HOUSE OF D Maybe not a "D," but this coming-of-age yarn from writer-director-actor David Duchovny certainly rates no better than a "C." The former X-Files star here plays Tom Warshaw, an American artist living in Paris who flashes back on a pivotal time during his childhood years in Greenwich Village. Thirteen-year-old Tommy (appealing Anton Yelchin) lives with his pill-popping mom, who's in a fog following the recent death of her husband - the fact that Duchovny's character's mom is played by his real-life wife Tea Leoni brings up Freudian connotations that I'd rather avoid. Meanwhile, young Tommy's best friend is a mentally challenged janitor who gets erect watching horror flicks and who's prone to telling teenage girls that he's got a big penis - as if this isn't frightening enough, also consider that the character is played by Robin Williams in full cuddly-creepy mode. And when Tommy needs valuable life lessons, he turns to an inmate (Erykah Badu) housed several floors up at a women's House of Detention - though the low volume level of their chatter made me wonder how they could hear each other at such a distance and with typical NYC street sounds blaring around them. Truly, there's much in House of D that's ghastly - and clearly the work of an actor still cutting his teeth on the other side of the camera - yet there are also plenty of small moments of sensitivity and insight that save this from being utterly unbearable. Whether it's the kid who repeatedly yells "Sabbath!" to the DJ while standing in the middle of the dance floor (this must be a generational rite of passage: one of my own school dances was marked by some drunken clod repeatedly screaming, "AC/DC!") or the stern yet fair priest (Frank Langella) whose lame jokes don't cut it with his pupils, there are some choice bits to temporarily offset the amateurishness.

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THE AMITYVILLE HORROR Jay Anson's 1977 novel The Amityville Horror was such a worthless piece of literature that the only way it could have moved any copies was for its author and its limelight-soaking subjects to declare it was all based on a true story. That did the trick: The book, about a couple who insisted their house was haunted, became a best-selling phenomenon, though it was soon discredited as pure hokum. A clunky 1979 movie version followed, and now we get the remake, which manages to be even worse than its screen antecedent. Leads Ryan Reynolds and Melissa George try their best, but as a creep show, this slicked-up version is painfully inadequate, preferring to traffic in quick shots of blood-dripping ghouls than establishing any real sense of dread. I've seen episodes of Sesame Street that were more frightening than this generic junk.

CHRYSTAL If it weren't for Billy Bob Thornton heading the cast and other notable pros on both sides of the camera, Chrystal could easily pass as a prime example of low-budget regional filmmaking; even in its present state, it's not far off the mark. Writer-director-actor Ray McKinnon has made an affecting melodrama that's deep-fried in Southern heritage right down to its ribs - this is the sort of film in which the story often feels incidental to its makers' ability to capture a specific landscape and its people. Thornton, as a tortured soul who returns to his home in the Ozarks after a lengthy prison stint, is effective in his own understated way, even though he's essentially repeating his characterizations from Levity and Monster's Ball; more interesting to watch is Lisa Blount, whose work as his emotionally damaged wife provides the film with a haunting stillness that permeates every scene.

FEVER PITCH The true subject of this adaptation of Nick Hornby's novel isn't the love between a man and a woman but between a man and his favorite sports team. As such, the movie's ability to balance the yin with the yang makes it the ideal date movie, a crowd-pleaser that follows many of the conventions of the modern romantic comedy yet doesn't betray its convictions for the sake of the usual embarrassing sops to formula. Successful consultant Lindsey Meeks (sparkling Drew Barrymore) is happy with new boyfriend Ben Wrightman (OK Jimmy Fallon) until she notices that his undying devotion to the Boston Red Sox begins interfering with their relationship; he's reluctant to lose her but can't commit to her the way he does to his team. Like the character of Ben, Fever Pitch comes across as a scruffy romantic, not always suave on the surface but harboring an irresistible tenderness inside.

THE INTERPRETER An interpreter (Nicole Kidman) working at the United Nations overhears a plot to assassinate the tyrannical president of her African homeland, but the Secret Service agent (Sean Penn) assigned to the case thinks she's hiding more than she's revealing. As a thriller, The Interpreter never matches the sweaty-palms intensity of director Sydney Pollack's excellent Three Days of the Condor, though it largely gets the job done. But between the soft-hearted assessment of the UN, the creation of a fictional African nation to propel the narrative (why not employ an actual African country that's had to deal in modern times with ethnic cleansing?), and an ending that takes the easy way out, it's clear that the Sydney Pollack behind The Interpreter isn't the same Sydney Pollack behind Three Days of the Condor. Just because a man mellows with age doesn't mean his movies should. 1/2

KUNG FU HUSTLE Operating with the same degree of logic as a Marx Brothers feature or a Looney Tunes short - which is to say, operating with no logic at all - Kung Fu Hustle stands alone as the year's most whacked out bit of entertainment. Writer-director Stephen Chow also plays the nominal lead, an ineffectual con man of the streets who inadvertently sets off a feud between the ruthless members of the ruling Axe Gang and the resilient residents of a slum area known as Pig Sty Alley. A nonstop orgy of madcap martial arts mayhem, this violent live-action cartoon contains a handful of brilliant moments, but it also spreads its concept thin: With nothing of real substance propelling the shenanigans, the movie grows redundant during the second half before regaining its footing for the climax.

