the other comedies that studios have tried to keep from critics until opening day.

The sometimes fatiguing slow flow in hour one is worth the labor because the power in this 2-hour triumph reveals itself gradually.

Don't buy a ticket for this one, even if the theater is having a fire sale on Raisinets.

The movie wouldn't be imaginable without its commanding star. Nicholson is in virtually every scene underplaying to great effect

All about macho my-weapon-is-bigger-than-your-weapon posturing and far-fetched coincidences that slam together in an entertaining rush.

As buddy pics go, this is pretty much not even worth a single look, let alone a double take.

Thomas' easygoing warmth helps to melt Stiles' icy veneer, and one of Dance's few pleasures is an extended musical segment where she tries to ape his homeboy posturings.

Robbins' performance as Winston is the best thing in the movie.

The actors seem as frozen as the landscape in this unsuccessful attempt at a grand and profound Western about the California Gold Rush.

Feast upon a career-peak Willem Dafoe performance as a bat-eared fiend who is foul, funny, ferocious, forlorn and unforgettable.

The story itself is surprisingly seamless, yet it's the individual components that linger.

There's definitely some paradiso in watching Malena walking, but not enough to sustain almost two hours of cinema.

Once this 2 1/4-hour slow-starter finally finds its rhythm, we're reminded of how gripping policy give-and-take around a long rectangular table can be.

As this year's literary adaptations go, Horses comes a lot closer to being a truly bad movie than "The Perfect Storm" did, yet it would be hard to argue that the two are not the year's most disappointing in terms of trampled hopes.

The satire is surprisingly tepid.

This wee trinket of a comedy, one of the more offbeat stabs at capturing the absurdity of the religious and political strife in Ireland, is for those who like their Guinness with a shot of wry.

Plays like a labor of love.

Terence Davies' deliberately paced, earnest adaptation of Edith Wharton's breakthrough novel quietly captures the grim complexities of New York's social world nearly a century ago.

Just be glad that Hanks and Zemeckis toiled mightily to pull off at least two-thirds of a remarkable achievement.