Smashed may be better at preaching to the choir and is likely to find its largest audience among struggling 12-steppers.

A Late Quartet overplays its bass line and loses sight of the melody, making for a movie that is heavy-handed and sluggish. It remains earthbound when it should soar.

As with his previous film "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford," Dominik's ideas get the better of his creative handiwork as he throws off his pacing to follow points he has already made.

This film is more a love story about the marriage between Hitchcock (Anthony Hopkins) and his wife, Alma Reville (Helen Mirren), rather than a historically accurate backstage look at the making of this important movie in the Hitchcock filmography and the American psyche.

To sum it up, there is little that is unexpected in The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey. Rather than an epic continuation of Jackson's Middle-earth obsession, the film seems more like the work of a man driving around a multilevel parking garage without being able to find the exit.

More honest than you might expect a promotional piece such as this to be, but less self-investigative than you might like, you come away thinking there are much greater depths for Snoop Lion to plumb.

Never finding its right tone, Admission uncomfortably founders between the story’s comic and dramatic aspects and leaves behind a lumpy residue that tars its likable leads.

In The Girl, writer/director David Riker returns to many of the same themes he pursued in his award-winning 1998 film "La Ciudad," which told the stories of four Hispanic immigrants living in New York City. Immigration is still very much on Riker’s mind, although he approaches it from a very different perspective this time.

Although To the Wonder never transported me, personally, to the ecstatic heights the title promises, there is still much here worth one’s engagement.

Renoir is great at capturing some of the details of daily life within this unique household and conveying an Impressionist atmosphere on film, but as far as telling us a story, the film is a washout.

Solid 007 entertainment -- not as bad as some of the recent Bonds but not as spunky as some of the series' originals.

A sumptuous ride with breathtaking scenes and a soaring musical score.

Merry witticisms collide with empty clichés, leaving these characters with little trace of realism.

Graham maintains a casual charm throughout it all, but she lacks the kind of emotional depth that might have pulled this hodge-podge together.

A real audience pleaser.

A confusing jumble of historical drama and modern social essay that only serves to cloud the whole field of Jane Austen studies.

Colorful and a passable drama, one that highlights the difficulties of cross-cultural love affairs and the exoticism of the Third World.

Fails to create a seamless and believable web of measured performances and period color.

As far as I'm concerned, the fact that Bergman is finally getting around to asking himself questions he now realizes he should have asked long ago is not sufficient enough premise for a movie. The answers may be news to Bergman, but the rest of us might just want to opt for divorce.

Sumptuous to behold, although one will not leave the theatre with a much deeper knowledge and understanding of this great Spanish painter's career.

The Five Senses, despite its good performances, is like looking through a filmmaker's sketchbook: strong outlines but little substance.

Watching Raimi's visual style and narrative verve flatten out into this pale reiteration of a middle-aged-male weepie is an exercise in modern horror.

There's a nice little story here about the intermingling of cultures, but it rarely gets beyond the obvious clichés.

Reeks of a filmmaker who latched on to sure-fire subject matter, but then became lost once his character morphed into a person.

Just sputters along, albeit pleasantly, while revisiting the realm of the abundantly familiar.

Flawed but often entertaining teen horror flick.

Moore succeeds, even though the film as a whole does not fare as well.

Adults may discover, however, that when they get to the center of this particular world, they find no real there there.

Plot and character development are scarce; the film is more an abstraction than an absorption.

It's one of those period dramas about upper-crust Europeans in vacation resorts, which at first we think we've seen a million times before.

Not only is Kikujiro sweet and funny, it is, no doubt, Kitano's experimental "art film."

Emerges as an artful, courageous, experimental work that is as compelling as it is impaired.

It's amazing the filmmakers never really concern themselves with satisfying the audience's rules of engagement.

All in all, though, this Brazilian import is a small curiosity, intriguing more for its failures than its accomplishments.

Julien may be a donkey-boy but it's Harmony Korine, this film's director, who is a horse's ass.

The movie's third act begins a baffling and not-very-believable character turnabout.

It would seem the purpose of this movie, if not to deify, is to define -- and in this it fails miserably.

Despite flashes of originality, is a formulaic quagmire that traps bits and pieces from all these genres without really satisfying any of their true aims.

