From the Chicago Tribune's review of The March of the Penguins:
Part of the film's cachet is in those "how'd they get that" moments. (Stay for the credits to see the birds interact curiously with Jacquet and his cameras.) But mostly it's an incredible tale of ritual and perseverance, both for the emperor penguin and the untouched land, sparkling white and aqua, pristine and brutal.
Oh yes, there is also a major cute factor here, even with Freeman's reverent voice, the harrowing music and the brutal statistics (many newborns, sometimes up to 80 percent of them, just don't make it). I mean, baby penguins. With feathers so dense they look like fur and eyes too naive to deny, you'll want one. Bad. Believe me, deep in your bones lives a need you never knew existed: You must cuddle with a baby penguin. At once.
I was just looking at the arthouse near me to see if they'll be showing it, and not only does it start there tomorrow, but they've put it on two screens (the only movie currently on more than one screen at this theater). Penguins sell, baby!