Lee's understated performance is a small treat.

Never asks its target audience of self-referential baby boomers and their littles bundles of joy to take it more seriously than it takes itself.

Wastes no time getting very loud and very silly and never really lets up.

A dramatization of the life of Christ that takes as its script a word-for-word translation of the Gospel according to John, the adaptation is not so much tedious as pointless.

Cedric the Entertainer is the best (and probably only) reason to take this "Vacation."

What little grace there is in Living Out Loud (and there isn't much) is all in LaGravenese's script, not on the screen.

When the danger subsides and the sparkless romance returns to the foreground, the vehicle comes sputtering back to earth with a thud, weighed down by the inertia of its leaden leading lady.

As filmmaking, it's a bravura performance, but as a film, it falls flat.

All foreplay and no climax.

Another film about . . . a cretinous, grating loser.

Introduces us to many who have known, worked and tangled with the man some call Bush's "co-president" during his multi-decade involvement in Republican politics.

Pretty slight, but for a campaign commercial -- which is what it feels like -- it's pretty long.

I remained strangely dry-eyed up to the final shot.

The bad news? The story, which rumbles along like an unattended wheelchair on a gently sloping sidewalk.

A little more literary than lifelike, House of D is a story that feels too pat, and too perfect, for its own good.

Ultimately one flat-footed beast.

Think of Phoebe in Wonderland as "A Beautiful Mind," only for kids. And with Elle Fanning, Dakota's little sister, in the Russell Crowe role of the gifted outsider, tormented by demons within.

Misbegotten buddy-bonding comedy of errors.

My only question is this: In the context of these by-the-book pratfalls, is it funny enough?

Scrat's annoying ubiquity -- is just one piece of evidence that Dawn of the Dinosaurs has been focus-grouped and is now trying to please its presumed young audience a little more than is healthy.

Planet 51 is cute, but it's no "Shrek."

In the end, Daybreakers doesn't really want to make anyone think too hard. If that were to happen, they might stop to wonder why all the human survivors out there hiding in fear of their lives don't just become garlic farmers and call it a day.

There's so much pluck and gumption on the screen you can smell it. Flesh and blood? Not so much.

This "Holmes" is just about as silly as it awesome. At times, Ritchie and company try so hard to make sure this isn't your father's "Sherlock Holmes" that it comes across as, well, cartoonish.

It's a performance in search of a movie.

In attitude, if not aptitude, Robert Pattinson in Remember Me comes across like a latter-day James Dean.

Jonah Hex may not be the longest 81 minutes you ever spend, but it might well be the most tedious.

As Balthazar, Cage doesn't disappoint. He's just manic enough to keep the character from becoming too predictable.

Charlie St. Cloud, like its star Zac Efron, is a gorgeous, unblemished thing. Both would be much improved with a tiny flaw or two.

So light and airy, it almost floats away on its own breeziness.

It's a highbrow romantic farce, without the laughs.

No ordinary horror film. If it were, it might be a bit better than it is. As the movie stands, it's a less-than-compelling relationship drama, with aliens.

Boasting a plot that's heavy on the magical shenanigans, this pretty and poetic adaptation of Shakespeare's play is a fantasia for the smart set, a literary novelty for anyone who wants to have fun without giving up food for thought. On that score, at least, it delivers, in spades.

You can't fault the filmmakers for reshaping a diary into a cohesive film. You can however, fault them for taking one of the great antiheroes in preteen literature and turning him into, well, an even wimpier kid.

You can't criticize it for false advertising.

The swells of inspirational storytelling sometimes threaten to swamp the underlying inspirational story.

The problem is, the movie doesn't really care if we are laughing with it or at it.

There Be Dragons is like fine wine, served in a Big Gulp cup. A little is very nice. A lot is way too much.

It's heartwarming. But the film never really takes fire.

There's no sense of perspective here.

The film's real problem is that it can't seem to make up its mind about whether it wants to frighten us or make us laugh.

The argument in Amigo is so heavy-handed - and its execution so crude - that by the time the movie winds its way to a predictable but uninvolving conclusion, nobody will be listening anymore.

