Fonda's performance is a perfect storm of histrionics, and she leaves nothing and no one standing.

A tormented dramatization of the exact same events, and it's as bad as the earlier film ("Dogtown and Z-Boys") was good.

One of the ugliest movies I've ever seen. Even though it occurs mostly in the dark, the open flesh wounds are both graphic and implausible.

The low-tech film looks like a kid's crude drawing, plays like entry-level Game Boy, and is about as nourishing as a Tootsie Pop.

But look up the word "slight" in the dictionary and you could find a still from this film.

The result, at best, is a sweet failure.

It needed a star like Clooney at its center, and a character actor like Alan Rickman as Dr. Doom. You don't expect realism from a comic-book movie, but you do want the characters to seem larger than life.

Convoluted and unsatisfying psychological drama.

Though its PG-13 rating allows for much cruder sex humor, the movie version of "Dukes" is nearly identical to the TV series in its corniness, in its incessant car chases and in its ogling of the posterior of cousin Daisy Duke.

The Cave looks pretty cool - if you're into stalagmites, stalactites and that sort of thing -and the action is nonstop once they're in the hole. Unfortunately, there are no reference points in the dark to let us know where everyone is in relation to each other and to the monsters, and, therefore, there's little suspense.

On paper, the "rising stars" of Meiert Avis' low-flying romantic comedy Undiscovered are Steven Strait and Pell James, but the real star is Tyson the Skateboarding Dog.

Crowe was going for something magical in all this, but the film is so affected and mannered, so preciously in love with itself, that it's painful to watch. Scenes go on and on, and when you think the movie's over, it goes on and on some more.

If "The Sixth Sense" was a bad movie redeemed by its surprise ending, Marc Forster's Stay is a seemingly good movie leading to a devastating letdown.

These are three characters in search of a moral pulse.

It took one novelist, one screenwriter and two directors - Scott McGehee and David Siegel - to cobble together this earnest nonsense, and if it weren't for 12-year-old novice Flora Cross, who plays its central character, all would be lost.

Not since Philip Kaufman's 2000 "Quills," the story of the Marquis de Sade, have we had so debauched a literary and movie hero, and Johnny Depp plays him with the relish of an actor who has made odd-ball characters his specialty.

A lump of coal, sculpted from the kind of high-concept idea screenwriters find scribbled on bar napkins after nights of heavy drinking.

The question is, can a Slovakian lawsuit against the filmmaker be far behind?

A record number of movie cliches are strung together for the otherwise forgettable boot-camp drama Annapolis.

If there is a casting agent in hell, ­Martin Lawrence and Tyler Perry will soon put on their fat suits as Big Momma and Madea Simmons and show up as a tag team in a big-screen ­Wrestlemania.

Unremittingly bleak and hopelessly outdated parable of American race relations.

First-time writer-director Hunter Richards? London is even worse torture than it sounds. It includes flashbacks that actually demonstrate just how miserable a jerk the main character is.

Frankly, after watching writer-director Timur Bekmambetov's grim fantasy - the first leg of a trilogy adapted from the sci-fi novels of Sergei Lukyanenko - I'm still a little confused.

The whole movie is some kind of joke, a sick one to be savored by a certain segment of the movie audience. You know who you are.

"Filthy" may have been a better title for Dirty. The rough language is not just pervasive, as the MPAA's R rating describes it, it's assaultive. The violence is not merely "strong," it's incessant, sadistic and broadly unbelievable.

Larry offers enough scatological humor to fertilize the wheat fields in the star's home state of Nebraska.

Dark, grim, and cliched Orwellian satire.

The real trouble is at its core, with an over-the-top performance from Sedgwick that borders on Baby Jane campiness.

A screamingly bad melodrama whose message seems to be that people who think they're talking to a deaf person admit things they wouldn't admit to themselves. Silence, please.

So badly conceived and executed, its good intentions don't help.

As an allegory of religious conflict, the '73 film is brilliantly constructed and ends with a punctuation mark that was shocking in its day. LaBute's movie attempts to shock, as well, and does: Given the names involved and the casting of Cage, it is shockingly bad.

Nearly devoid of both dialogue and narrative cohesion, Yongman Kim's first feature - Part 1 of a planned trilogy inspired by Dante's "Inferno" - suggests that the founder of the popular downtown Kim's Video store should not give up his day job.

Eric Steel's documentary has more than a whiff of exploitation about it.

Like a fragile Provence wine left too long in the sun, Ridley Scott's romantic comedy A Good Year spoiled somewhere between the publication of Peter Mayle's novel and this cockamamie adaptation.

