The material is hardly original, but the moment is affecting all the same.

It's sometimes exciting but rarely thrilling, a victory of formula over finesse.

More unfortunately still, the elements of the story fit poorly, like a Tucker decked out as a sexmobile.

A film that asks its audience to invest serious thought, and in return, bestows serious pleasure.

Go in with lowered expectations, and expect to have them dashed.

The great lesson of the film is that humor, honest feelings and genuine exuberance trump technique.

An absolutely thrilling recreation, in documentary style, of a now-legendary story.

It's a terrible life, and a terrible movie.

In the not-so-grand scheme of such things, Along Came Polly is certainly harmless, and occasionally very funny. It's just not clever enough to keep you engaged.

The energy is genuine, and the level of invention is remarkable, sustained as it is by Mr. Baseman's genially garish art, Timothy Bjoerklund's direction from a script by Bill and Cherie Steinkellner, and Nathan Lane's madly passionate performance as the canine who was famously born on the wrong end of a leash.

A singularly strange and affecting comedy.

Shows how a dedicated man ensured that great music could always be heard at its best.

A not-bad idea lurks inside this insipid story.

Something of a shambles -- a shambles about a shambles -- but bound for big success and deservedly so.

Looks splendid and commands respect, but leaves you wondering what essential something you missed. It's a worthy film at war with itself.

Lavishly produced -- overproduced, actually -- and persistently unexciting.

Clearly Mr. Altman was enthralled by the company's work process, an alchemy through which sweat and muscularity on the rehearsal-room floor become exquisite abstractions on stage. His pleasure is infectious.

A seasoned director might have known when to ask Ms. Theron to do less, or nothing at all; as things stand, she acts at every single moment. But what brave and ferocious acting she does.

The performances, under Mike Newell's direction, range from conventional (Ms. Roberts) to dreadful, and the script is as shallow as an old Cosmo cover story.

Haunting, troubling documentary.

Though the film is somber, it certainly commands one's attention, and for a while one's respect.

Very funny and surprisingly likable until it goes Hollywood.

The invisible wizard Peter Jackson makes use of every scene to show us the meaning of magnificence. Never has a filmmaker aimed higher, or achieved more.

Eye caviar that doesn't pretend to be much else.

Diane Keaton has the crucial role, and she makes the most of it.

The film has a surprisingly sweet spirit, and its co-stars respect the human core in their garish material; Mr. Kinnear, especially, has never been more likable.

Simultaneously beguiling and frustrating -- the product of an imagist and dramatist uncomfortably conjoined.

Too many mind and the story grows tedious or absurd. No mind and the spectacle suffices.