An overlong, visually incoherent, mean-spirited and often just plain awful Spider-Man 3.

A piece of holiday cheese that even Harry & David wouldn't touch.

Trudging nobly under a mantle of impeccably earnest intentions and a fussy, too-quaint-by-half production design, Honeydripper lags and drags to its utterly predictable end. There's not a spark of spontaneity or soul about it.

One part Joseph Campbell hero quest, one part multi-culti morality tale, one part live-action "Flintstones" cartoon, 10,000 B.C. is finally every part just plain nuts, from a hike featuring more ecosystems than an Al Gore documentary to a wacky climax set amid pyramids that -- you'll e-mail me if I'm wrong -- wouldn't have been built for another 7,000 years or so.

An inert, sloppily written melodrama as grim and featureless as its frozen Midwestern setting.

Chances are, after they've passed the two-hour mark, viewers will share the same collective, if unspoken, wish: Go, Speed Racer. Go.

A film that, in attempting to ridicule the Bush administration, finally just settles for being ridiculous itself.

The question is why the time, talent and treasure of such energetic and even gifted artists have been marshaled in such a disgusting and trivial genre exercise and what viewers are supposed to get out of it. Isn't life hard enough?

The movie winds up a casualty of schmaltzy, patronizing sentiment on the one hand and overweening ambition on the other.

Pride and Glory would be risible if it weren't so reprehensible.

A singularly vulgar piece of work.

Could be filed under "wacky misfire."

As Crossing Over makes its patronizing points, by way of two-dimensional characters and billboarded plot points, it recalls other, better movies that dealt with the same subjects far more deftly.

It's in these vignettes that Away We Go begins to feel less like an authentic exploration of identity than a condemnation of the very community the couple pretends to crave. No one, it turns out, is good enough for Burt and Verona.

Seems fatally out of tune, with every staged encounter falling as flat as the protagonist's hot-ironed bob.

Sloppy compendium of filthy jokes and lowbrow sight gags.

It leaves audiences in a limbo every bit as torturous as the one the protagonist is in.

It's a film within a film about a film within a film, and seems to lose layers of authenticity with each iteration, finally becoming a profoundly alienating experience.

The biggest sin of Sex and the City 2 is its lack of beauty. It's garish when it should be sumptuous, tacky when it should be luxe, wafer-thin when it should be whip-smart and sophisticated.

Grown Ups finds Sandler reverting to lunkheaded, lazy-laff form.

An egregiously unfunny enterprise.

Haphazardly conceived, phlegmatically paced, lazily filmed and punctuated with gratuitous moments of sexual and scatological slapstick.

A lurid, loopy, utterly ludicrous enterprise.

The Hangover Part II offers absolutely nothing new to fans of the first film. In fact, once the comfort of familiarity has worn off, they may well feel as baited-and-switched as the patrons of one of the sketchier clubs the boys visit.

Akin to watching a ring-tested champion punch far below his weight. What a comedown.

A shapeless collection of encounters with Texas prison inmates and their victims, what could have been a well-aimed examination of the most troubling contradictions of capital punishment instead becomes a maudlin, unrestrained wallow.

Behind all the noisemakers and funny glasses, New Year's Eve - and everyone in it - is dead behind the eyes.

There's a fine line between precocious and insufferable, and it's a line continually crossed by Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.

Even Strong's best efforts can't save John Carter from collapsing in on itself like a dead star.

Even amid the hit-and-miss broadsides and laugh-free longueurs that comprise most of The Dictator, Cohen's acute hypocrisy-detector keeps on ticking, if barely.

So didactic that viewers are likely to feel less uplifted than lectured.

A sequel every bit as clumsy, ham-handed, outlandish and laughable as the original was sleek, tough and efficient.

A dreary, dismally unfunny excuse for a romantic comedy.

Hill and Stallone seem determined simply to prove that, even in their golden years, they're still tough enough to rumble with all comers. Bullet to the Head exposes that bravado for the pose that it is, and it's not a good look.

McCarthy’s willingness to go to the mat notwithstanding, it’s viewers who are likely left feeling punched in the gut.

About the movie industry’s misguided belief that it can distract the audience from a film’s narrative weaknesses with little more than flash and spectacle. That con might have worked with the rubes once upon a time, but in case Hollywood hasn’t noticed, we’re not in Kansas anymore.

