In the end, it all looks and plays like a $40 million version of a game you're more likely to enjoy on a computer.

Little kids at play have come up with craftier plots, better characterization and conceivably more spectacular effects -- provided their mothers let them play with matches.

It is a beautiful, moving tale, a love story even, sad without being schmaltzy, full of funny, knee-slapping moments and sufficiently thrill-packed without the usual padding of cheap thrills. Despite the dramatic imbalance, and the need for some fine-tuning in an otherwise sensitive script, Heroes, directed by Jeremy Paul Kagan, remains a stunning film. [04 Nov 1977, p.11]

Lazily written and hopelessly miscast.

My Blue Heaven puts you in a stupor comparable to the one that comes on after Thanksgiving turkey. Written by Nora Ephron, it makes you long for the awful "Heartburn."

It's not new. It's not interesting. I wish it would go away.

Unfolds with all the entertainment value of watching somebody else play a video game.

It's as pretentious and wispy as its title.

It's difficult to know whom to root for.

A jarring amalgam of sitcom goofiness and uncomfortable ooginess.

When Vaughn is cooking, his films can be stylish, self-satisfied junk food. “Argylle” leaves the style out of the equation — it’s filmmaking as processed interstate fare, high in calories, low in fiber, tasty until you’ve had enough of it and then you feel sick.

It's got a little kick to it.

Much of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is simply despicable.

Doesn't anyone get sick of this same old routine?

Surprisingly amateurish attempt at cross-cultural comedy.

The gratuitous vulgarity is just one more reason that Scooby-Doo should never have left the pound.

PSTwo feels like an elongated Tales From the Crypt, though the annoying heavy-metal soundtrack sounds like seepage from Headbanger's Ball. The first time around, Lambert went for terror; this time, it's mostly hardy-har-horror.

Jigh class briefly gives way to high camp, which then itself dissipates to an anticlimactic thud.

Ricki Lake makes an appealing, though unlikely, fairy tale heroine in the derivative romance Mrs. Winterbourne: If only this stale trifle didn't call for the bewitching or pixilating, for the abracadabra of a Bullock or a Pfeiffer. For a Cinderella story, it's sorely without magic.

A fascinating premise. And yet, the movie, directed by Bruce Beresford, never quite blooms.

There were moments when I thought Gone in 60 Seconds might be a passably entertaining movie. I figure those moments, strung end-to-end, would total 30 or 40 seconds.

Audiences who have avoided the multiplex these last few years because of the garbage peddled there are the only ones for whom this overly familiar "Walk" will be memorable.

In Kansas, Andrew McCarthy and Matt Dillon have a way of taking pages of dialogue and making it sound like ... pages of dialogue.

It’s a mushy and unsuspenseful melodrama.

Involves such a disturbing blend of unhealthy mother-son affection and physical pain that it gives new meaning to the term child -- not to mention audience -- abuse.

The movie is very loud. It is pointlessly loud, arbitrarily loud, assaultively loud.

Although there are genuine moments of humor, they’re at odds with the increasingly ghastly measures taken by the three protagonists, as they succumb to power-hunger, paranoia and overkill.

Boils down, in the end, to the age-old question: Career or life? That Post Grad draws a stark line between the two, and forces its heroine into an untenable decision, might be the most disappointing thing about a movie that never quite succeeds in capturing a generation adrift.