Here's a better title for Griff the Invisible, a well-meaning but unengaging love story about two 20-something misfits: "Griff the Implausible."

Worse yet is the insincerity of the film's central performances. Too cool by half, Glodell, Wiseman and Dawson speak every line as if it had air quotes around it. In fact, the entire movie feels as though it has air quotes around it.

I've got another portmanteau word for the movie: unbelievaballistic.

Blackthorn feels less like a proper sequel to "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," which it purports to be, than a coattail rider.

When all is said and done, Mike proves to be not only peripheral to the main thrust of the movie, but a drag on its momentum.

A cautionary environmental tale with a thin veneer of entertainment on top. With its cotton-candy-colored palette of orange, pink and purple truffula trees, it looks like a bowl of fuzzy Froot Loops. But it goes down like an order of oatmeal. Sure, it's good for you. It's just not terribly good.

If it's art, it's only mildly interesting.

The story is maddeningly oblique and incomplete, despite paying what at times feels like excruciating attention to the minutiae of a dying love affair's final hours.

An aggressively crass - and not especially funny - trip down memory lane, an attempt to recapture the sweetly ribald magic of the earlier film. As anyone who's ever attended a class reunion can tell you, it almost never works.

Enjoy it, in moderation. It's your recommended weekly allowance of schlock.

The acting by Binoche and her two young co-stars is more nuanced than the film deserves. They bring a rich expressiveness and sense of complex inner life to their characters. It's the movie - and its placard-sized message - that is more two-dimensional.

A blandly middling crowd pleaser.

This third outing climaxes with a dark and melodramatic twist that, while adding a layer of nuance and back story that the previous two films never had, also feels wildly out of sync with its audience's expectations.

There's a nagging question at the heart of Chernobyl Diaries. It isn't what, or who, is stalking these kids. After awhile, the answer becomes apparent, leading to a denouement that, while mildly exciting, feels like a ride you've been on before.

It's just that Pattinson's performance is so enervated that his Georges Duroy comes across as something of a cipher. He's not quite alive, yet also clearly not dead, given the amount of sex he has. He's undead, or at least uninteresting.

It's like "A Midsummer Night's Dream" in the Catskills.

A giant disappointment. It's as bustling as its titular city's piazzas, but it goes nowhere.

D'Souza makes it all sound almost plausible, but only if you're predisposed to believe that Obama hates America. It's bashing, all right, but with a velvet-gloved fist.

The hero of Sinister is almost unaccountably dumb. So, unfortunately, is the movie.

For those with no vested interest in this protracted and supernatural soap opera, but who do care about cinema, The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn -- Part 2 will be, unsurprisingly, a silly and somewhat cheesily made waste of time.

Dull and repetitive, even by the standards of an already repetitive genre.

There's something dead and rotting at the center of Mama, and it isn't the ghost of the woman who lends the horror film its title.

Cute without being especially clever, Warm Bodies is almost as pallid and as brain-dead as its zombie antihero.

Too scary for very young children, yet too silly for most older fans of director Bryan Singer’s earlier forays into the Superman and X-Men franchises, “Jack” seems designed to appeal to a very narrow, and possibly illusory, demographic: the mature moppet.

Stoker plays out like a Kabuki “Macbeth”: gallons of style slathered on a story you already know by heart.

It’s a mushy and unsuspenseful melodrama.

Clocks in at close to two hours. It feels much longer. By comparison, Malick’s World War II epic “The Thin Red Line” tipped the scales at a whopping 170 minutes. But at least that 1998 film had people shooting at each other. There’s no such excitement here.

So rich in processed sugar, canned sentiment and schmaltz, I thought I was going to throw up.

What is perhaps most disappointing about this ham-handed film, though, particularly since it was directed by the screenwriter of the righteously raging "Thelma and Louise," is its crypto-misogyny.

Although filled with fey, flamboyant characters, the stereotype of the gay hairdresser seems to have been meticulously expunged.

