Stardom makes its metaphor of 15 minutes seem like a lifetime.

The current version, however, like its predecessor, fails as entertainment. Mr. McTiernan's remake may be lighter on its feet -- the sober-minded original was as graceful as a tap-dancing rhino -- but it is just as boring and as obvious.

The action is the best thing in the picture.

Manages to squeeze in several different endings — like a bad pop song that doesn't know when to fade out. But as Mr. Schwarzenegger's stature as an action figure diminishes, his effort to retain a piece of the market is touching.

There's so little chemistry between Mr. Wilson and Ms. Hudson that you begin to look back on what now seems like the halcyon time of "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days."

Rarely has a movie worked so hard to be so inconsequential.

A weak-witted comedy.

Mr. Baldwin's attack -- there's no better way to put it -- is unforgettable. He's the first shrunken narrator with a serial killer's swagger.

The stripped-down narrative is almost an apology for the ludicrous story -- but it's just not enough of one.

The picture is so predictable that the bad acting becomes a distraction.

High-school cafeteria soup has more flavor than this bland, tepid throwback.

Still never having to say you're sorry.

It's fleet- footed, merciless entertainment. But the mixture of laughs, bathos and brutality is a big turnoff.

A supernatural soap opera.

This bloated spectacle has all the get-up-and-go of one of the legendary late-era Elvis Presley concerts. The picture feels longer than Presley's career and as irrelevant as he was by the end.

A soulless compilation of thrills.

May lead to a new axiom: success has many fathers, but failure has "Project Greenlight."

You can't get more high-concept, or less plotted, than this, and Daddy Day Care is proof.

The film falls far short of its goals, but it is a classic of sorts. It belongs in that Blockbuster on Mount Olympus, where pristine new copies of "I Changed My Sex," "Dracula's Dog," "Blackenstein" and "Battlefield Earth" play constantly.

There are a few laughs, but I'm not sure that a comedy is supposed to make you recoil, which is what "Smoochy" does.

It lumbers from one scene to the next with the stop-and-start mistiming generally seen in the outtakes shown at the end of the "Cannonball Run" movies, which this picture resembles in spirit.

A shell game passing as entertainment.

All it has in common with the original is a few dumb fun scares. In the new version, what we're left with after the scares is just plain dumb.

The film equivalent of the dark, boring period on a haunted house ride before the gondola crashes into another room filled with dirty mirrors.

A film so family-safe it feels sheathed in plastic Bubble Wrap. Unfortunately, it's not even as much fun as popping the bubbles. It doesn't matter that the film is less than 90 minutes. It still feels like a prison stretch.

You might be tempted to say, "Huh?" Or, if you're in the theater, to leave. But wait -- there's less.

"Queen" is a movie that stoops to jokes like calling Lestat's CD "a monster hit"; the movie is just a plain old monster.

Mr. Deeds is mostly terrible, a shambles of a comedy that looks as if it was shot by a tabloid news crew.

All hope is lost for those trapped in theaters with this picture.

So lacking in shame that it finally seems laughable.

Relentlessly softheaded and softhearted.

Blends the least of Woody Allen with a plot complication out of "Love, American Style," stuck together with sitcom glue.

It is all a contrivance; the cast and filmmakers were under the delusion that putting unhappy women in a room would lead to drama.

The film calls attention to its own artificial status. It actually knows it’s a movie! What a clever, tricky game! What fun! What a fraud.

The problem -- the catastrophe -- of The Last Airbender is not in the conception but the execution. The long-winded explanations and clumsy performances are made worse by graceless effects and a last-minute 3-D conversion that wrecks whatever visual grace or beauty might have been there.

You are not, in a movie like this, supposed to think too much; you are supposed to be transported beyond skepticism on a wave of pure, tacky feeling. Instead, in this case, you drown in sentimental, ghoulish nonsense.

If you can discern any critical distance or interesting perspective here, or even a good reason to spend 90 minutes in such company, I'm afraid the joke is on you.