A LOT LIKE LOVE A Lot Like Love is a lot like When Harry Met Sally crossed with Serendipity, as two people wonder whether they're better off remaining friends or whether the stars have something more intimate in mind for them. Ashton Kutcher and Amanda Peet play the part-time lovers, two strangers (they "meet cute" by wordlessly boffing in an airplane lavatory) who continually run into each other over the ensuing years. But rather than commit to each other and in effect get us out of the theater after a blessedly short half-hour, the pair keep bumping up against labored plot developments that drive them apart and insure at least one more trip to the concession stand. The stars are likable, but Colin Patrick Lynch's script never wholly convinces us that these two necessarily need to be together.

MISS CONGENIALITY 2: ARMED AND FABULOUS Even taking into account its status as a prefabricated, by-the-numbers sequel, this follow-up to the mediocre 2000 outing doesn't quite qualify as opium for the masses. Instead, it's more like two weak hits from a cracked bong. This time, Sandra Bullock's FBI agent must thwart a pair of kidnappers with the help of her hostile new partner (Regina King) and an offensive gay caricature (Diedrich Bader). With no feel for characterization, dialogue or plot development, this is the sort of dull sequel that's sure to be politely dismissed as merely routine, when it's that very sense of rampaging mediocrity - of flagrant laziness and audience disregard oozing out of every blemished pore - that renders it all but unwatchable. Many bad movies at least make an effort; this one is content to simply lay there, like a fat tick gorged on the blood of complacent moviegoers.

PAPER CLIPS Whitwell, Tennessee would be just about the last place one would associate with the Holocaust, but this poignant documentary reveals the connection. In 1998, educators and students decided to grasp the magnitude of the Holocaust by collecting as many paper clips as there were Jews who perished during World War II. The activity far exceeded all expectations: Aiming to collect 6 million paper clips, they ended up with over 26 million. There's no denying the iron grip of the movie's message: If this hick-white town, not far from the sites of the Scopes trial and various Klan activities, can look past its own closed borders and realize that there's a living, breathing world out there that can always benefit from compassion and understanding, then there's hope for just about anyone (select Republican administrators excepted).

THE RING TWO In this illogical and inconsequential sequel to the 2002 sleeper hit The Ring, reporter Rachel Keller (returning star Naomi Watts) and her young son Aidan (David Dorfman, the worst child actor this side of Spencer Breslin) have moved from Seattle to a quiet Oregon town. But the spirit of the demonic girl Samara won't leave them alone, as she seems intent on taking over Aidan's body. Dorfman is such a monotonous performer that the addition of some Exorcist-inspired pea-green vomit might have helped us determine exactly when he's being possessed; then again, such a gesture of goodwill would be little more than a Band-Aid applied to a hemorrhaging film whose greatest sin is that it's unremittingly dull. 1/2

SAHARA This may be based on Clive Cussler's bestseller, but it feels like a knock-off of Raiders of the Lost Ark, a send-up of the James Bond oeuvre or an instant sequel to National Treasure. Matthew McConaughney plays explorer Dirk Pitt as if he were a party-hardy frat boy who ventured out into the real world after all campus kegs were tapped dry; hammy Steve Zahn, as his sidekick, gets the funniest lines but can't deliver them without squinting like Popeye on the electric chair; and Penelope Cruz tags along as a dedicated doctor, although she seems so disinterested in what's happening around her that it's hard to believe her character would even have the medical know-how to prescribe aspirin. For a movie that Paramount hopes will kick off a new screen franchise, there's an air of desperation about Sahara, which tries too hard to please and in the process strips itself of any natural charm.

SIN CITY Three Frank Miller graphic novels get stylishly fitted for the big screen by director Robert Rodriguez, with Bruce Willis, Clive Owen and Mickey Rourke cast as the tough guys who must contend with sultry femme fatales and raging psychopaths. As a gimmick, Sin City is a beaut, as Rodriguez faithfully copied Miller's panels and in the process created a visually stunning yarn in which speckles of color add further resonance to the otherwise black-and-white imagery. Yet the movie isn't mere eye candy: In addition to nailing the scrawl-to-screen process, Rodriguez has also created a neo-film noir that - extreme violence aside - largely captures the mood of those time-honored flicks from the 40s and 50s. The glee with which Rodriguez films the sadism may be off-putting, but the joy with which he pays tribute to both the comic form and film noir is positively infectious.

OPENS FRIDAY:

THE BALLAD OF JACK AND ROSE: Daniel Day-Lewis, Camilla Belle.
CRASH: Sandra Bullock, Don Cheadle.
HOUSE OF WAX: Elisha Cuthbert, Chad Michael Murray.
KINGDOM OF HEAVEN: Orlando Bloom, Liam Neeson.
WALK ON WATER: Lior Ashkenazi, Carolina Peters.