A hip, hilarious new animated feature.

Gibson and the overexposed Hunt don't exactly burn up the screen, not that it much matters. The charm isn't in the relationship, it's in Gibson's puckish appeal.

I can only bestow this adaptation of Joanne Harris's bestselling novel with such faint praise as "pleasant" and "mildly disarming."

The characters are as thin as the air at 26,000 feet, and the story as silly as anyone willing to assault K2 in a punishing blizzard.

Stinketh like the breath of a dyspeptic dragon.

Proof of Life isn't a movie. It's an overpriced scrapbook.

Magnificently nonchalant about its magic.

You realize this is a story about the life beyond this movie, about the great changes in life we never give ourselves time to consider. And for a moviegoing experience, that's a lot of bang for your buck.

So dull and formulaic, it ought to be leashed and led directly to the doghouse.

I was hooked from beginning to end.

Rush is too sinfully good for the drama he's in.

It's a love story, yes, but one whose sweetness is cut by honest performances, a sharply drawn supporting cast and a fairly serious, yet never self-pitying, tone.

A confection that is ultimately better because of its bitterness.

The film, built of interviews with participants, is fast-paced, utterly absorbing and ultimately tragic.

Your children are almost certain to have a great time.

Neither smart nor exciting enough to justify the effort.

It's not Christmas that's being stolen here. It's the spirit of Dr. Seuss.

Pfarrer's screenplay feels older than the Martian hills.

Storytelling like this weighs heavier than a standard diving suit, and it's really up to you, if you're ready to take the plunge.

How much you enjoy this movie depends on how funny you find Sandler talking out the side of his mouth with a gravelly squawk -- for the entire movie.

A humanistic gem of a movie, with unforgettable performances from Linney and Ruffalo.

A Chinese film whose simple surface belies greater mysteries.

A slight, disingenuous script that robs the characters of their histories.

A tarted-up but tedious reprise of the '70s TV series.

Very funny in a way reminiscent of "Babe: Pig in the City."

Proceeds with an episodic pace, full of narrative twists and turns that clearly are not pretested by a Hollywood committee. Things feel sort of strange and original all at once.

Tells us nothing we didn't already know, and it tells it over and over and over.

We're only a little spooked, only a little amused and, by extension, only a little entertained.

At times, it's downright nasty; and that's when I like it best.

Like too many Thanksgiving dinners, too much squabbling really wreaks havoc on the digestion. Football, anyone?

Coupled with the fact that the plant and animal life (hoopoes, zorilles and ground squirrels, among other beasties) really look African, and that the film's original score is by the great contemporary Senegalese musician Youssou N'Dour, Kirikou and the Sorceress's surprising honesty about the banality of evil makes the movie -- even with all its magic -- feel truly authentic.

A great director's losing battle against a goofy script.

You have to see this to believe it.

This is one fan's valentine to the music he loves. It just happens that the fan is a terrific filmmaker and the music loves him back -- and we get to see it and hear it all. What a treat.

Baldly manipulative, emotionally counterfeit melodrama.

A mite sluggish.

A pretty dreary affair to sit through. It's not even scary.

Though it's allegedly a comedy, there is nothing funny about this tasteless, shallow and mean-spirited slam.

I can recommend the first two-thirds of this movie with great enthusiasm.

It orders you to love it. It demands love, which is the best way not to get it.

Another cheesy, overdrawn and witless "Saturday Night Live" takeoff.

The story, which deals straightforwardly with racism, miscegenation, adultery and consumerism, is a fascinating combination: a movie with an almost Capraesque heart and pristine, almost stagey lighting schemes, that addresses uncomfortable moral issues with today's perspectives.

With conceptual misfires like this, Lee's best work recedes even more swiftly into the past.

If there's one piece of wisdom to be culled from this botched project, it's this: No one gets Carter.

So twitchy, fidgety, skittery and wiggly that the drug it made me yearn for was Dramamine, followed by a chaser of bourbon, 12 years old.

On one level, Yi Yi is classic soap opera, with a suicide attempt, a wedding ceremony, even a brutal 11 o'clock news murder, all in the mix. But Yang's direction is so admirably restrained, it lends rich heft to everything.

Roach knows to play to the movie's twin strengths: Stiller and De Niro. Throw these guys together, turn up the intensity.

In the end the movie goes nowhere a hundred movies haven't already been and tells us nothing we don't already know. It does so with so much violent energy, however, it's like four brutal years at film school crammed into an hour and a half.

Insufferably cloying experience.

A scrappy independent film that packs the same emotional punch as "Rocky."

So smug and so proud of itself, and you can tell that everybody involved conceives of it as a civics lesson instead of a story, that they squeeze all the life out of it.

Its scope isn't broad enough to draw in the uninitiated.

Just isn't as fresh, focused or uniformly funny as "Waiting for Guffman."

Its easygoing, disarming air will endear it to its target audience, who will appreciate this movie as much for the lifestyle it depicts as its actual story.

The only quandary in this film is in where to begin despising it.

The mind will be starved for subtlety, wit and substance.

You may leave this movie exhilarated by its no-holds-barred boldness or annoyed and bewildered at the unpredictable course it takes.

Breaks no new ground.

A conceptual train wreck, with half an idea scattered like disaster debris all over the screen.

There's no denying its surreal, hypnotic effect.

Far from an amusing romp.

The camera, freed to glide, flows as if through the old man's memory, discovering both the glory of his life and the tragedy.

Ought to be called "Hook, Line and Stinker."

This is wonderful stuff, as far as it goes.

It's something no one should watch.

Mostly, these guys carry on like spoiled children, complaining, roughhousing and badgering women to strip naked.

Nurse Betty is this year's "Being John Malkovich"-an utter original with a little something to say and a way of saying it that manages to be at once delightful and bilious.

It's good fun for bad boys.

Puerile bluster.

In its heart burns the indomitable flame of the human spirit.

When a burning rat is the funniest thing in your movie, I think you're in big trouble, even in Miami.

You don't have to be a Phishead to enjoy Bittersweet Motel.

It doesn't lack for emotional intensity or persuasive, three-dimensional characters.

An endearing comic roundelay about the can't-commits.

A spoofy paean to cheerfolk that has more bounce per flounce than most tales about teen queens.

The film-which at 112 minutes, ends up ramblin' like its subject-does provide compelling rehab for an underrated artist.

Riveting in its low way. It traffics in imagery profoundly disturbing.

Godzilla, go home.

It couldn't be any less revolutionary in style. It is straighter than a guitar string.

There's nothing stodgy about these court jesters or their humor, even though their act is a decidedly grown-up affair.

A surprisingly lush, well-produced film.

A bittersweet duet convincingly, if unexcitingly, performed by Baye and Lopez.

Not that much deep thinking went on here.

The scariest thing about this hokey bombast is that it got made in the first place.

An insufferable, self-important, sloppily made bore.

A field goal, not a touchdown.

Warmhearted, wonderfully witty.

I liked Coyote Ugly better when it was called "Flashdance," although I didn't like it very much then.

Definitely stuck in the fourth grade.

An implausible action adventure with the most geriatric payload since a community of retirees lifted off in "Cocoon."

Defiantly sophomoric, often hilarious and crude as all get-out.

Grim, yes, and great viewing.

A big, fat clunker.

A second-rate romantic comedy.

Avoid this movie unless a) your child has refused to eat until you take him or her, or b) your house is being fumigated to kill an infestation of mosquitoes with the West Nile virus.

Sparse and implausible screenplay.

Narratively club-footed but directorially assured.

A provocative and uncomfortable comedy.