THE BROTHERS GRIMM

Like its stars, Matt Damon and Heath Ledger, The Brothers Grimm sure is pretty to look at. But beyond that, the verdict is, um, grim. Director Terry Gilliam is renowned for creating unique and colorful universes where his actors can play and perform full-tilt, but the fantastical set design is the best and only thing worth paying much attention to in this amped-up and ultimately unsatisfying late-summer studio flick that looks cut and quarried to suit the whims and fancies of test audiences in Temecula. And when you have actors like Damon and Peter Stormare (stealing the show from everyone within striking distance) and a scribe like Ehren Kruger on board for your journey, it's disappointing to have nothing to invest in but the scenery.

Jacob (Ledger) and Will (Damon) are sibling scam artists who travel from town to town expelling the ghosts and demons of local legend. The clever tricksters first create the alleged menace through for-the-times-elaborate means, then rid the townsfolk of the purported beast and collect their agreed-upon fee. Many Grimm brothers' original fairy tales Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Cap -- Little Riding Hood, as we know her -- and more. are used to decent effect, but these vignettes often seem strung together and stuffed in for obligatory purposes rather than for the sake of story or plot. The ingenuity of classic Grimm lore is thus lost in its translation to big-budgeted, multiplex, mass-appeal moviemaking, and that's a shame. Things get slightly more cohesive once the squabbling brothers are put on the case to find these missing Grimm-tale children who are disappearing in Gilliam's artfully-realized Enchanted Forest.

The clever conceit of having the Grimm fairy tales collide with the Grimm brothers' reality is certainly inventive, but the execution of the idea is anything but seamless. The script is muddled with too many set pieces and the film just seems to be fighting itself to find a consistent tone, pace, voice, or vision. And with Gilliam at its helm, vision is one thing a moviegoer would never expect a film to lack. -- Michael Wood

THE CONSTANT GARDNER

Sometimes the theoretical mastery of a filmmaker gets in the way of a movie. It doesn't help the nuances of an actor's work and it diverts from what really matters: the story. The Constant Gardener falls into that category. Fernando Meirelles' first film after the critically acclaimed City of God is an adaptation of a John le Carré novel published four years ago. Le Carré has been really lucky with some of the movies based on his books. The Spy Who Came In from the Cold, The Russia House, The Tailor of Panama and the riveting series Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and Smiley's People are accurate in the way they portray the author's world: The governments are always corrupt, its diplomats are used to being deceived, and love is never thankful. All this, and an incredible sense of Occidental guilt, only in the movie, can be found in The Constant Gardener, where an amazing Ralph Fiennes portrays a diplomat who falls in love with a young and contentious woman (Rachel Weisz). After they get married, they move to Kenya, where she starts to uncover the deadly agreements, for her and the African people, between some pharmaceutical companies and the British government.

Mereilles and his screenwriter Jeffrey Caine follow the same pattern as le CarrŽ's novel, with a non-linear storytelling that the director emphasizes with his usual visual trademark: quick jumps, alternative framing showing just a portion of a face or a set, saturated cinematography. All very fancy for sure, but it's more confusing than enticing. Luckily, the performances are superb: Fiennes' face after learning about the death of a loved one, Bill Nighy's elegance, Weisz's enthusiastic and idealist portrayal of a woman who believes in making a difference, Pete Posthlewaite's subdued rageÉ And the immersion of the audience in a country and continent ravaged by war, hunger and AIDS becomes the most compelling asset of a movie that tries too hard to be original, daring, and Oscar-worthy. -- Josep Jorba

THE BAXTER

So what happens to Mr. Wrong once the leading lady runs off with her true love? That guy whom we simultaneously love and pity is the character that writer/ director Michael Showalter explores in his romantic comedy, The Baxter. Following the hapless circumstances that plague a very likeable fella, The Baxter is a true indie gem that is a throwback to the touching and hilarious humor of old Hollywood.

Elliot Sherman (Showalter) is extraordinary only his averageness: A tax accountant who firmly believes that "compromise is the key to success," he has lost more than one girl because refuses to take risks, thereby earning him the old-fashioned title of "The Baxter." Surrounded by a troupe of equally dorky friends, including a quasi-gender bending Michael Ian Black (donning sexy panties), Sherman's luck finally changes when stunning Caroline Swann (Elizabeth Banks) gives him a shot. But once a loser, always a loser, and their impending nuptials are disrupted by the arrival of her manipulative ex-boyfriend (played by a lucious Justin Theroux).

Showalter styles The Baxter as an old-school, pure-at-heart, screwball romantic comedy with nary a sexual innuendo or dirty word. Each character performs in an exaggeratedly gracious manner; every nuance is well-planned and executed, down to their prim clothing and clipped speech, but it never comes across as spoofish or forced. This method works best with Michelle Williams, who steals the show as Sherman's cheek-pinchingly adorable secretary from Minnesota. Showalter, who was an original member of the sketch comedy The State and co-wrote the cult favorite Wet Hot American Summer, once again demonstrates his remarkable grasp on satire. -- Sarika Chawla

MARGARET CHO: ASSASSIN

Since her breakout hit I'm the One That I Want in 2001, Margaret Cho has been keeping gay and lesbian audiences in stitches with her uproariously irreverent anecdotes, rants and, of course, those riotous impressions of her mother. In Assassin, her fourth concert film in as many years (!) the prolific comedienne -- looking rather svelte and fabulous, it should be noted -- delivers a somewhat fresh batch of material inspired by these increasingly troubling and conservative times, riffing on everything from right-wing busybodies like George Bush ("I want to send him poppers and Crisco") and their spouses (on Laura Bush: "You know her pussy tastes like Lysol") to what it would be like in a world without gays ("No lesbians? All the P.E.. classes would be cancelled") and her undying love for her Jeff Stryker dildo (a gift from Mr. Stryker himself). In short, it's the same Margaret Cho we've come to know and love over the years -- which is both a good and bad thing. While her comedy remains as sharp and pointed as ever (on the possible repressed homosexuality of the pope, she deadpans, "Queen, please, you live like a Versace ad!"), Cho still has a rather annoying habit of milking her own material until it loses some of its intended power. Of course, a good bit of this might have to do with the fact that, only four years into her whirlwind love affair with "the gays" (she amusingly refers to herself as "the fag whisperer"), Cho seems to have become complacent with merely preaching to the choir. Like Bill Maher, she's come to know her audience too well. Consequently, one can't help but wish that she'd do something truly revolutionary and write material that isn't so easily revered by her core audience. Now that's something I'd kill to see. -- Ken Knox