This vapid '80 punk party reeks of 200 Cigarettes.

Ill-timed "Hands" has a very limited grasp of comedy.

Eddie Murphy's latest comedy, The Adventures of Pluto Nash, takes place in the year 2087, which is about the earliest he can hope to be forgiven.

Showcased in 3,000 Miles are two of the longest, noisiest, bloodiest and most ludicrous shootouts ever staged.

A hackneyed movie of zero social, political or dramatic consequence.

The result is a performance that is neither funny nor empathetic, and the romance that develops between the dentist and the junkie patient is not strong enough to support the mystery.

A weak documentary. There's very little here to demonstrate the personality and leadership qualities that made Massoud both a legend and a martyr. Raw, sloppily edited, unfocused and without any sense of scale, it's personal journalism with its heart in the right place, and that's about it.

It's just a setup for another bad sight gag that ends up where the script itself belongs, in the trash.

It doesn't strike a single note of authentic emotion.

The film's pace is just plain wacky, moving with the haste of a receding glacier most of the time, but then jumping ahead as if Hartley hit the gas on a time machine.

Not just unromantic, it's unfunny, too.

To be avoided by anyone considering a vacation to anything wilder than a zoo.

Out of place, out of time and out of its own cultural context.

A movie about healing that makes us want to scream out, ""Hollywood, heal thyself!"

You never know what these people are going to say or do, but you're pretty sure it will be whatever they want to.

So riddled with plot holes and implausible actions, you can't help feeling insulted by it.

Though Morrow and Forlani are fine actors, they can't even fake a physical attraction between their characters, let alone orgasms.

A bad Altman impression of the L.A. rock scene.

Ken Liotti's script barely earns a C+.

Trudy is really the only character with the "Barrytown" zest, and Montgomery throws herself into the role with unselfconscious abandon. She makes the screen crackle with energy.

Frenzied, gothic nonsense.

Chevy Chase looks tired, Pam Grier looks embarrassed, and pop star Iggy Pop gives a performance that -- if you can believe it -- is even sillier than his name.

Mattei's script was written in 1998, and the absence of any sense of the impact of 9/11 on New Yorkers is palpable. While watching "Love," I was thinking what great potential there was - still is - for a Manhattan "La Ronde" set in the days following 9/11, when strangers sought comfort from each other in spontaneous sexual alliances.

Del Toro ("Cronos") is a stylish horrormeister, and he has created an evocative, foreboding atmosphere. But only a fan of this kind of mayhem could find a way into the story.

Jovovich, Besson's 24-year-old ex-wife, hasn't a clue how to project shadings, interior emotions, character or personality. Everything's in a full screech.

Sadly, a film about betrayal is ultimately betrayed by the film maker's own lack of conviction.

Earnestness is the primary appeal of Meng Ong's clumsy melodrama.

Desperate for a slice of Spanish soap opera? You might try this misguided romantic melodrama.