Offers jaw-dropping visuals, but its troubling images of violence may cause this revolutionary effort to miss the evolutionary boat.

Bad Company is about an undercover brother, but it will never be confused with "Undercover Brother."

To his (Snipes) credit, there are few other stars who could breathe a degree of credibility into a film like The Art of War.

Misfires on nearly every possible level.

Never makes the Jordans' tribulations feel like anything more than yuppie angst.

Regrettably, Bones is what passes for horror these days: Throw a lot of graphic, gore-filled, darkly lit stuff on the screen, and see what sticks. Discerning moviegoers should pass on the opportunity.

A listless, disjointed collegiate opposites-attract comedy.

A film that really has no idea what it wants to be, so it tries a little of everything, and does nothing very well.

An only fitfully engaging L.A. soap opera.

Made is an amateur-hour buddy movie.

There's less here than meets the eye, not to mention the ear, nose, tongue and fingertip.

As each male-female relationship works itself out in ways either contrived or predictable, here's betting you wind up more disappointed than enlightened.

The surprise behind Town and Country isn't that the director started filming without a finished script, but that he ever thought he had the start of one.

(Perry and Willis) are blown off the screen by Amanda Peet and Natasha Henstridge.

Little more than an electronic press kit for the band, produced for the benefit of its fans.

The movie gives us a time machine that resembles a twin-engined Mixmaster and a script that was tossed together inside one.

A one-joke movie. What makes it misfire is that its one joke clashes with its one idea.

A visionary sort of horror movie should ponder three words: "Bram Stoker's Dracula."

As a spy film, The Sum of All Fears is flaccid, and as an expose of nuclear threats, there's not enough information.

Crush is the kind of movie that gives friendship a bad name.

Manages to pretty much ignore all the strengths of the earlier film while exacerbating all its faults.

It's a mishmash of "The Bridge on the River Kwai," "From Here to Eternity" and "The Great Escape," with everything complex and entertaining siphoned off.

Tries to be both poignant and wicked, and succeeds at neither.

Malkovich acts as if he's doing Shakespeare, pontificating, enunciating and generally overreaching.

It's supposed to be funny watching these two characters and wondering who'll be the first to start acting her age, but it's really just pitiful, watching two talented actresses...given so little to work with.

No visual style, amateur effects.

At some point the foul language, lascivious sight gags, references to sex toys, violence against animals and cruelty toward children simply ceases to be funny.

The Safety of Objects is just another stilted comic-dramatic essay examining the mold in the white bread.

Strings of four-letter words are a poor substitute for dialogue, and it's not until the movie is almost over that someone realizes there's no reason, other than assumed macho posturing, for Cube's character to go after these bad guys so hard.

You won't believe the story director George Clooney and his goofball TV host are trying to sell. Really.

Without Duvall, this movie would be as wet as Waterworld.

The supernatural stuff is ho-hum, the dubbing is sloppy and the action will only make you pine for the younger, hungrier and more injury-prone Jackie.

What it is not is funny.

Maybe this is a psychological thriller after all: Every thinking member of the audience will be driven insane.

Because this Four Feathers is an utter botch, it might make savvy viewers feel that the subject matter is hopeless.

It's hard to figure who this picture is supposed to be for. Although a cartoon, it's way too mean-spirited and crass for young kids (parents, be forewarned!). And the idea that any substantial number of adults would find this sort of thing entertaining ... let's pray civilization hasn't come to that.

With a grating combination of naivete and arrogance, The Green Mile consistently overplays its melodramatic material, including a portrait of a black man that is as breathtakingly offensive as it is earnest.

Isn't serious enough to fulfill its ambitions, or funny enough to compensate for its failures.

There's way too much blarney in Evelyn.

I know Empire is supposed to be a movie, but for a while, I thought I was listening to one of those talking books.

Shyamalan plows the same old ground of juiced-up surprise endings.

The movie's own style is strictly an anti-style, all pre-packaged post-punk.

Blessed with some outstanding performances, among them Ribisi's.

Greenaway's film is about making people's jaws drop.

An underlit, overlong, underwritten and overloud albatross of a movie.

However you pronounce Bythewood -- I assume it's by-the-wood -- his work here is strictly by the numbers.

Despite these flaws, people sick of gross-out films and teen-sex comedy may be so hungry for farce that they laugh.

It has graceful layers and folds and a nice swing to it, and Jackson moves superbly in it. Unfortunately, I'm talking about the kilt, not the movie.

The unearned air of moralism that wafts through 15 Minutes pollutes its entertainment value.