Bob Dylan might have been wrong when he sang that "there’s no success like failure, and failure’s no success at all." His new movie, although a complete narrative mess, is a thoroughly Dylanesque escapade.

I'm sorry. I laughed...There's something pleasurable about a comedy that has no pretensions about where it's coming from.

In between all the laughs and tears, it becomes painfully obvious that there's not a whole lot of story here to prop up the constant emotional yanking.

Would be a much better film had it not relied so heavily on a bombastic soundtrack (by James Newton Howard) for its emotional impact and spared itself some of the more overdone images of campus life.

Should be applauded for finding a new angle on a tireless story, but you might want to think twice before booking passage.

(Greenaway) is often described as a director whose movies "are not for everyone." The obvious retort is that neither are the Three Stooges, but at least everyone understands them.

Sandler has become one of our primary symbols of the modern rage-repressed American male. Let’s hope that one day he will learn to channel that rage to greater effect.

Although Love the Hard Way is saturated with a doomed romanticism that feels more fictitious than real, the actors lend the movie a potency that it would not have had otherwise.

Although the narrative hiccups in The Holy Land can be chalked up to the mistakes of a beginning filmmaker, they are not disruptive enough to diminish the film’s realistic impact.

The use of Bryan Adams as the madwoman's imagined paramour is indicative of just how mediocre this movie is.

Tom Arnold and Anthony Anderson become an official comedy duo as they deliver an extraneous (and questionably funny) comedy riff, as they did in "Exit Wounds" over the film’s closing credits.

Misfires on so many levels that we have to wonder if there is more than one meaning to this story's wild boars.

The storylines are as confusing (or as simple?) to the uninitiated as they were before, but that doesn't stop them from making sense to the kids.

The movie’s length forces our suspension of disbelief for at least an hour more than is comfortable and pushes mindlessness to a dangerous longevity.

When a cell-phone gag is the most exciting or inventive thing in a big summer dinosaur movie, you have to wonder if the species might not be ready for extinction.

Once you've seen it all once I bet you'll wish you were watching "Groundhog Day" -- again.

Joseph Fiennes smolders as young Luther, but it’s a performance that makes you wish instead that his older brother Ralph -– an actor who is one of the greatest at being able to portray inner torture and anguish -– were playing the part.

Sylvia also makes it seem as though, even at her happiest, she never received much pleasure from life. This makes for a long, slow procession to the oven door -– so dark, somber, and lifeless is this well-intentioned biography.

There’s definitely a certain fascination hovering about The Singing Detective, but after seeing the movie, that fascination turns to perverse dread.

Looks mostly like the same-old, same-old.

The actresses are terrific together, and it’s nice to see Helen Mirren smiling onscreen for a change. And although Calendar Girls is resolutely pleasant, the movie never really goes much beyond that.

Episodically eventful but utterly unsuspenseful, the film is a diversion that requires little attention and satisfies the film-going needs of a wide variety of viewers.

There is also a lot of good supporting work in this movie, including the performances of Irma P Hall, Tom Bowser as Evie's clueless dad, and Bruno Kirby as Kiddie Acres' gruff impresario.

Hope doesn't float in this film so much as it rises to the surface and then stagnates.

This is director Pouliot's first film, so perhaps some of his excess cuteness can be overlooked. But then again, maybe not.

There is plenty here to enjoy for beach bums and fans of bikinis and six-pack abs, but others are likely to find themselves hopeless wet blankets.

The film’s accumulation of unnecessary complications, bad visual choices, one completely superfluous character (LaBeouf), and tonally inappropriate quips makes us distractedly ponder the limits of human rather than artificial intelligence.

It just may be a movie that has difficulty transcending national borders.

Told from younger brother Doug's point of view, Phoenix's voiceover spans the length of the film and winds up making the images that unfold practically redundant.

Cynical yet mildly amusing Yuletide-season comedy.

The abundance of talent gathered for Meet the Fockers is sadly shortchanged by the unimaginative script and directorial laissez faire. It’s more like the audience has been snookered rather than Fockered.

It's neither the fulfillment of our worst fears nor the surprise of the week.

So many logical questions go unasked in The Gift, which, ultimately, is the movie's downfall. Mark this package as “Return to Sender.”