This latest, utterly gratuitous chapter in the saga of the wisecracking reptile hunter will add nothing to the ever-dimming reputation of the Subaru pitchman.

Will satisfy only those who can't tell the difference between the good, the bad and the ugly.

Made me feel like a Christmas goose being fattened for slaughter. Its force-fed diet of whimsy cloyed long before the eagerly anticipated romantic payoff arrived to put me out of my misery.

Simply painful to watch as the doomed vehicle it's trapped in comes whistling toward a fiery crash landing.

Functional but tiresome.

The psychologizing in Party Monster never goes deeper than what you might get out of Dr. Phil on a bad day.

The notions of the good man's complicity through inertia and of innocence tarnished by association are ones that have been more powerfully explored before.

Someone forgot to remind Duvall to write an ending.

It's so over the top, the top isn't even visible in the rear-view mirror.

A protracted and only sporadically imaginative menu of ways to be murdered.

Did I laugh? Yeah, I did, half a dozen times. Not a great percentage for a film with something close to 300 quote-unquote jokes.

Unfortunately, the experience of actually watching the movie is less compelling than the circumstances of its making.

One overly busy (not to mention shopworn) story, which regurgitates everything from H.G. Wells's "The Island of Dr. Moreau" to the herky-jerky monsters of Ray Harryhausen to James Bond to "The Mummy."

Moves at a glacial pace.

The parodistic romantic comedy makes the fatal mistake of so much middlebrow satire: It becomes that which it mocks.

This time-travel scenario is by now shopworn, and the normally riotous Lawrence, a manic and gifted clown, is hamstrung in his efforts to eke humor from the anemic script.

Audiences who have avoided the multiplex these last few years because of the garbage peddled there are the only ones for whom this overly familiar "Walk" will be memorable.

If this garbage sounds like your kind of thing, and the folks who jump up and talk back to the screen are your kind of people, then, sweetheart, you and this movie deserve each other.

The film doesn't even cut it as cheap escapism.

The title (which translates, essentially, as "burned out") is an apt description of the film itself: a hot and smoldering shell.

Torpid, syrupy melodrama from the Chinese director of 1993's "Farewell My Concubine."

Easy on the eyes and hard on the head, Suriyothai is absolutely unaffecting where it matters most, in the heart.

An offering so endearingly lame it seems to have missed the past 10 years' worth of special-effects breakthroughs.

Less a movie than a meticulously, tediously accurate Civil War reenactment committed to celluloid.

Really two movies in one, and there's not enough breathing room for both of them.

Not enough to keep this celluloid ship from sinking under the weight of its own stupidity.

The 20th-anniversary sequel to the groundbreaking horror film-and the sixth in an increasingly awful series about the bulletproof murderer Michael Myers-is a styleless and predictable affair.

A soundtrack buried inside a sitcom.

It's less a children's movie made for contemporary children than a children's movie made for people who still remember, and pine for, how children's movies were made 50 years ago.

Despite its impeccable acting and subtle backdrop of the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks, The Event lets its message overwhelm its emotion.

The film stars Bruce Campbell of the "Evil Dead" series as Elvis in a touching, funny and at times grotesque performance that is actually the best thing about the movie.

Beyond mawkish, Radio would be harmless twaddle were it not for the offensive depiction of its hero, the real-life James Robert Kennedy.

What's strangest, though, about Die Mommie Die! is how material that was obviously so giddily irreverent in origin became so inert, so joyless and dull.

It's a silly, if simultaneously deadpan and stomach-churning, psychological portrait of one crazy lady.

Needless to say, in the age of inferior remakes, this would-be homage -- a sort of Wim Wenders Lite -- is a mawkish debasement of its source material.

Brit actors can't even be bothered to speak with French accents.

With the exception of a few dazzling special effects and a digitally enhanced camera move or two... it's also a towering bore.

Offers little in the way of originality, real excitement or even genuinely transgressive behavior.

A film so boring, unsexy, styleless, sluggish and physically ugly that its badness seems almost intentional.