A Christmas headache looking for an audience.

Though there are giggles here and there, the film is inexcusably unfunny.

For a much better film about a similar story, rent "The World's Fastest Indian," with Anthony Hopkins on a motorcycle.

Really, women drag their husbands and boyfriends to films like writer-director Susannah Grant's emotionally bogus Catch and Release and I feel their pain. They should get a free Boys Night Out pass every time they make the sacrifice.

What's here is a glimpse not into how far people will go to win a reality TV show, but how far greedy writers and producers will go to degrade, debouch and enrich themselves.

Perhaps this is just a bad performance by Bana; he's not shown me anything yet. But there's a more basic problem. If money is just a way of keeping score, and Huck doesn't care whether he's flush or busted, why should we?

The film is lovely to look at, but makes not a lick of sense.

Dreadfully unfunny.

Nothing in the movie rings true, least of all its depiction of gambling, both in casinos and in the bookie world that ultimately drives the story.

The confusing time line of Pascal Arnold and Jean-Marc Barr's bizarre tale of sibling romance, murder and obsession is just one of its problems. The others are the romance, the murder and the obsession.

It's an interesting profile in self-destruction until the script becomes unhinged itself and has Laura doing things that are not so much outrageous as hilariously stupid.

It's a romantic comedy, though neither funny nor romantic. It's a ghost story, though not scary. It's a satire about publishing, but without teeth.

September Dawn, written by an evangelical Christian, may be the worst historical drama ever made.

Obliterating the original structure and intent of "Body Snatchers" is cinema-lit blasphemy.

There is just no tension built prior to the murders.

The upbeat brothers are full of sweetness and love, but the script is made of taffy, and if you can chew and laugh at the same time, you're welcome to it.

By the end of Francois Gerard's plodding, uninvolving melodrama, his boredom will have nothing on yours.

Among cautionary tales of gloom-and-doom, it may out-gore Gore, but it doesn't entertain.

There's still time, but for now, Fogler gets my vote for the worst performance of the year.

If it weren't for retro-gartered Milla Jovovich, I don't know why anyone would want to survive the virus that is turning humans into zombies and destroying the Earth in Resident Evil: Extinction.

It's described as a black comedy, but you can forget the comedy part. There wasn't so much as a snicker at the screening I attended, though I may have heard a snore or two.

Possibly the worst idea for a movie this century.

Whatever it was in Romanian philosopher Mircea Eliade's novella Youth Without Youth that drew Francis Coppola out of a 10-year retirement to make a movie, the result is the year's most bizarre novelty item.

The movie - with some gamy sexual references, a one-night stand and a long look at a stud muffin's naked buns - targets an older female audience. They may see it as unbearably cute, filled with ridiculous coincidences and laced with performances that - like the obnoxious soundtrack music - overstate the mood.

Back to Wisteria Lane, Eva, and stay there until we call you.

Deep into Hollywood's Dumb Season comes one of its dumbest offerings.

For die-hard Ferrell fans, this could be the ultimate test. He has been playing variations of "Elf" for five years, and his antics have grown as stale as Jackie's socks.

If the point of this umpteenth posttraumatic stress drama is that war is hell, even years after it's over and you're sitting in a movie theater, Big Bad Love makes it.

A postseason basketball comedy that shoots and misses at a rate that would embarrass even the Los Angeles Clippers.

Truly depressing commentary.

Vampire movies aren't what they used to be. How about a little mist, some shadows, some pale gray faces set off by stark red lips? Maestro, a little Transylvanian mood music, if you please.

Blakeney's script contains more hackneyed dialogue and misfired jokes per minute than would seem possible, and the result embarrasses every actor in it.

Exploits and trivializes public anxiety for entertainment and commercial gain. They've been doing it for years. But this little piggie didn't get to the market in time.

Ishii instills this unpleasantness with some Hitchcockian black humor.

A shell of a romantic fantasy festooned with characters inspired by and resembling those in the bar scene in "Star Wars," the waiting room in "Beetlejuice" and the circus in "A Bug's Life."

Deuces Wild is the worst thing to have happened to Brooklyn since the Ice Age severed it from the mainland.

The Musketeer is the worst Hollywood period film in -- it seems like ages since "American Outlaws."

So clumsy and unfocused that not getting it isn't half as bad as sitting through it.

Close call as to who's career has sunk farthest.

The acting is more amateurish than Billy's diva act, and for all its ambitious editing, the film looks like something made in the Addams Family's attic.