A well-told tale that uses minimal dialogue, striking imagery, and vivid violence to weave a depressing portrait of obsessive love and a no-win battle of wills.

Visually, The Jacket has a lot of flash, but it hardly compensates for the fuzzy story.

Director Siri has a stylish eye that makes this film resemble a film noir outing, but the script (by Doug Richardson) is at first routine before growing increasingly outlandish.

The actors are all good, although not much rapport is conveyed, despite one hot sex scene.

The makers of Guess Who appear to have given more thought to targeting an audience than building a believable movie.

My be a gearhead's delight, but its appeal to middle-of-the-roaders will be stop-and-go.

Neither a change of seasons nor truly wonderful performances can breathe life into the dismally enervated Winter Solstice.

He's a saint in the flesh, but not one who inspires great drama.

Paul Green seems more interested in what rock school can do for him than for the kids.

The result, although more sexually provocative, is not nearly as gratifying as was his (Ziad Doueiri) breakthrough film.

Everything Reeves has done since always has the whiff of "Ted" about it. Party on, dudes.

As delivered by the politically inclined international filmmaker Costa-Gavras ("Z," "The Music Box"), Mad City's oversimplification of the ethical issues is bound to annoy those with any first-hand knowledge of the news dissemination process and disappoint others who've come for the promise of a city whipped into a "mad as hell" frenzy.

Flightplan should have remained grounded for repairs.

As a filmmaker, Meredith has a strong, if derivative, visual sense, although his screenplay is packed with too many cliches and familiar riffs.

What Soul Food lacks in narrative originality and flourish it nicely makes up for with wonderful performances by a large ensemble cast.

The direction by Caruso adds little to the dynamics, although the script by Dan Gilroy offers the occasional gem. Nevertheless, Two for the Money is hardly a cineplex bargain.

The reality-show producer played by Walken is described by his assistant (Suvari) as having the attention span of a "ferret on speed." I'm sure he would love Domino.

Experiencing Evita is like watching one uninterrupted long-form music video divided only by different arias or costume changes (of which there are untold numbers).

Watts is in nearly every frame of the movie, so if you're a fan (and you should be) that's the reason to see this.

It's all well and good to run a scroll of corporate evil-doers at the end of the film as in Dick and Jane, but if these robber barons were skewered properly along the way, such heavy-handed, last-minute tactics wouldn't be necessary.

The film's voice talent is good, as are the characterizations. However, the film's computer animation leaves much to be desired.

While celebrating the lushly romantic, it also tweaks the tradition so that Sleepless in Seattle ends up something akin to a feature-length Taster's Choice commercial.

Likely to be remembered more for its method of manufacture and release than for any inherent qualities of its own. It will also become one of the many fascinating footnotes in the always provocative career of Steven Soderbergh.

The problem lies not in the plotting alone. Roth's direction does nothing to bring clarity to the story and its characters, and his blocking of the film's action scenes is downright muddled and vague.

Many are the times the viewer stares disbelievingly at the screen, furious with Murray for not asking follow-up questions or simply refusing to see the need to prove the veracity of the story.

The man whom the FBI described as "extremely eloquent, therefore extremely dangerous" here seems about as threatening as Mother Teresa.

The characters never come across as anything more than self-interested parties. It’s hard to have a rooting interest in any of their fates, and even less in the outcome of this movie.

Despite employing every cliché in the sports-movie handbook, Goal! The Dream Begins tells a reasonably engaging story.

If you shut down your brain and simply take in the wardrobe and performances by Streep and Blunt you'll have a swell time, like aimlessly flipping the pages of a fashion magazine.

It’s good to see that passionate cinematic rabble-rousing does not rest solely in the hands of the left.

The film's moody, dark palette and soft, inchoate backgrounds tend to lull the senses rather than actively engage the viewer. The magic practiced by this illusionist does not extend to the screen.

The performances are all solid, although the screenplay frequently bogs down with the complexity of palace intrigues and plots that could have been rendered more consumer-friendly.

Unaccompanied Minors isn't likely to become a frequent flyer but it could strike a chord among children of divorce for many holiday seasons to come.

First Snow tries hard but lacks originality.