The film is so anemic you should probably order iron supplements with your popcorn, its plot so predictable it makes falling dominoes seem like a white-knuckle thrill ride.

It's a silly, giggly piece of pink-colored fluff, as hyperactive as its heroine and as redolent of bubble gum and Love's Baby Soft cologne as Lola apparently is. Yet the superficial sweetness masks something rotten.

Set against "Mooseport's" backdrop of ramped-up whimsy -- and not the kind that charms, either, but the kind that gets old faster than uncovered cheese -- Romano just kind of disappears.

Gives new meaning to the word "obvious."

It's hard to say exactly what the point is to this sour tale.

Nosedive it does, abandoning all pretense of style and eccentricity for at-times laughable predictability and a parade of unconvincing red herrings straight out of Murder Mystery 101.

The filmmaker drowns his trademark edgy stew of smutty humor, stiff acting and dime-store insight into human nature with a gravy of glutinous bathos, making for a singularly unpalatable dish.

Comes across less as a fully realized work of storytelling than as a commercial for a corporation whose goal of entertainment has been replaced by that of making money.

Actually underserves its star, who is better than schlocky material like this would lead you to believe.

As the film's boo! moments get spookier and more frequent, Godsend gets more and more inane.

No movie this stupid should need a plot synopsis this complicated.

As a whole, the film is a perplexing, dark and brooding exercise, which only makes its inappropriately cheery ending feel all the more slight.

It's a question of tone, which jumps back and forth between airy-fairy romantic comedy and leaden family drama with the alacrity of a manic-depressive.

What's troubling about "My Mother" is not the way the sisters respond to the news, but the way that Paris and Fejerman have opted to make lighthearted comic fodder out of the daughters' responses.

It's hard to know which is more annoying: The fact that writer-director Reverge Anselmo makes Dori's schizophrenic look like little more than a cute, sexually available lush or that he makes Mark's Marine act like a jarhead with nothing inside except fireflies.

While the younger Van Peebles certainly looks the part, Baadasssss! never feels like anything more than kids playing dress-up.

If you're mocking holier-than-thou-ness, you can't very well strike a hipper-than-thou tone.

It's laughably stupid, only fitfully scary and relatively harmless summer fun – if you're 12 years old, in which case you probably aren't supposed to be going to movies like this anyway.

On the whole, it feels like a cross between a PBS special hosted by a series of low-rent Deepak Chopras and an infomercial for self-help audio tapes.

The movie drains Cole and Linda Porter of blood and fills them with embalming fluid.

Less a tale of mysterious, tragic love than a three-way Harlequin romance.

It's creepy, all right. It's just that HOW it goes about creeping you out is sometimes just plain cheesy.

It becomes, after a while, little more than a mind-numbing bloodbath.

An unfunny comedy by Tony Vitale that is enacted not by fleshed-out characters but by hackneyed, two-dimensional stereotypes. There’re so many sexual and ethnic caricatures, it’s hard to know which is most offensive.

The film, like the cheap double-scotches quaffed down by the central character, leaves a distinctly sour aftertaste that's hard to wash away the morning after.

There are a couple of good things about the film, chief among which is Land's naturalistic performance. But the overall sense of it, heightened by a folk-guitar score so spare it feels like part of the soundtrack is missing, is not one of poignant minimalism but emptiness.

Collapses under the weight of its own pretension, a victim of misogyny trying to pass itself off as female sexual empowerment.

Ghost suffers most from a distinct lack of anything, well, cinematic.

One hackneyed, inauthentic, predictable scene after another.

Goes nowhere fast.

As Primer progresses, it just gets murkier and the experience of it more drudgelike.

One singularly unbecoming character, who should, by rights, forever remain a "singleton."

Rated PG, which must stand for "particularly gullible," it's "Raiders of the Lost Ark" for people who slept through American history class.

It would be one thing if Christmas With the Kranks were a satire on the assaultive, bullying nature of contemporary Christmas celebration in this country, but it's not. It's an ugly glorification of it.

The film's maudlin focus on the young woman's infirmity and her naive dreams play like the worst kind of Hollywood heart-string plucking.