Sttrictly movie-of-the-week stuff. And not very good stuff, at that.

Method Man and Redman just don't have the comic timing to pull off 90 minutes at front-and-center.

Manipulates the audience.

Alex & Emma is a literary-minded romantic comedy that barely passes English, and flunks chemistry.

The film is hapless. The gap between the moviemakers' ambition and their wit is dizzying. It's as if they thought they were filming The Importance of Being Unimportant.

Bullock's character goes through some changes, but she never turns into some unrecognizably serious actress.

A mistaken message is a price a filmmaker pays when he tries to load weighty themes like the cycle of violence on an overgrown boy who scoots around on a bicycle.

Its pleasures are slight and fleeting, and so many movies have done what it does, and done it much better, that there's nothing to get even remotely excited about - much less to draw audiences into theaters.

8 Women would probably be a looser, giddier salute to show-biz ideas of femininity if it were performed by eight drag queens.

Brain-softener.

Plays like Abbott and Costello Meet Conan the Barbarian.

The best thing about Black Knight is when it finally says goodnight.

And Witherspoon? She does the American equivalent of a mechanical British performance: She hits every note too perfectly. There's no shadow to her smile.

Like Adam Sandler's "Mr. Deeds," this is a hybrid, hipster-cornball movie that wants to celebrate common folk but unapologetically uses words like "trailer trash" to describe them.

An uninteresting take on a tired formula that is only occasionally funny and usually pretty gross.

Rock Star neither touches a raw nerve nor garners any resonance as a period piece. You'd be better off renting "This is Spinal Tap."

Ends up neither fish nor fowl. It's a misanthrope's "E.T."

For grownups, this treacle is going to be pretty hard to swallow.

If it worked, The Fast and the Furious would put viewers in the same position as the policeman protagonist, attracted to speed but appalled by crime. Instead it sentences you to an hour and a half in a high-decibel limbo.

The movie goes awry from the opening shots.

S.W.A.T. may be an acronym for Special Weapons and Tactics, but by the end of this routine melodrama, it might as well stand for Standard Whacking and Trashing.

To be fair, Friedkin does amp up the tension when called for. If only it were all for some purpose, or in service to a story that actually went somewhere.

A violent, dumb, offensive mess.

Tries to rock our world, but it regresses to a single-celled B-movie.

It's not hell, but limbo, junior high-school style.

Nolan pushes the twilight-zone atmosphere so hard that it loses its capacity for mystery. When it's not assaulting us with jolting audiovisual expressions of fatigue, this movie plays like a pedestrian response to David Lynch's effortlessly eerie "Twin Peaks."

Busy, over-stylized mess of a movie.

The material has a definite "haven't-we-been over-this-before?" feel.

Pious, high-minded and bad history.

Of Madonna's considerable talents, making the camera love her isn't one: The screen seems to go dead every time she's on it.

So what do we have here? Lots of cars going very fast.

Painstakingly painful.

How does an embarrassment of riches turn into mere embarrassment?

The apotheosis of adolescent junk. Every sequence spews or splats carnage-filled effects. It's over-the-top, but not pleasurably so -- it's calculatedly over-the-top. The only way to get off on it is to revel in its prodigal waste of materiel.

The only question is how many levels of meaning can be plumbed from the phrase "Let's party!"

As shallow and manipulative a movie as any that come to mind.

Formless, feckless, mindless, directionless and at times stunningly humorless.

A hollow excuse for an erotic mystery.

Too bad this movie is more tepid than the average Snipes potboiler and even rustier than his mindless Blade pictures.

It's the oddest case yet of the Emperor's New Clothes. After all, the Emperor in the fairy tale was naked. This movie has tons of fabulous clothing. The people disappear within their wardrobes.

Movie lite, a clueless, formulaic paint-by-numbers comedy.

It seems that in the movies, at least, there is a limit to how far low expectations can take you.

The dramatic content in Memento is as blank as Leonard's post-traumatic mental state.

American art movies rarely come fancier or emptier than Northfork, a down-home arabesque made of angel fluff.

Needs a story.

A hollow, relentless mess.

Wonderland marks a "biopic" first: Moviegoers will know less about the real-life subject going out than they did going in.

Simply go out and rent the original. In the thin ranks of killer-power-tool flicks, it's still the standard to beat.

Never persuasively dramatize the agony, ecstasy and intricacy of composing poetry. Without that aesthetic component, all you see is that Plath's hunger for life couldn't compete with her death wish.