Blades of Glory, although mildly amusing, has the dank odor of having gone to the well once too often: Ooh, let's dress up Ferrell like an elf – or an anchorman or a NASCAR driver – and see what happens.

Time and again, Devor sabotages his own attempt to bring "zoos," literally and figuratively, into the light.

Never rings true. It's a dramedy whose blend of melodrama and humor is awkward and incongruous, leaping between the two modes like a fat frog jumping lilypads.

What should have turned out as a terrific movie about the crime of spousal abuse has instead received the equivalent of a ham-handed molestation by director Mundhra.

In its rush to push hot buttons, Disclosure neglected some essentials of good storytelling.

By the time the police come knocking at the front door, Mr. Brooks has exploded from its mild-mannered start into full guignol mode, and would take a defter filmmaker than Evans to steer the tonal shift.

From the ad campaign, we pretty much know how things are going to turn out, and her pedestrian attempts at subplots are even more transparent than those in "Awakenings."

Unfortunately, there's little more than formula in Ichaso's El Cantante.

Hot Rod is a stupid movie about stupid people doing stupid things.

Never transcends its clichés.

There are warm, genuine moments that endear these attractive characters and their experiences to us despite all the falderal. Feast of Love may be enough for some to keep the pangs at bay ’til the real thing comes along.

My conclusion is that exploitation of a child for the sake of one's career is a shameful act.

Gray's signature long takes and overhead shots are in evidence and add to the film's fatalistic tone, and one rainy car-chase sequence is a real keeper. But, overall, it's impossible to shake the film's gloomy sense of eternal repetition.

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of … V8? That’s what you get when you cross VeggieTales characters with a pirate yarn.

Spacey, whose Trigger Street Productions is one of the film's producers, digs into his role as the story's snarky mastermind and lure, yet it's all the kind of stuff we've seen him deliver in so many movies before.

When I ask myself what it is that these women in the movie want, I come up with bubkes.

The action can be bloody, but is mostly routine. Ultimately, the film’s most eye-catching special effects are reserved for bikini waxes and implants.

Technically, Jihad's images and assemblage seem on par for a first-time filmmaker, though the film's message is a moving plaint.

Provides tepid but fun entertainment.

It's a good thing this movie has been sitting on the shelf for a year or more, because, apart from the difference in release dates, there's little to distinguish this new cop drama from last year's cop drama "We Own the Night."

Lovely to look at, Year of the Fish is an animated feature that pops off the screen like a goldfish leaping free of its bowl.

As we find ourselves again immersed in a time of war, Trumbo's ageless story offers a useful corollary.

The latticework of social meaning that makes up Crossing Over is ultimately a flimsy structure that pays lip service to liberal values while only occasionally inventing anything of dramatic significance.

The blood and gore quotients of Punisher: War Zone are extremely high and are sure to sop the appetites of the series' fans and virtual bloodlusters.

Unfortunately, the actors don't all behave as though they're performing in the same movie.

The film may seem a bit undercooked until it gets to the staging of the ultimate battle, but Obsessed is swinging from the chandeliers by the end.

Lymelife arrives with an impressive pedigree but, unfortunately, little originality.

Midway through, a character remarks as he leaves the scene of a takedown of Ronnie, "I thought this was going to be funny, but it's just kind of sad." The same thing is true about the movie as a whole.

Filled more with character studies than narrative intrigues, The Merry Gentleman also provides only sketchy personality details and background information.

Former New Jersey Gov. Jim McGreevey and Outrage argue that the closet suffocates decency and happiness, and the film ends with a freeze-frame of the now-popular folk hero Harvey Milk. However, were we to give up our right to self-denial, I contend that America would cease to be a land of freedom.

It may tell you everything you need to know about Easy Virtue to note that Hollywood hottie Jessica Biel receives top billing over veteran Brit thesps Kristin Scott Thomas and Colin Firth.

When the film sticks to biographical and career background, it is on steady ground, but when it argues the case for one particular album, it becomes promotional rather than documentary material.

A well-chosen cast props up this otherwise shallow story.

This time the acclaimed filmmaker tackles an entire “ism” and, much like its ambiguous title, Capitalism: A Love Story, Moore’s film is an unmethodical survey of a gargantuan topic, one that has only grown more so in the year since he began work on the project.