It has as much of an ax to grind as the humorless and misguided bureaucrats it mocks.

Unfortunately, the more traditionally drawn 2-D human characters are as flat, in every sense of the word, as can be.

What it suffers from most is the sense of offhand storytelling that lies halfway between creative laziness and cost-cutting sloppiness.

I started out this journey actually liking children. By the end of the movie, I wasn't so sure.

Lacks "spark."

Sure, I laughed. Yes, I cried. But mostly I just wanted to throw up.

It doesn't satisfy in the way a good thriller ought to.

A syrupy Italian power ballad along the lines of the ones on the movie's soundtrack. Its tune is mawkish, bombastic but, in the end, not especially resonant.

It starts with a bang and ends with a whimper.

Loud, dumb and obnoxious.

Feels like something I know is supposed to be good for me, but that I just couldn't stomach.

The underwhelming, only fitfully amusing movie left me hungry for more.

The girls in 'Traveling Pants' are only mannequins wearing someone else's clothes. They don't get inside your head, let alone your heart.

A series of cutesy but flat-footed jokes leading up to a foregone romantic conclusion.

For anyone old enough to cross the street without holding hands ... the movie's a reconditioned lemon trying hard to hide its flaws.

The movie and its star just aren't that funny.

The dialogue is often drowned out by engine noise.

It's not Deuce's satisfied clientele, but the audience, that gets the shaft.

It's just so darn annoying to watch this attractive, seemingly smart woman throw her life away for some (admittedly rather hot) sex in the greenhouse.

Not terrible so much as terminally silly.

Tailored for the readership of Teen People magazine and about as thought-provoking as the average 500-word celebrity profile.

The movie based on Young's 2002 memoir is a good bit blunter. One early laugh comes at the expense of a pig urinating on a woman's feet at the BAFTA awards, the British equivalent of the Oscars. And it doesn't get much better, or much smarter, than that.

Seriously, though, watching New in Town left me feeling as pained as Zellweger, playing Lucy Hill, looks.

A lowbrow, only fitfully amusing comedy.

But seriously, folks, if you're going to make a scary movie, shouldn't you be able to do it without resorting to both "Blair Witch"-style found footage and movie stars? (Will Patton and Elias Koteas also show up as, respectively, an angry sheriff and a psychologist friend of Abbey's.)

The problem is not the credulity-stretching script. Or even that much of the movie just isn't all that funny. The problem is that it thinks it's freakin' hilarious.

There are only two really good jokes -- or two really gross ones, depending on your sensibility -- in She's Out of My League. Both of them are stolen.

Save yourself 10 bucks, and an hour and 45 minutes of your precious time.

The movie itself is already like one long commercial.

Playing a hero who's meant to be something akin to the young Dalai Lama, Ringer brings less than zero gravitas to the role. He makes the kid who plays Gibby on "iCarly" look like Sir Laurence Olivier.

Wild Grass might be the strangest film I've seen all year. Maybe all millennium. Is it any good? Quite frankly, I have no idea.

A comedy that looks like a documentary but plays like a horror film -- to parents of teenagers.

The littlest children in your house may find something to titter at from time to time, but based on the reaction of a young screening audience, it won't be often.

Suffers from an increasingly common movie defect: appealing, sharply drawn supporting characters, and a cast of main characters that is as unlikely as it is unlikable.

At nearly two hours, the movie feels bloated. It could easily lose 30 minutes, give or take, and live. It would still not, however, live up to its title.

It's hard to imagine that any self-respecting man would want to sit through two hours - let alone two minutes - of such caustic man-bashing.

That's the problem with the whole movie, which lies halfway between poker-face documentary and broad farce.

Unnecessary and unfunny re-imagining of the classic satire by Jonathan Swift.

This Arthur is an exercise in time-travel tedium, a trip to the Land That Funny Forgot.

Did you hear about the Morgans? Trust me, you don't want to.

A classic example of a film that doesn't trust the strength of its source material - or the intelligence of its audience.

