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Circling wildly within the film's main set -- a stalled elevator car -- or hurtling up and down an empty shaft, Mr. Fujimoto's camera is as giddy as a tween at a Justin Bieber concert.

Holy mother of god: behold the first M Night Shyamalan-associated film in the last 4 years that doesn't utterly blow.

A cleverly planned switcheroo story in which the twist at the end is the knife in the back.

Matchstick Men never really casts off its cloak of artificiality and calculation; its pleasures are minor, however distracting they may be.

This plodding mood-piece is as emotionally engaging as a paint catalogue.

It contains some very good performances and some finely observed writing.