A one-joke idea...wears itself out almost instantly.

Derivative to the point of distraction.

You may need fortification for this astonishingly bad movie.

We're left with virtually no insight into the appeal of a movement that lasted 30 years.

This documentary doesn't probe too deeply, and it presupposes that there is a general interest in Jeremy commensurate with his Q rating among the porn-renting public.

Boring is too active a verb to describe this minimalist psychological thriller.

Slackers depends on the pathetic Ethan and the flatulent Sam for most of its laughs, and both characters are more revolting than amusing.

Shows what can happen when a bunch of good actors get together without adult supervision. They emote all over the place, banging into each other, talking too loud, knocking over furniture, wallowing in clichés and otherwise behaving like rank amateurs.

His (Kaminski) first feature is so thoroughly awful, it isn't even interesting to look at.

Isn't a movie as much as it is a feature-length screen test.

I have an idea for a Mars movie. When our first astronauts step onto the Red Planet, they discover that Martians not only exist but that they've hired Johnnie Cochran to represent them in a massive defamation suit against American filmmakers.

The sex may be real, but the violence and acting are comically phony, resulting in something that, while intended to shock, merely revolts.

This badly written, badly directed and badly acted little movie about an ordinary guy from Jersey who discovers passion with a fashion plate in Manhattan looks great.

Dalton, using a Scottish brogue coarse enough to take his tongue with it, is hootably bad, and Kathy Bates, playing Ma James, is pure ham.

It's nonsense. Even when its big secret is revealed in the final moments, it adds up to nothing more than a dizzy, dark, hysterical waste of time.

Only Emily Mortimer maintains a measure of dignity, playing the slinky assassin named Dakota. Whether her restraint was by her design or the filmmakers', she'll come to appreciate that she all but disappears amid the caterwauling and purging of a story that should have died in Liverpool.

Insipid, self-indulgent bit of art-house macabre.

This particular script is deplorable. It's a pure cribbing of Ron Bass' screenplay for "Sleeping With the Enemy," which was no prize itself.

About the only plausible element in the entire movie is bratty Vanessa's loathing of "Aunt" Mona, whom she sees as a vacuous over-reacher.

This vulgar, equal-opportunity chick flick aims pretty low.

A mindless, cliche-riddled action-cartoon, a blur of metal and fire and screeching tires, with bad dialogue, cardboard characters and a volume set so high, it makes the Indianapolis 500 sound like chamber music.

In these movies, it's always easy to figure out who's going to survive and make the killers cough up their own blood, but you still hope that the victims will go in the order of their performances -- worst actor first, etc. No such luck.

The question is, how did the producers get the amiable, talented Jason Lee to Boogie Board down the toilet with (Green)?

The individual scenes are just random, uninspired riffs by Carvey or awkwardly flat cameos by the likes of Jesse Ventura and Olympic sprinter Michael Johnson.

Most of the incidents are harmlessly derivative, but the movie has a mean streak that undermines our empathy for the characters, particularly Tom.

The Worst Comedy of the Year race heats up today with the release of Keenen Ivory Wayans' Scary Movie 2. This one is so bad, even Adam Sandler will be impressed.

Turner's guileless amateurism stands in refreshing contrast to the rest of the performances -- stilted, self-conscious and sleep-inducing -- that fill this tedious 3-1/2-hour marathon, the Civil War in real time.

Say a little prayer and save your money.

A stinker of epic proportions.

An instant contender for cult status on the midnight-movie circuit, where lines like "Do we look like quantum wormhole specialists?" will be given the respect they deserve.

If you approach this movie in the right frame of mind -- that is, with total contempt -- you can still enjoy it as a comedy.

Adapted - badly and unfaithfully - Close Your Eyes is a convoluted jumble of paranormal psychology, occultism and pagan symbolism, topped off with a quest for immortality.

At the half-hour mark, Godsend falls off the edge of reason, veering wildly away from what seems the promising beginning of a drama about the ethics of human cloning and instead becomes the cheesiest of hallucinatory horror movies.

In 1939, when "Ten Little Indians" was published, Agatha Christie mysteries were the crème de la pop literature. Her fans depended on logic in her stories, and they got it. Mindhunters would have insulted their intelligence, and it should insult yours.

Two hours of the worst sort of sentimental sap.

The actual fights between the predators and the serpents are too silly to contemplate. Both shiny and metallic, they look like kitchen appliances fighting it out. That's when you can see them. Writer-director Paul W.S. Anderson ("Resident Evil") has created the darkest, if not worst, sci-fi movie since "Battlefield Earth."

