Incoherent pseudo-mythological balderdash; the kind of movie in which the hero, by concentrating really hard, is able to learn an unfamiliar language over the course of a single evening.

Better than it looks, but not nearly as remarkable as its champions claim -- it's basically just a skillful, thoroughly enjoyable variation on E.T., with a little Day the Earth Stood Still thrown in for good measure.

Like In & Out, this is almost mystifyingly unfunny, given the terrific premise and the talent involved; only Eddie Murphy's goofball turn as willing flunky Jiff feels remotely inspired, and there's not nearly enough of him.

Call me a deviant, if you must, but I do tend to prefer at least a little sexual chemistry between the two stars of a romantic comedy; Four Weddings compensated for Andie MacDowell with great jokes and a winning supporting cast, but this retread, despite considerable (and visible) effort, manages neither.

On the one hand, a dazzling display of technique and the most enjoyably kinetic reminder of why they call them "movies" in some time; on the other, it'd be nice if, like its forerunner Blind Chance, it were actually about something.

Fabulous dystopian imagery, and it's nice to see a sci-fi action flick with some smarts; as in Bound, however, les frères Wachowski are more skilled with plotting and visual pyrotechnics than with character (casting poor, useless Keanu didn't help).

Films about an inanimate object that travels from owner to owner tend to be clever at best; this one doesn't even scale that modest pinnacle, apart from the occasional flash of fire from the ever-reliable Samuel L. Jackson (in a bit part, mind).

Inoffensive enough that I originally allotted it a B-; I downgraded it upon arriving home, when I realized that I couldn't recall a single truly memorable scene or idea.

Skillful and well-acted but kinda generic -- one of the "I was never the same after that summer" flicks that Deedee bitches about in The Opposite of Sex.

As stupid as Absolute Power (my favorite moment was when Clint found a key piece of evidence lying conveniently on the floor, open to the relevant page, complete with the previous investigator's handwritten annotation: "Something fishy here..."), without even the saving grace of that film's masterful opening break-in sequence; I now officially give up hoping for another Unforgiven.

Um, is it a bad sign if you're so bored that you're actively rooting for your two misguided protagonists to kill each other, so that you can go home?

It goes, all right, fast and frenetic and utterly riveting; only trouble is, nobody had the vaguest idea of how to stop it -- it just kinda peters out (this movie with a strong ending might've been a flat A).

Generic action sequences; a couple of decent plot twists; Chow Yun-fat's English and Mark Wahlberg's screen presence both still need some work.

The stressful lives of air traffic controllers is a fine idea for a movie; unfortunately, this one's more interested in a tiresome "quien es mas macho?" pissing contest between rivals John Cusack and Billy Bob Thornton than in exploring the details of their livelihood.

Oh, for a Hollywood comedy that doesn't play like an extended sitcom episode (speaking of which, my grade for Rushmore improved to a strong B+ on second viewing; for god's sake, see that instead).

Inspired bits of business (e.g., Stephen Root muttering feverishly about the "ratio of people to cake") almost compensate for the half-baked plot and go-nowhere romance; looks more like a long TV pilot than a movie.

Classical music used as solemn counterpoint; colored filters; non-linear structure; pointless mid-scene fades to black; clumsy literary devices; blatant symbolism; copious full-frontal nudity: duck, it's capital-A Art!

Sweeney isn't in the same league as Spalding Gray or Eric Bogosian, but she holds the stage (and, kinda as an afterthought, the lens), and her impression of her overbearing mother just gets funnier and funnier with each successive reel.

It's been nearly a year now since I saw this; what I remember most clearly is that the whole thing felt overly schematic and (like many of Chabrol's films) somewhat glib in its dissection of bourgeois evasions.

Slight but amusing, and something of a companion piece to The Gingerbread Man: same Southern setting; same contrived, hamhanded plot; same mix of performances good (Charles S. Dutton; Ned Beatty) and bad (Glenn Close; a rare clunker from Julianne Moore); same invigorating attention to irrelevant detail; same offbeat wit.

I had no idea that Olivier "le plank" Martinez had a little brother; unfortunately, this movie depends on the notion that Isabelle Huppert would be obsessed with him, and all I can say is "Yeahrightsure."

Sort of Kiarostami-lite (and a long way from Enfants du Paradis), but pleasantly energetic -- particularly in its rousing footrace of a finale -- and only occasionally saccharine.

Man, when Jordan whiffs it, he really whiffs it; as strident and tedious as Interview with the Vampire, with industrial-sized plot holes and a smarmy "twist" of a coda to boot.

Even more tiresome than The Best Intentions, to which this serves as both sequel and expansion; so much angst-fraught nattering that it's more like watching someone else's therapy than a movie.