An attempt to infuse some girl power into their mash-up of cheeky horror films and teen-angst movies. The result is more mash than smash as Jennifer’s Body squanders its initial good will by failing to deliver the goods on either score.

It’s distinguishing the trickle from the treacle that becomes the problem.

Either you cotton to Zemeckis’ motion-capture aesthetic or you don’t: To me, it seems like an awful lot of effort for an insignificant payoff. But it appears that the filmmaker is stuck on the technique – at least until holographic movie technology comes along.

Amiable and proficient, this indie romantic comedy is never more or less than reliable.

If you want to see a good comedy about a couple’s marital problems getting worked out through the course of a home invasion, check out "The Ref."

Though there is plenty of razzle-dazzle onscreen, Nine is unlikely to ignite many sparks among viewers.

The film is so self-referencing, however, that a running gag about Wax/Travolta craving a “royale with cheese” moves the film’s energy backward rather than forward. Perhaps instead it was a reference to the film’s nutritional value rather than its screen precedents.

Brooklyn’s Finest is mo’ wrong than right.

While Chloe may seem reminiscent of Egoyan’s outlandish thriller "Where the Truth Lies," it also calls to mind another would-be thriller about marital infidelity that starred Neeson and was utterly ludicrous: "The Other Man."

Never breaks out of its dullsville rut.

When you get to the end of The City of Your Final Destination, you may discover that there is no there there.

Exploitative and crass, the film paints an ugly portrait of youth gone wild and the ineffectuality of the police to curb the menace.

This documentary is as soothing and edifying as watching a video loop of the Yuletide log.

If the mother-child bond is the core human relationship, then this movie implies that we are an emotionally doomed species, though I do not think this was writer-director Garcia’s intent.

The actors are all charged up, too; there’s just nowhere in this script for them to go.

With a surprising lack of verve, humor, and narrative tension, Shyamalan's live-action foundation film is unlikely to woo new fans to the tale.

Though the soundtrack comes on kind of heavy, the cinematography (by Enrique Chediak) has a beautiful clarity. Yorick's skull or not, Charlie St. Cloud is no Shakespearean drama, but the film should prove to be another solid stepping stone for Efron on his way to a long adult career.

It's hard not to feel punk'd and trapped amid the company of jerks.

The sketchy visual traits that differentiate the many characters in this avian universe will leave viewers crying, "Who, who" along with the owls.

It's the best date-night movie to hit the screens in a while, which, considering the competition, is very faint praise.

Terrific performances can't save this preposterous film from itself, but they do make it more bearable to watch.

Without sizzle or thrills, The Tourist becomes as sluggish and rank as the Venice waterways.

Kidman is the only refreshing thing in the movie. Otherwise, Just Go With It is an exercise in stagnation.

Some films are saccharine, but Hop is pure sugar.

Talks the talk but doesn't walk the walk.

This Earth Day release has honorable intentions, but it imbues the animals with human emotions and motives, which only muddies our understanding of these ferocious feline species.

Hesher is a muddle of inchoate feelings that never really grasps the clichés to which it raises its middle finger.

Bettany exudes an intensity that lays the groundwork for an interesting character, but Priest hasn't a prayer of creating anything more subtle than the giant cross tattooed on his face.

Boasting a terrific cast, the movie is unable to parlay its abundance of comic talent into an abundance of original comedy.

Shaky science fiction shacks up with a corny redemption tale.

Paul Kirby's production design stands outs for its opulent re-creation of the golden glitz and ostentatious trappings of the Iraqi palace, but otherwise The Devil's Double belongs to filmdom's hoi polloi.

The dual bromances at the heart of his new film, however, are as unconvincing as the life-and-death action plot that propels the film.

Margaret definitely has many elements for a successful drama. It's unfortunate that no one was able to shape them into a functional movie.

This story about two death-obsessed teens is twee and precious instead of genuine and candid.

Although appealing to look at, Happy Feet Two is noisy, busy, and unable to spark much emotional involvement in the viewer other than fear for the characters' well-being and a touch of existential angst by way of a couple of krill.

A coda set in 1965 seals the film's status as a bourgeois fantasy, but fear not: Paris' student and worker riots of 1968 are only a hair's breadth away.

