Gemma Files

Surreal to the point of poeticism, amusing and tragic by turns.

She's not a real person, in any way, shape or form -- which makes watching Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, the first in a projected series of live-action films based around her exploits, a visually spectacular yet oddly cheerless experience.

Chan's glorious madness.

This is a waking dream of truly operatic dimensions.

Opinionated magic and mayhem

Sarandon prostitutes her blazing talent and sharp political sensibility to the service of a pile of misogynistic bullflop.

Some things just don't translate . . . not with Lipnicki attached, at any rate. Stick with the books.

An unexpectedly adult emotional rollercoaster with some very cold and unsettling things to say about men, women, marriage, and the lies we so often tell each other.

Mr Kumble: Keep your hands off the classics! You don't deserve to read them, let alone paraphrase them.

A magic-realistic fable whose lows soon prove as infuriating as its highs are intoxicating.

Quills -- like the Marquis himself--is a posey, pungent, ultra-theatrical yet weirdly seductive mess which wants to have its cake, eat it too and discuss the whole concept and context of its meal (constantly, contradictorily) while it does so.

Ends up suffering from the classic diseases of book-to-film adaptation: triteness, overreliance of narration, and a general "need" to impose classic dramatic structure on what is not a particularly dramatic narrative.

It's a rollicking good time, full of genuine emotional pull and incandescent acting, and anchored by a passionate love for the theater itself which puts most human liaisons--including Shakespeare and Viola's -- to shame.

Though issues of politics and philosophy are touched upon, this is a film about the people inside the uniforms -- a story of human beings under pressure, forced by circumstance to make choices both impulsive and, on occasion, heroic. It's also the new year's single most satisfying movie experience thus far.

Basically a dressed-up piece of drivel, a self-referential pseudo-thriller with pretensions to pretensions of classic Hollywood suspense.

Confirming the moral of a thousand "Twilight Zone" episodes: Don't play with time.

An endlessly contrived exercise in self-referential "black comedy", can't help but strike me as no kind of triumph of anything over anything.

Appalling, repetitive, utterly predictable.

Ephron is still a director whose movies veer uncomfortably between the good -- make that adequate -- "You've Got Mail", the bad "This Is My Life" and the ugly Lucky Numbers. Pity.

About an hour after you've seen it, you'll already be fuzzy on just who was screwing who, and why

A startling debut full of emotional depth and political punch.

It's adult and humane, genuinely sexy, laugh-out-loud funny.

Lyonne, as usual, does her best...but she's running uphill.

Man, I just can't recommend this enough.

Well worth the price of admission.

It's sumptuous, archaic, and longer than a firehouse ladder.

An exercise in outrageous style over substance.

A tiny slice of bleak, black near-perfection.