The good news might be that Huppert wasn't available for Alias Betty, but the bad news is that it didn't stop France from exporting yet one more cold, pretentious, thoroughly dislikable study in sociopathy.

An exercise in vanity, indulgence and a startling degree of shallowness.

The wanton fabulistas of Party Monster are as boring and insignificant as the very "normals and drearies" they so contemptuously deride.

To call Lawrence a poor man's Richard Pryor libels not just Pryor but also the 33 million Americans currently living under the poverty line.

If you're looking for some good family interspecies entertainment, take the little ones to see "Stuart Little 2" again; in the meantime, you might want to crawl into your cave and sleep through this one.

The film would be insufferable if it weren't for the total sincerity and commitment of its players.

Both a snore and utter tripe.

The movie isn't only boring; it's troubling:

In this toxic tale of young psychopaths in love, the stylish, often stunning visuals are ultimately outmatched by the repellent protagonists at the story's center.

The most misguided, ill-conceived and lamentable film.

A grisly, depraved and wholly uninvolving exercise in empty mannerism.

It's trivial and narcissistic and ultimately rather sordid.

Anemic, pretentious.

In this case, the adage would go something like "material, material, material," also known as the Nicolas Cage Rule: Good acting can't overcome bad taste.

If its made-for-TV sensibility explains its chaotically blobby shooting style, it doesn't clarify a plot so painfully padded that it looks for laughs in strange digressive asides regarding bratwurst and coffee.

Has all the energy and spontaneity of a bowl of waxed fruit. If watching "Dogtown and Z-Boys" was tantamount to witnessing history itself, watching "Lords of Dogtown," which Peralta wrote, feels more like watching a stiff, meticulously choreographed reenactment.

Visually undistinguished, narratively inert, populated by a cast of charmless child actors, "Sharkboy and Lavagirl," with any luck will fade quickly from theaters, memories and Rodriguez's own Things to Do Today list.

If you find yourself at "The Island" I have only three words of advice: Vote yourself off.

It's lewd, crude and socially irredeemable.

The tale grows only more toxic with time.

This overproduced romantic comedy doesn't even qualify as fluff; it's flat, featureless plastic.

This lurid celebration of shock, schlock and the shamelessly perverse finds the 67-year-old grandfather of torture porn scraping the bottom of his admittedly limited creative barrel.

Predictable, lazy and as overprocessed as Kate Hudson's hair, this thoroughly joyless movie also possesses a deep nasty streak, making it loathsome when it might have been merely annoying.

Much of what's offensive and insufferable about All About Steve can be laid at the feet of screenwriter Kim Barker, best known for inflicting "License to Wed" on the world. Why do these people still earn obscene amounts of money churning out dreck? And why do stars like Bullock keep paying them?

A depraved, incoherent, instantly disposable piece of hackery.

Tries desperately to lower the bar for scatological gags, rank sexual humor and cheap physical shots.

To call it sophomoric would libel even the most pathetic, pimply underclassman.

Terribly tragic, terribly romantic and, ultimately, terribly, terribly dull.

You know a movie is in trouble when its biggest laughs come not from its lead players but from a dog and a car

Leaden, laugh-free, lacking anything resembling a heart, mind or soul.

Why -- when there are so many funnier, smarter, more gifted performers who can't get arrested in Hollywood -- why, for the love of all that's good and holy, does Martin Lawrence get to keep making movies?

Shouldn't fool viewers into thinking it's anything but a pseudo-artsy piece of tripe.

Whether or not it's crucial for the gay community to have its own "Porky's" is a question for the ages; but please, not Another Gay Movie.

Supremely idiotic.

Indeed, I'd say Undiscovered belongs on the WB, but that would be gravely unfair to the channel, which looks like the BBC in comparison.

Rarely has an act of such cinematic cruelty as Tideland been perpetrated on filmgoers.

A special place in purgatory must be reserved for John Leguizamo, who produced and stars in The Babysitters, a loathsome slice of exploitation at its most cynical and crass.

Depraved, worthless piece of filth.

This toxic, contemptuous, unforgivably unfunny bagatelle finds Allen at his most misanthropically one-note.