You know what they say, folks: it's a free country. If Jesus Camp scares you, better start brainwashing some little heathens of your own.

It's too bad that Phillips fumbles for comic gimmickry when he has the makings of a rich and timely satire on poison-peddling motivational personalities.

In what may be the single most damaging performance in any film this year, Affleck puts on extra pounds, a fake honker, and a horrifyingly bad debonair act.

Flyboys' spectacular predictability confirms its shallowness.

Knoxville at one point sports a T-shirt with a slogan that says it all: "F*** Art: Let's Dance."

Zaillian sells short the faceoff of shrewd old guard and scrappy proletariat by looking away just when the twain meet.

Weak-tea...with tepid gags, lazy plotting, and scenarios that are mostly too unpleasant to be funny.

As the character drama bogs down in Hartnett and Johansson's maudlin mumbling, De Palma starts to focus on shoehorning in a punchy setpiece or stylistic outrage.

Never explains its stupid idea of a talking baseball and a talking bat...The filmmakers presume too much in assuming we'll accept the "magic" "realism"...

Johnson gives the part his authoritative all, but he doesn't have the depth of ability to elevate a sappy script that regularly calls for up-choking.

Where do WB pilots go when they die? Perhaps they're reincarnated as lousy supernatural thrillers.

The downtime since Ong-Bak has left us hungry enough not to care that the plot and frequent action feel a bit recycled.

A movie for hooligans, and do we really want to encourage them?

Clearly presents the charges against the MPAA, the "voluntary" group that has systematized Hollywood censorship.

Plain-good storytelling: rigorous acting, handheld urgency, and editing prowess render the whiff of manipulation moot.

There's a casual informality to Pollack's documentary technique....results are semi-revealing.

In the film's best scene, Roth interrogates Lange about potatoes. Unfortunately such moments are rare.

Despite what you may have heard, World Trade Center isn't entirely apolitical, just understated in its commentary.

A terrifying triumph of hype, but...also the movie to preserve for all of Earth's recorded history Samuel L. Jackson lowering his gaze at Julianna Margulies and asking, "Sporks?" I dare you to look away.

Hard liquor goes in at the mouth, but when we're lucky, it comes out in the writer's grip.

When Angel brushes off Trumpy with the line 'Can the artist get a little space around here?', you may agree that the question deserves a qualified 'yes' answer.

Loses possession early on and has trouble holding onto the ball.

Knows it's a dumb movie and plugs ahead cheerily and without pretention...but the jokes quickly run thin.

A buffoonish but bitter social satire that runs to classical depths, Seduced and Abandoned takes no prisoners for society's misogynistic crimes in the name of familial honor.

By the end, I felt empty and unconvinced that I'd spent 103 minutes with genuine personalities.

Here's the pitch for Accepted: Animal House meets Ferris Bueller.

In his laughing-outlaw way, Hooper pointed a new direction for horror cinema. [2-Disc Ultimate Edition Reviewed]

My, he's an uncouth roughneck, but perhaps, just perhaps I can mold his raw talent into the dance partner of my dreams!

The trick plot enabling this Electra Complex situation tragedy is somewhat novel, but surprisingly not enough to sustain even a 103-minute running time.

Brian DePalma's Before Sunset.

If your taste runs to scatology and you find little people inherently funny, Little Man may be the movie for you.

What About Bob this ain't.

The film's consistent ticklishness frequently breaks out into uproarious set pieces.

Another tale of an unlikely family dynamic showing the way for closed-minded conservatives, Quinceañera may be simplistic at heart, but its drama is reasonably effective.

The slippery natures of truth, fiction, lies, and wishful thinking...get full play in the screen adaptation of The Night Listener.

A lean, mean genre exercise for those who prefer their horror full-blooded.

Like his superhero, director Bryan Singer carries an Atlas-like burden [but]...with thorough, fan-friendly fetishism, Singer honors the Superman mythos.

A rubbernecker's movie....There's a new Zalman King in town, and his name is Lee Daniels.

Has an ace in its anthill...political allegory that separates this one from the pack.

A painfully protracted muddle of dull deals and somnambulent standoffs.

Seems less a joyous return to innocence and more like the nightmares we have while contemplating the real-estate market.

I hated Lady in the Water, but not because Shyamalan took a sophomoric potshot at critics. I hated Lady in the Water because it's...stupid.

By design, nasty, brutish, and short...functions as drama because shock crosses through sensationalism to a kind of purity in the character study of a man in desperate need of repair.

A cinematic tone poem, wafting on wistful tableaus and sad faces....mostly elaborates on how death must ultimately be a personal experience.

The comedy misfires and the film winds up strangely...impenetrable.