It gets the bullet points of Sam Childers's life, but misses the target.

What's Your Number? ups the vulgarity, ladling it on top of a rom-com base so insipid and predictable that the only thing to keep you awake is counting the number of times that the script drops the word "vagina."

Mainly for those who are already infatuated with Cena's stoic, Mount Rushmore-esque countenance and who do not find the idea of the big lug leaping off the edge of a cliff onto an airborne helicopter's landing gear remotely absurd.

The unapologetic laziness and ineptitude of Jack's impersonation, which is played for cheap laughs, is just as lazy as Sandler's performance as the real Jill. You don't buy it for a minute.

With Casa de Mi Padre, it's often hard to tell the difference between when it's making fun of bad movies and when it's being one.

The high-school sports drama Crooked Arrows has two -- but only two -- original selling points: Its protagonists are Native Americans and the sport in question is lacrosse. That's something you don't see every day. Other than that, however, the film's moves are taken straight out of "The Bad News Bears" playbook.

Overlong, overcrowded, overstimulating and with an over-the-top performance by Charlize Theron as the evil queen Ravenna, the movie is a virtual orchard of toxic excess, starting with the unnecessarily sprawling cast of characters.

"Bridesmaids" may have been crude, but it also said something about female friendships that felt true. Bachelorette feels like it's about four women who, not even all that deep down, can't stand one another.

A workmanlike, if treacly and overblown, piece of propaganda. Its effectiveness depends entirely on the degree to which you already believe its talking points.

The whole thing is played for laughs that almost never come. To be sure, the film has its moments, but they’re few and far between.

Wild Wild Waste is more like it. Waste of time, waste of money and colossal waste of talent.

I'm not sure if it was that or the cloying script, but after a couple of hours of spinning around listening to this drivel I felt like I was going to barf.

Propelled not by characters but caricatures.

A field goal, not a touchdown.

It's the sort of movie that can make normally well-read and intelligent viewers feel stupid.

Most of the comedy, such as it is, consists of the uppity Chase acting "street" and the ghetto-fabulous Tiffany putting on moneyed airs. But, if you've seen the trailers, you already know that.

Feels more like "Porky's" with marinara sauce than "Summer of '42."

There was absolutely no reason to make a new version of the 1970 comedy.

Do not be concerned if laughter trickles out of the scary parts or boredom creeps into the funny parts; this is to be expected.

Oddly off-balance, estrogen-powered dramedy.

Allegations of governmental double-talk and cover-ups are, unfortunately, boooring.

Awash in the kind of pretension that only the French can get away with.

It's all too, too cute and too, too forced for words -- not to mention too, too dark.

For a comedy, there are precious few real laughs. Three to be exact.

There's so much wrong with this movie.

Neither funny nor suspenseful nor particularly well drawn.

The real problem is not the maudlin script or Madden's travelogue touch. It's Cage as Corelli, a miscasting that turns the normally volatile, edgy performer into little more than a spokesman for the Olive Garden.

A feel-good movie only in the sense that it wants to reassure today's white people about our own enlightenment and how far we've come in the evolution of our attitudes about race.

The makers of Godzilla obviously devoted so much manpower and time and energy and money to the admittedly fabulous special effects that they apparently had no budget left over for actors.

The story here is just not particularly amusing.

The jokes are lame, the set-up is stupid and Bullock, occasionally a winsome comedienne and here a co-producer, is annoying as heck.

The drug-fueled romp turns ugly, sexist and misogynistic, as so many rap-star vehicles do.

Cinematic sleeping pill.

I never forgot for a minute that I was watching a cartoon, all the way down to the silly, pseudo-spiritual ending, an ending whose very incomprehensibility is actually one of the more endearing hallmarks of anime.

Even the Richard Rich-directed animation -- except for some nice but gratuitous computer-generated walking statues and dramatic ocean waves -- is not appreciably better than Saturday morning cartoons.

The laughs are few, far between and pretty darn faint in this comedy.

Here, common sense flies out the window, along with the hail of bullets.

Its important if inflammatory message will bore all but Chomsky's fellow travelers to death.