It may be too much to ask for anything more, but, on the other hand, if you’re going to go to the trouble of pretending to blow up the White House, you might also want to pretend that something was at stake.

What makes Leap Year so singularly dispiriting is precisely that it is bad without distinction -- so witless, charmless and unimaginative that it can be described as a movie only in a strictly technical sense.

An R-rated version of this mess would be only more gratingly dishonest as it tried to hide its weak sentimentality behind a fig leaf of vulgarity.

A Viagra suppository for compulsive action fetishists and a movie that may not only be dumb in itself, but also the cause of dumbness in others.

The only thing that kept me watching License to Wed until the end (apart from being paid to do so) was the faith, perhaps misplaced, that I will not see a worse movie this year.

A witless, straining mess.

So shameless in its pandering, sentimental vision of Frenchness as to constitute something of a national embarrassment.

Has the dreary one-track banality of a feature-length version of an episode of "Red Shoe Diaries," Showtime's series for people who like soft core but are too lazy to leave the house.

The only people who could be surprised at this movie will be those who wandered into the wrong multiplex theater by mistake.

Serves a reheated notion on a creaky TV tray.

The film isn't even as good as the second-rate game it is based on, which is nothing but a shootout.

Few people other than future airline passengers should be subjected to such misery.

It's the element of condescension, as the filmmakers look down on their working-class subjects from their lofty perch, that finally makes Sex With Strangers so distasteful.

If Boat Trip were screened on a cruise ship, most of the passengers would be dog-paddling back to shore.

Ops is too brain-dead to play the incognito war criminal segment for comedy, although when Will is seen thumbing through the pages of a newspaper called USA Daily, the picture has inadvertently tumbled down a Mad magazine wormhole.

The cast of The Core deserve Oscar nominations just for being able to speak most of the lines without succumbing to the chortles.

It feels like both a joke and a turkey.

Strands one of the most gifted casts assembled in some time. Sadly, though many of the actors throw off a spark or two when they first appear, they can't generate enough heat in this cold vacuum of a comedy to start a reaction.

So minimally plotted that not only does it lack subtext or context, but it also may be the world's first movie without even a text.

A dreary crash of malapropisms and slapstick maimings wrapped very loosely around a murder mystery.

Looks like a big-budget version of a Miller's Genuine Draft commercial.

You'll see better film on ponds.

As good as cut-rate animation that seems to consist of screen savers can be.

After about 20 minutes of "Thing," a concussion begins to look enormously appealing.

Wants to be sweet and dark at the same time, but it is as distant as a planet's satellite.

A desperate, broad comedy.

Festooned with yards of gross-out jokes, sniggering allusions and, astonishingly, a sentimental climax that's more repellent than any of the crude effluvia the film is drenched with.

The ugly smell of unexamined privilege hangs over this film like the smoke from cheap incense.

There is nothing here to enjoy, beyond the tiny satisfaction in noting that the movie lives up to its name.

This may be the worst movie Pauly Shore has ever been in. Think about that.

The movie is a noisy, useless piece of junk, reverse-engineered into something resembling popular art in accordance with the reigning imperatives of marketing and brand extension.

His (Fleischer) first feature, "Zombieland," was a half-witty genre parody. This one might be described as genre zombie-ism: the hysterical, brainless animation of dead clichés reduced to purposeless, compulsive killing. Too self-serious to succeed as pastiche, it has no reason for being beyond the parasitic urge to feed on the memories of other, better movies.

A worthless piece of garbage.

The Love Guru is downright antifunny, an experience that makes you wonder if you will ever laugh again.

The most transcendently, eye-poppingly, call-your-friend-ranting-in-the-middle-of-the-night-just-to-go-over-it-one-more-time crazily awful motion pictures ever made.

It may be a bit early to make such judgments, but Battlefield Earth may well turn out to be the worst movie of this century.