To watch Ratatouille is to recognize we're living in another golden age of American animation.

It's Grint who grounds in reality, as best he can, Brock's directing debut...this conventional Britcom lightly hums along for a good stretch before running off the road.

Steve Buscemi: 'I have been asked to do Letterman. And the first time, I could not get past the pre-interview, you know, when the producers ask you for four stories...I could only come up with three.'

Will presumably charm wee ones, and...go over like gangbusters with the holy rollers, but others may notice this comedy of faith skimps on the comedy.

Soderbergh can no more put the fizz back in his flat bubbly than one can put a genie back in a bottle, but at least Ocean's Thirteen can still give you a light buzz.

A reading from the Books of Marvel...And the Surfer passed through buildings and buses with a squish...And Twentieth Century Fox said that it was good.

Klores tells this story as well as its ever likely to be told...[and] as stories go, this one's a doozy.

Tea Leoni & John Dahl: [Leoni:] 'So then, of course, the second I stick the knife in the watermelon, I almost vomited. It was just disgusting.'

Believe in forgiveness comes dropping slow on the characters, in the form of a snowfall that's possibly redemptive, but also cold.

The cumulative effect of Fleming's direction and Roberts' casting is to make eternal heroine Nancy into a chipmunk-chipper detective and a social nincompoop.

All too successful in evoking the simple-mindedness of its immigrant naifs and the interminability of the Atlantic passage.

Apatow's part in the rehab of the mainstream comedy relies on the underlying yearnings of archetypal social strivers.

Gives a strong impression of the atmosphere, excitement and complexity of a Broadway production.

More a visual-aural poem about Piaf than a definitive bio-epic of Piaf's complex life story.

What's black and white and brings in the green?

Cultural poison...[or] a helluva lot of fun[?]...When it comes to a gore movie, there are two ways about it.

Michael Winterbottom: 'I think, um, someone staged it. But it wasn't us...he did say all this on camera in front of the biggest possible audience you could have...maybe he could have found a quieter moment.'

Rum should be mandatory for every man, woman, and child misguidedly attempting to make sense of the frantic Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End.

Kasi Lemmons: 'I saw [Hughes] get up like "I can't, I can't watch this." It's either too close or it's bringing back some old emotions. But he would walk into the DJ booth, and you could tell he just felt nostalgic for it.'

The [angel] turns out to be Stuart Smalley, parking André in front of a mirror so he can tell himself he's good enough, he's smart enough, and doggone it, people like him.

The director lets actors do their thing, to a fault, which makes Frederick's blitzkrieg of a performance often off-putting but occasionally mesmerizing.

How often do you see a film that's not only interested in girls' lives but equally honest about their tribulations and their potential?

Evans makes Mr. Brooks the CEO of a box factory--because who would suspect the CEO of a box factory? Plus he's pro-life--how ironic!

Frank Oz: 'There are actors I've worked with who hate my guts. Uh, three. As a matter of fact. One who's passed away, sadly: Brando. The other two are Cher and Wilford Brimley.'

Eli Roth: 'Let's do that psychology. Let's see these guys in their home lives. And how does the bidding work? And what happens when they get there? Let's go through the minutiae.'

In the generally deft new anthology film Paris je t'aime, short films are like streetcars.

Its brutal mental and physical outbursts will likely remain the most grueling screen scenes of 2007...but it's a shame Bug isn't more than it cracks up to be.

It's a musical courtship--he on guitar, her on piano, and both in vocal harmony. It's also a scruffy cinematic sleeper with which anyone's liable to fall in love.

As if to mock the film's all-trappings, no-sense agenda, Depp's Sparrow gets off the film's sole sign of verbal wit: 'Look! An undead monkey!'

No one but patrons with fistfuls of dollars can save this cash grab from itself.

A power play about power plays, Jean Anouilh's now-classic Becket provided the basis for one of the great screen pairings.

Go-for-broke pop entertainment...more action, more humor, and more nastiness than either previous installment, often in loopy combinations.

The earnestness of Cage and tough-as-nails Moore backfires in the face of godawful dialogue and a very poorly established central conceit.

Thrives on bone-dry humor.

By the time the big finish rolls around, you'll be too jaded-too worn-down by the endless, pointless red herrings--to muster an interest in whodunnit.

If you listen closely, you can hear your brain cells fizzling.

Everyone's favorite British agent is still good for a punch, a shag, and a quip...Casino Royale gives the reborn franchise a second chance to grow up.

Fails on the scores of credibility and originality, but since it's nearly as thrilling as it is unlikely, the picture works out to be trashy fun.

Ostensibly, the message...is the difference between an expensive house and a priceless home, but since the message is taught by a greedy psychopath, it rings a bit hollow.

What should we expect...other than being taken for a ride? Just as Irving does, Hallstrom picks out a sexy convertible for the job.

A creditable historical drama about those who choose to be in the world, not merely of it.