Despite the weak performances and the scattershot screenplay, the film is visually terrific.

The melodramatic film has numerous light and comical touches, and the performances are uniformly good. The film's pace, however, has the consistency of molasses, and there's hardly a scene that wouldn't be improved by judicial trimming.

Viewers approaching Tim and Eric's comedy for the first time will probably be baffled by their popularity and success. Their Billion Dollar Movie will not win new converts, and their stretched-out routines demonstrate the old saw about less sometimes being more.

The entire film wants to be the retort to an idle comment uttered by a prep school lacrosse mom in the stands: "When did the Indians starts playing lacrosse anyway?"

If you expect That's My Boy to be the Bad Dad equivalent of Bad Santa, you'll be sorely disappointed. Sandler can't quite adopt that same cynical edge, instead favoring corny and sentimental resolutions to untenable predicaments.

The problem, ultimately, is that little of this is of any real interest. The brothers' bickering can be amusing at times but even at 76 minutes, the movie feels repetitive and overly long.

The action is neither cathartic nor supremely exhilarating. "Bullitt" on a bike this film is not.

There's little drama or sense of progression in the movie until the bombshell hits, and then it just whimpers along for another half-hour until the end.

It seems to me that since "Koyaanisqatsi" in 1982, for which Fricke served as the director of photography, every other film of this sort has been repetition.

The Oranges has little original shading.

When Murray's around, he's the only hot dog in the room.

Now that his passion project is out of the way, I look forward to seeing what Chase does next. He's sure to have his editor's pen back in hand by then.

Stick around through the credits for an extra closing scene that leaves the door of Heather's new home wide open for a sequel.

A good concept yields scattershot results in this horror-film anthology.

Breaks down before it gets out of the driveway.

Hardly lives up to its name -- bedeviled is more like it.

Lacks the bite that can equal the Bruckheimer bark.

The Art of War must ultimately be chalked up as a strategic defeat.

The comedy is often harsh and cruel.

Spotlessly dull.

Christian filmmaking has entered a new phase in which its creators have discovered how to soft-pedal their message under wraps of a conventional story.

Not even the rich and nuanced performances of stage veterans Smith, Gambon, and Birkin can save this British period drama from languishing amid the story's unfocused longings and unrealistic musings.

Sex may, indeed, be all in the mind, but Romance fails to score in the mind's eye.

The Monkey's Mask is filmed with an eye toward an arthouse sheen, although Lang's dramatic pacing is sluggish and dull.

A hackneyed police story, rife with clichés, implausibilities, and weak performances.

When a human joke like Tony Robbins is the only one who comes away from your movie smelling like a rose, there's a real problem in Farrellyland.

The kind of movie that gives "chick flicks" a bad reputation.

A mildly diverting comedy but has little of real substance to recommend it.

If it's a good heist movie you're after, there are surely better ways to go than with this limp caper.

Ultimately sinks under the weight of its good intentions. It’s like watching Univision or Telemundo on the big screen.

Across-the-board, the kids are extremely adorable to watch (not an easy thing to pull off) and will appeal to the other kids in the audience who might identify with them and see the story from the kids’ point of view. But looking at this film from any other perspective, will give you brain rot.

Each of the characters is dull and boorish instead of witty and urbane.

Even at 82 minutes in length, Superstar feels uncomfortably stretched.

There is a new definition of the term, "critic-proof movie," and it goes by the name Pokémon: The First Movie.

Seems more like an amateur revue, perfectly all right for what it is, but not meant to be seen beyond an audience of friends and family.

Learn from the Evers family: The Haunted Mansion is not worth the detour.

Everyone learns a lesson by movie’s end: Don’t put work before family. Curiously, no one learns that all this could have been avoided with a good method of birth control.

Retains and updates the basic plot points while losing much of the original's heart and soul.

Posey and Sheen appear to have a blast playing oversized characters so obnoxious that it's obvious they belong together.

It seems nothing is left out, and the movie makes us begin to feel as though we've witnessed every swing the man ever swung.

Not uninteresting, and it is very nicely performed, although you'll strain to learn from the movie the history on which it is based and struggle futilely to get inside the motivations of its characters.

