Allen is no more convincing than the writer-director, Chris Ver Wiel, who strings together faux-QT, faux-Elmore Leonard clichés like so many necklace beads and pretends that's the same thing as making a movie.

Kollek is a fringe auteur who makes independent films the old fashioned way: no budget, static camera, a script that telegraphs its tiny, paste gem ironies.

No belief on earth can rescue Swank from a film that's a chain of disaster chintz masquerading as a sermon.

Chatwin comes off as prickly and annoyed -- they should have called this "Perturbia."

The movie is trash shot to look like art imitating trash.

He now imparts so many life lessons via his Rube Goldberg thresher devices that he's starting to turn into the Rod Serling of severed body parts. Now that's torture.

George Lucas is turning into the enemy of fun.

The real problem is the movie itself. The plot, with its interlocking contrivances, is like a machine that keeps trapping the actors in its gears. Since they aren't allowed to relate to each other on a simple human level, the spangly back-and-forth chemistry on which a romantic comedy depends is nowhere in sight.

A sodden ''feminist'' vulgarization.

It's really a dramatic sinkhole.

Van Helsing, a fusion of eye candy and brain sputter, is a long, kinetic, yet dreary mess.

The premise is out of '70s porn, and so is the overbroad satire and almost total lack of conviction.

The movie, which strains to be hip in a faux-1985 beat-the-system way, takes such a light view of cheating that it has the ironic effect of rendering the heist that follows utterly innocuous.

If you were looking for an actress to play a tempestuous, schizophrenic movie-slash-rock star, you might go for Courtney Love or Angelina Jolie, or maybe even Jennifer Connelly. But Rachael Leigh Cook?

Hannibal Rising reduces this great creature of the pop imagination to a Eurotrash Boy Scout throwing a homicidal snit fit.

Is less an end in itself than an excuse, a jumping off point for showy, contrived, borderline exploitation sequences that fail to tie together because they're not really there to do anything but sell themselves as money shot thrills.

Tame and witless enough to make me long for the ancient, dusty fright kitsch of ''The Munsters.''

As bumbling and mindless, as naively misconceived, as that clapping-through-tears moniker.

Even Snow Day's winter wonderland looks fake.

On the level of a no-budget student film in which the shots barely match up into sequences. It's about as much fun as watching blood dry.

Instead of rooting for Pullman and Fonda, we end up praying that the crocodile is hungry enough to put them out of their misery.

It doesn't take long to figure out that Shadowboxer 's Helen Mirren, as a cancer-ridden hitwoman, and Cuba Gooding Jr., as her doting stepson, are the most unconvincing team of hired assassins in movie history.

It's a dispirited, galumphing mess.

The movie has no script, and even the better gags - like one in which a couple of the pilots scribble away at coloring books in the backseat of a plane - could have been staged more vividly.

God-awful?Gooding screams out lines like ''I'm about to get in yo' ass like last year's underwear!''

The entire movie has the meaninglessly burnished, sunglasses-at-midnight glow of an early-'90s car commercial -- a visual scheme guaranteed to leave the audience squinting between yawns.

In Trash Humpers, the latest slovenly, haphazard, is-it-a-travesty-if-it's-bad-on-purpose avant doodle from director Harmony Korine, three figures in rubbery old-age makeup do indeed mimic intercourse with Dumpsters.

Lawrence is so ON that he appears to be gunning for clockwork bursts of audience approval.