Preposterous, physically hideous paranormal thriller.

You won't hear a better soundtrack on a bad movie this year.

Bad as he is, Fallon cannot claim Taxi's worst moment. That belongs to Ann-Margret.

Here's one for the Sick Voyeurs Club.

A deadly script.

No better than whatever you might pick up while wearing a blindfold at Blockbuster, even if you happen to reach into a trash can.

Greenebaum's tedious, film-school level exercise in self-indulgence and exploitation.

This is extremely dark and politically loaded material.

There isn't a scene, an action or a character that rings true, yet the narrative summary of the events that inspired it is a matter of record.

Critics are inclined to describe the action in films like "XXX" and Lee Tamahori's sequel, XXX: State of the Union, as "cartoon violence." I'll resist doing that out of respect for cartoons.

Rates an inquisition of its own. It may not be heresy to fill out an ensemble cast of Peruvian and Spanish characters almost exclusively with non-Hispanic actors, but it certainly destroys any sense of authenticity.

Earnest but practically unwatchable movie. I haven't spent an hour and a half with worse company since high school detention.

While there is a great deal of laughter among the quartet, there's scarcely a giggle in it for the audience.

At the end of her spontaneous date, she says it's been the best night of her life. It will not be one of yours.

This, the 10th and worst-written entry in the series, would have been better if it had followed Dreyfuss instead of Clouseau, or if Kline had been cast as Clouseau instead of Martin.

Ultraviolet, unscreened for critics, is unfit for consumption.

This is an execrable movie depicting the improbable events in the life of a young boy being intermittently raised by his crackhead, highway-hookin' mom (actress-director Asia Argento, with a face that makes Courtney Love's mug shot look glamorous), her plumb-nuts evangelical parents and a cartoonishly incompetent West Virginia social system.

Less a movie than an 80-minute promo for a self-help program for the seriously desperate.

Hideously ugly to look at and not even worth following.

If you liked "Van Wilder," which starred Ryan Reynolds and Tara Reid, be warned: The only person returning from the cast is the boring Indian kid Taj Mahal Badalandabad (Kal Penn).

What might work as a narrative device in a novel - the spirit guiding readers through Nick's revelations - is just plain ridiculous in a movie.

"Charlie's Angels," "Survivor," "American Gladiators" and "Girls Gone Wild" are just some of the bad influences on Hong Kong action director Corey Yuen's laughably silly adaptation of the video game DOA: Dead or Alive.

There is no excusing date rape, but the revenge conceived and executed by Rosario Dawson's Maya in this revolting, amateurish drama is something you might only wish on Osama Bin Laden.

Bacon's performance in "Saw" creator James Wan's laughably extreme revenge thriller Death Sentence is six degrees of ham.

Apparently, the show’s appeal is due to the good-heartedness of its undereducated anti-heroes, but their kind of dumb grows old fast.

The Bundy portrayed here doesn't have even the veneer of charm; he's a raving psycho, and watching him work, whatever the filmmakers' intent, is revolting exploitation.

Never graduates above the boneheaded.

The only good thing about this on-the-fly, low-budget quickie is its Cape Cod setting and the in-focus cinematography of Ernst Kubitza. Very pretty. Otherwise, it is a speechifying bore.

More than awful, more than dreadful, and easily the worst beach movie ever made.

Italian actress, writer and director Asia Argento's performance in the godawful Scarlet Diva is one of those bawl, spit, scream and vomit exhibitions that provoke admiring applause in acting classes and great gales of laughter in theaters.

A little Disney Christmas release that comes wrapped in used toilet paper.

A shrill, amateurish two-character play that demeans women and leaves men with the quaint notion that the best way to a woman's heart is through enslavement.

One of the darkest, ugliest, most uninvolving and incomprehensible major-studio fantasies I've ever seen.

It's fitting that the kangaroo gives the most lifelike performance.

This will qualify as a spoiler only for those who have never seen a really bad movie before.

Thekind of misfire that makes you understand why every waiter, parking valet and sushi delivery boy in Beverly Hills has a screenplay under his waistband.

This is the biggest lowdown, rotten, disgusting, depraved sideshow in the megaplex. Check your brains, your taste and your self-respect right over there with the bearded ticket taker.

An early and daunting contender for worst movie of the year, writer-director Irving Schwartz's amateurish melodrama stars a hollow-eyed Piper Perabo as a self-loathing young woman who has every reason to hate herself.

"Comedy is hard," said Steve Martin. For the writers of Date Movie, it's apparently impossible.