Full of the kind of obnoxious chitchat that only self-aware neurotics engage in. Christopher and Grace probably deserve each other, but that doesn't mean that any of us do.

I can't imagine why anyone would pay money to see this sorry excuse for a film, which plays more like a home movie than something from cinema professionals.

Clumsily under-written and feverishly overacted, it's as embarrassing to watch as it is perplexing.

So bad that I predict there will be drinking games set around viewing it someday.

A limp and exceedingly uninvolving melodrama.

Too highbrow for the multiplex and too literal for the hipsters, it's unsatisfying both as gothic camp and serious cinema.

A loud, choppily edited and surprisingly unengaging portrait of speed demons.

Very much like sex. On second thought, make that bad sex. Actually, sexual assault is more like it. It will leave you feeling used, bruised, violated, mistrustful and unclean.

It plays like a soft-core-porn potboiler left over from the 1970s about a hot vampire chick.

Miyazaki, like an evil sorcerer, has plucked the heart out of Jones's story and left it there to die.

Anyone with a modicum of good sense -- or a weak stomach -- will take it as a warning to stay the heck away from this literally and figuratively deadly "War Zone."

"Welcome to the Rileys"? Thanks, but no thanks.

Insipid, unfunny and cliche-ridden.

There really is no other movie on Earth quite like it. And that's including "The Human Centipede: First Sequence," the 2009 horror film on which this dismal, nauseating and yet bizarrely artful sequel is based.

As it is, The Divide is simply noxious for noxiousness's sake. French director Xavier Gens and writers Karl Mueller and Eron Sheean almost seem to take a kind of perverse pride in seeing how far they can go.

The only reason you'll feel any wrath is because you shelled out 12 bucks for this steaming bucket of half-baked plot, cliched dialogue and disappointing 3-D special effects.

That's My Boy is radical only in its extreme laziness.

It's hard to know who exactly Parental Guidance was made for.

How on earth is it possible for one film to be so tiresome? Spring Breakers isn’t deadly dull despite all the nudity and violence, but because of it.

A more accurate title would be “Inept, Inadequate and Insipid Comedy.”

True to the film's name, there is one thing I couldn't hardly wait for, and that's the closing credits.

From opening to closing credits, there isn't a single genuine moment -- as phony as a dime bag of oregano.

For da love of God, spare me.

The movie is really just an elaborate excuse to show repeated close-ups of an elephantine dog scrotum.

A numbingly unfunny romantic comedy. I hated every minute of it

Maybe I should let a role of the dice determine whether I use a cudgel or a broadsword to put this puppy out of its misery.

An appallingly dull film set in the world of professional racing, director Renny Harlin and screenwriter Sylvester Stallone have found a way to drain all the adrenaline out of the sport.

Hopeless rip-off of Hitchcock's "The Birds."

Confusing as heck.

An unoriginal warming over of a skimpy Japanese production that has been re-edited, rescored and rewritten for American tots and padded out to feature length with a plotless short called "Pikachu's Vacation."

The gratuitous vulgarity is just one more reason that Scooby-Doo should never have left the pound.

There's a thin line between some drag comedy and misogyny, and Girls Will Be Girls, a crass comedy in which all the women are played, with over-the-top abandon, by men, roars past that line.

The film degenerates into sophomoric name calling and a brand of insult humor that would embarrass Don Rickles.

For a suspense drama, Impact is a slack, oddly enervated and mawkish soup of largely lethargic performances.

Tries to put your tear ducts in a headlock with a litany of catastrophes.

A hideously unfunny spy spoof with pretensions to social satire in its treatment of a lesbian relationship.

Involves such a disturbing blend of unhealthy mother-son affection and physical pain that it gives new meaning to the term child -- not to mention audience -- abuse.

Unfortunately, the dramatic potential of such a moral quandary is left largely unmined in director Joseph Ruben's monotonous parlor game of will-he-won't-he. [14 Aug 1998, Pg. N.39]

Go expecting the very worst. Just don't expect to laugh.