All this would be fine if the script by Forrest Smith had more wit and fewer clichés, or the direction by former makeup artist Abascal had more inventiveness.

Duigan has the makings of a good yarn, but instead of trusting the story and his characters, he becomes fatally bogged down in trying to make statements.

My favorite line from the movie: "The god---- truth won't fit in your brain." How's that for cheap gimmicks for getting out of having to make a movie make sense?

Moog is an inventor's movie all the way.

It's unclear what Brooks is trying to say about our melting-pot culture, if anything.

Much more "Splish" than "Splash."

Only the most indulgent would fail to notice that this movie can't hold a tune.

Have we such short memories that we have already forgotten last year's feeble "Johnson Family Vacation?"

Lovitz is occasionally amusing, especially in his creative attempts to get through to his pupils, although his style of slow-take humor is a grave mismatch for this kind of frenzied comedy.

Cruelty, church redemption, miraculous healings of limbs and junkie relatives – all have their moments onscreen.

Without better material, Bullock’s talents will remain undercover.

Images seem to be grafted into the film that have little to do with the actual story.

In contrast to its great title, Mad Hot Ballroom is anything but: Let’s just say I was not spellbound.

The movie makes use of every avian pun possible, a pattern that becomes quickly monotonous and predictable, if not contagious.

As cold and unseemly as that stiff found in the shower.

Phenomenon flails about in a search for direction: inspirational drama, romance, social study, government intrigue- nothing fits or is explored very deeply.

The kind of film that will be suitable for all-ages entertainment once the family runs out of conversation after devouring all the turkey, but it's unlikely to expand its audience beyond these captives.

Manic energy is the term that comes most readily to mind when describing Ace Ventura.

Despite an A-list cast and director, it's astonishing how bad this movie is.

The interfacing of the two-dimensional and three-dimensional characters is so shabbily accomplished that it makes you start noticing all the other technical glitches in the work.

Bland jokes and lazy contrivances.

Bratz is way too long.

An awful lot of good talent has been squandered in this by-the-numbers film.

Coppola never manages to get his themes to coalesce into anything terribly coherent.

Perry tosses everything at his disposal into his movie gumbo, even a completely gratuitous appearance by his signature, self-performed, alter-ego in drag Madea – most likely to set up the premise for his next film "Madea Goes to Jail."

Perelman eases the transitions between the past and the present with echoing phrases and situations, but they all seem rather pat and contrived. Does he really think that repeated refrains from the Zombies oldie, "She's Not There," won't be a dead (so to speak) giveaway?

Swing Vote may muster a few easy laughs, but the film is no contender.

Stuff the cork back in: This wine movie was sold before its time.

With Filth and Wisdom, the Material Girl has now spliced the title of film writer and director into her list of accomplishments, but the result is, well, immaterial.

The lesson learned from The Tale of Despereaux is that an overabundance of vocal talent does not a good cartoon make.

The revelation of Little Ashes turns out to be none of the leading men but rather Gatell, a riveting actress cast as the girlfriend who is mystified by Lorca’s lack of sexual interest in her.

How the devastating story of the senseless murder of a 14-year-old could be stripped of emotion is a feat in itself, though one of dubious achievement.

Not even the always reliable talents of McKean and Lynch can help pull this comedy out of its ironic slump.

Despite a title change from "The Boat That Rocked" to Pirate Radio, this British import exudes about as much outlaw swagger as Tom DeLay in a dance competition.

Everybody’s Fine – a movie about the lies grown children tell their parents – is, ironically, one of the most disingenuous movies to come out of Hollywood in a while.

The title, The Last Song, may be wishful thinking for some, but the best they can probably hope for is the close of the era of Hannah Montana movies.

Could have used a touch of Madea’s down-home, self-reliant wisdom to spice up the marital doldrums of these four buppie couples.

The problem lies with the unimaginative story premise and the quip/reverse quip dialogue that just may be better-suited to half-hour television shows than this nearly 2½-hour movie feature.

Pleasant but dull formula film.

If there were any brooms in Disney's new Sorcerer's Apprentice they would have to be used to sweep this tired dreck to the curb.

Going the Distance has a tin ear and sullied eye: Nothing sounds or looks very good.

Burlesque bumps and grinds. And then it continues to grind and grind and grind.

