Guy Pearce cannot remember anything for more than a few minutes. Each morning, tattoos on his chest remind him that his wife was brutally raped and killed and that he is living only for revenge. Annotated Polaroids remind him of the clues he has already uncovered. If you find this confusing, that’s the idea. And in order that you share completely his anguish, the story is innovatively told in reverse, starting at the end and then doing a one-step-forward-and-two-steps-back kind of thing. Carrie-Ann Moss and Joe Pantoliano have crucial supporting roles.

Disappointing effort from Ivan “Ghostbusters” Reitman about a meteor that deposits thousands of single-celled organisms on our planet, with the apparent aim of taking over the Earth—not by the usual nasty-alien means, but by simply and rapidly out-evolving us. Fair-to-cheesy special effects take up a lot of time before the film descends to some historically humongous lower-intestinal jokes. Stars The X-Files’ David “Snore” Duchovny and an underused Julianne Moore, and features an unprecedented product placement for, of all things, dandruff shampoo (as an enema!). Darwin would gag.

In this loud, violent, escapist, ultra-gimmicky entertainment from the director who gave us Gone in 60 Seconds, John Travolta plays a cinematically savvy, jovially sinister super-crook planning a $9.5 billion electronic heist for purposes you’ll have to explain to me. It starts off well, with a witty diatribe against movies today, but unfortunately soon abandons this theme and consists mostly of car chases, sexy women, high-tech computer-hacking stuff, unexplainable characters and some admittedly innovative action sequences (like a flying bus). Also Hugh Jackman, Halle Berry and Don Cheadle.

A quartet of retired gangsters who would be better described as wizened than wise guys (Richard Dreyfuss, Dan Hedeya, Seymour Cassel & Burt Reynolds) fakes a mob hit in their Miami Beach apartment building (they kill a corpse) in an effort to stave off the gentrification that’s threatening to drive them out. This kind of thing can be endearing and effective (I greatly enjoyed Space Cowboys), but this cobbled-together codger comedy caused me to smile not once. The film attempts to take advantage of the current Sopranos-fueled gangster fad. Fails. Fuhgeddaboudit.

The off-kilter feel of this only occasionally amusing, English-language flick about a piece of costume jewelry turning out to be worth $10 million illustrates a recurring problem among Japanese directors who feel that if they even attempt something in English, they will automatically be hailed as the long-awaited, cross-cultural missing link. An overconfident Yoshifumi Hosoya uses a Robert Altman approach, letting his actors contribute ideas, and this can work — if you’re Robert Altman. And without condemning them as a class, Japanese directors sometimes just don’t get it.

This beautiful period piece attempts the difficult task of comprehending, and then portraying on the screen, nothing less that the creative process. James Joyce (Ewan McGregor) met Nora Barnacle (Susan Lynch) in 1904 when she was a maid in a Dublin Hotel, and the attraction was immediate and mutual. Joyce is said to be a writer who lived what he wrote, and Barnacle, throughout their volcanic relationship, was as much muse as lover. But at what point does a writer’s obsessions, fears and jealousy cause a muse to become a guinea pig?

In this intriguing, near-future sci-fi flick from a short story by Philip K. Dick (as were Blade Runner and Total Recall), an acclaimed weapons scientist (Gary Sinise) is arrested on suspicion of being a very sophisticated alien android carrying a powerful bomb implanted in his heart. He makes a break and spends the movie running from the police and trying to clear his name. He’s positive he’s innocent, but the hook is that any imposter android worth its salt would believe the same thing, and you’re kept guessing right up until the final frames. Also Madeleine Stowe and Vincent D’Onofrio.

It’s a wonderful and rare thing to see a popular book so successfully brought to the screen. And though the Brits were initially appalled at the idea of casting an American (she’s from Texas, fer crissake) as Bridget, Rene Zellweger gained 20 pounds and a creditable English accent to virtually disappear into the title character who drinks, smokes, eats and talks too much while looking for Mr. Right. The comedy is both overt and subtle, and the perfect casting extends as well to Colin Firth and Hugh Grant.

Any film with “autumn” in the title is likely to be a sappy tearjerker (usually involving a terminal illness), and “November” is close enough. Add the word “sweet” and the fact that Keanu Reeves stars, and you’ve got a sure-fire snooze. Actually, Reeves is not the worst thing in this absurd film; his mediocrity is far outpaced by the criminally awful story and script (a remake of an equally forgettable 1968 Sandy Dennis/Anthony Newley flop). A miscast (not goofy enough) Charlize Theron does her best opposite Reeves.

In this fresh take on the coming-of-age teen flick, Ben Silverstone plays a 16-year-old boy who’s comfortably gay but still in the closet. The film centers on his relationship with the school heartthrob, an Oxford-bound track star who’s dating a model, and who is very, very deeply in the closet. It’s intelligently done (though the Big Speech at the end is moving but a tad artificial), and all but the most rabid homophobes will find it rewarding. Charlotte Brittain (Secret Society-that ladies’ sumo movie) does wonders with the clichéd role of overweight female chum.

The best I can say about this loud, occasionally coherent 98 minutes of eye candy is that it’s better than The Mummy Returns. But only just. It’s certainly the best film to have had its genesis in a video game, though that’s not saying much. Angelina Jolie, who has curves in places that most women don’t even have places, is more action figure than actor as the kick-ass heroine, but gets the job done. The “Superman Syndrome,” where the hero is so invincible that he/she cannot possibly fail, drains most of the suspense.

This cookie-cutter thriller for adolescents borrows shamelessly from Speed, with the (so-called) suspense centering on a deadly biological weapon that activates itself if the surrounding temperature goes above 50°F. The obligatory pair of mismatched heroes, Skeet Ulrich and Cuba Gooding Jr., have the thankless task of running the gamut of every possible action-movie cliché as they maintain their (and the weapon’s) cool while keeping it out of the hands of a guy who wants to sell it to international terrorists (ahem). Give it a miss.

Legendary horror film writer/director George A. Romero (1968’s Night of the Living Dead) checks in with this gimmicky parable about a spineless man who is so conciliatory and characterless that, when finally pushed by his wife, boss and even his maid to the breaking point, actually (and literally) loses face. Yes, he wakes up one a.m. to find a blank white mask staring back from the mirror. Now, if you consider a mudpack scary, by all means catch this flick. I found it dull and more than a little dumb. Japanese title: Urami.

More a high-octane adrenaline rush than a movie, this popcorn flick lives up to its title so well that it keeps you from noticing that it has no real plot. Has to do with a gang of high-speed truck hijackers who use crossbows to pull out the windshields of their prey at 100mph, and you just can’t help but think that there has to be an easier, if less cinematic, way to steal stuff. Whatever. And who ever thought there’d be an American-made hot rod movie using Japanese cars almost exclusively?

This excruciatingly inept hour and 42 minutes of fingernails on a blackboard is the lame rags-to-riches story about (surprise!) a pop singer. Obviously released to coincide with star Mariah Carey’s current (interrupted) tour and probably the reason for her “collapse” attributed to “exhaustion,” it’s hard to imagine how this film was ever green-lighted. And maybe this is cruel, even for me, but I couldn’t help but notice, with her fixed smile and high eyebrows, how much she resembles a baby orangutan. I’ve seen detergents that leave better films than this.