Delivers sinister atmosphere but few shocks.

The kindest thing that might be said of this Eighties nostalgia trip is that its formulaic plot and overall mirthlessness are meant as mimetic tributes to that blasted decade.

Arthur overextends its welcome and relies too much on prop comedy.

Deathbed scenes and colonoscopy humor, Bible quotations and Maury Povich "Who Is the Real Baby Daddy" episodes: All cohabit with equal relevance in the world of Tyler Perry.

There's an interesting story here, but Joffe never firmly wraps his arms around it.

Although I'm generally a fan of movies that choose to star girls (of any age) as their lead subjects, Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer simply strikes the same whiny chord over and over.

Unlike its multifaceted director, the film never stretches its boundaries.

The film squanders any potential it had to be a revealing look into female intimacy and instead uses broad-scale melodramatic strokes.

Molina and Weaver, who, most of the time, perform brilliantly, move through Abduction as if on autopilot.

Atkinson's fans are likely to rejoice as the comedian twists his face and body to and fro, but the rest of us will not be recruited.

The film feels about as genuine and spontaneous as its evident lip-synching.

This Italian import may have greater resonance for the men of Casanova's native land than it does internationally, but it definitely hits on truths infrequently addressed in the movies.

The primary problem with Blue Like Jazz is that there is no believable character development.

Only Ruben Blades as President Calles and Bruce Greenwood as American Ambassador Dwight Morrow get out of this film with their acting dignity intact.

Creating plot from lyrics, in this case, leads to heavy-handed literalism and limited creativity. The wall of music is amusing for a while, but grows into a loud, wearying assault long before the movie's two hours are up.

Despite the filmmakers' efforts to humanize Wilson, however, Bill W. still dabbles in hagiography, valorizing the man while also painting him as a reluctant hero.

The rescuing of our public schools is a national necessity. I just don't know that we are aiding that cause by sending out oversimplified and dogmatic messages about not backing down.

Although the original Red Dawn was far-fetched, the remake offers little but vicarious thrills.

What begins as a cute idea grows annoyingly sentimental before it is through.

For those unfamiliar with the notoriously camera-averse philosopher and his thoughts, Derrida will most probably prove to be an unenlightening bore.

In terms of execution this movie is careless and unfocused.

Would have been smart to fold before it let its hand go this far.

The movie's bright touches belong primarily to Brooke Smith.

Totally in the distance is the memory of "Swingers," whose hipster goof has been replaced by a stupid goof. This may be what is meant by the “dumbing down of America.”

No matter your standard of measurement, this production falls short.

Does not live up to its name. It's more like White Men Can't Box, Either.

Ugh. The Rules of Attraction is the kind of movie that leaves vague impressions and a nasty aftertaste.

Unlikely to receive many curtain calls.

Like Mike is a slight and uninventive movie: Like the exalted Michael Jordan referred to in the title, many can aspire but none can equal. Even "Space Jam" was better than this.

None of it is handled with any emotional believability or grace. Well-worn phrases and plot developments are repeated here as though the world had never heard of "Cinderella."

Suffocates under its own good intentions and inexorable sense of doom.

One might expect that with such low goals the film might have at least hit its target more often than it does. Schneider's mugging is relentless and his constant need to suddenly transpose himself into another character undermines the story's continuity and progression.

Adults may have a hard time swallowing this toothless tale of PG-rated bloodsuckers, but kids may relate better to its lessons.

Everything is a puzzle and it's as though Lynch lost track of his reasons for making this prequel and got hung up on filming the sordid details that TV won't allow: shots of peeled-back corpse fingernails; close-ups of oscillating uvulas; visions of strange-looking, backward-talking, gyrating weirdos; and uncensored whiffs of sex, cocaine, and families undone.

It's likely there's going to be some “viewer disturbance” going on after audiences catch a whiff of this routine and thrill-less suspenser.

In the final analysis though, the only real thing being smuggled in National Security is unwitting patrons' admission fees.

The logic of it all will be Greek to anyone not predisposed to the movie's rude and crude humor.

It begins in a muddle and ends in confusion.

The whole thing reeks of sequelitis, with an emphasis on the rude and crude.

It comes off like so much poppycock -– to use the vernacular of the day.