I've been told the movie plays best with very young girls. That's an insult very young girls should not be forced to endure.

Morning sickness afflicts most of the potential mommies. For me, the movie itself triggered the vomiting.

There's no thrill in Gone because you can see every surprise coming. It lies there flapping like a dying fish. Skip it.

The Host basically comes down to a vote for Team Jared or Team Ian. I voted myself into oblivion about half an hour in. Niccol, who once added mystery and suspense to the sci-fi of 1997's "Gattaca," is no match for the giant marshmallow that is The Host.

Then there's the movie itself, which should be crazy, stupid fun but settles for just stupid.

Another January dud. Broken City drops hot-shot actors in a quicksand of clichés and watches them sink.

Magicians have been pulling rabbits out of hats for ages. And yet, with all this talent, no one can make a decent script materialize.

With that cast, we rightfully expect fireworks. What we get is the film equivalent of a wet blanket.

Judd is slumming again in ths lame suspense yarn that could barely pass as a TV quickie without the bankable names of Judd, Tommy Lee Jones and director Bruce Beresford.

The kind of movie that TV stars do when they're on hiatus and trying to squeeze one in.

Trash.

Slack direction fails to touch a nerve. Martin was scarier and funnier extracting Bill Murray's molars without Novocaine in "Little Shop of Horrors." Now that was one crazy dentist.

A fine case ... but none weighty enough to keep this fluff from evaporating as you watch it.

Makes you gag.

This mumbo-jumbo plays like The X Files on Prozac. No wonder the actors look narcotized.

Off the shelf after two years to capitalize on the popularity of Vin Diesel, Seth Green and Barry Pepper. It should have stayed there.

Even a search party would be hard-pressed to find a spark between Harrison Ford and Kristin Scott Thomas in Pollack's latest tear-jerker.

Plods along in the Oscar-winning, yawn-inducing tradition of "Out of Africa," making me yearn for something less "National Geographic."

The true story of the LaMarcas, well told by the late Mike McAlary in Esquire, has been pounded into TV-crime mush by screenwriter Ken Hixon and director Michael Caton-Jones. Shockingly, the acting doesn't help.

The self-congratulatory histrionics of Williams, lower lip trembling as he triumphs over torture in the name of the human spirit, represents a trend in Hollywood to make accessible melodrama out of unspeakable tragedy.

Contrived, manipulative and shamelessly sentimental, this film is notable for the courageous reach of Sean Penn, who gives a bold, heartfelt performance.

Crossing "A Beautiful Mind" with "Sex Kittens Go to College," first-time director Stephen Gaghan (he wrote Traffic) causes a head-on collision.

Cruz is a dish, but her movie is as soggy and indigestible as Styrofoam.

Even with sex, drugs, hip-hop and a murder, these four stories are dull, dull, dull, dull.

It's sledgehammer whimsy, and it's not talking to me.

What DePalma has never made is a dull movie. Until now.

For the first time, the Farrellys seem to be embarrassed by their own crudeness. For the first time, they should be.

Rob Cohen, who last directed "The Skulls" --ouch! -- can consider this one another career-killing skid mark.

Slick-dick director Simon West, of "Con Air" and "The General's Daughter" infamy, continues to show no flair at all for blending action and character. Jolie and Lara deserved better. So did we.

There's a strong movie in this life, but writer-director Leon Ichaso ("Sugar Hill") hasn't found it.

It's soft-core pap for horny boys and their hornier dads.

Despite melodramatic lapses -- the gripping action recalls Walter Hill's 1981 "Southern Comfort" -- this is Schumacher's most ambitions film since "Falling Down" in 1993, and it plays to his strengths with young actors.

Good-natured fun when it isn't stale, which is most of the time, this talky comedy set in a Chicago barber shop is a sitcom pilot disguised as a movie.

Something lazy, slow, shallow, stupid, amateurish, unfunny, unsuspenseful, uninformed, unspeakably dull and witlessly written, directed and acted (the special effects suck, too).

Chockablock with things we're not supposed to notice: that Roberts is wasted; that she and Cusack have no characters to play, so it's virtually impossible to understand why she loves him or vice versa; that the script provides comedy without bite and romance without resonance.

For starters, it blows. Madonna continues to mistake a knack for striking poses with the interpretive skill of a real actor.

Valentine's Day is a date movie from hell.

Has no vital signs at all, just crushing dull repetition that makes one noisy, violent scene play exactly like the last one.

As for the ladies who think any kind of chick flick is preferable to football, be careful what you wish for.

Do you really need me to tell you how scary this horror show isn't?

Beware 2012, which works the dubious miracle of almost matching "Transformers 2" for sheer, cynical, mind-numbing, time-wasting, money-draining, soul-sucking stupidity.

There's a difference between exposing misogyny and crassly exploiting it.

The cast got to spend a month shooting on Bora Bora. So that explains why they're in the movie. Why you'd spend good money for a ticket to watch them have all the fun and not have any fun yourself passes understanding.

I'd watch the vibrant Rachel McAdams and Eric Bana in anything, but The Time Traveler's Wife is pushing it.

There’s not a real or spontaneous minute in it.

I have the same allergic reaction to this open faucet of tear-jerking swill as I do to the 1996 Nicholas Sparks novel that inspired it.

A romantic comedy so numbing it feels like Novocaine.

"Sixth Sense" rip-off.

Breathlessly boring.

You know a sequel isn't working when, ten minutes into the movie, a voice inside your head starts screaming, "Please make it stop!"

It just plain sucks.

Take a tired formula...Stir with a director, Florent Siri, who has no shame about stealing every sadistic suspense trick from the Die Hard series. Serve to a gullible audience willing to pay top dollar for secondhand goods.

You might think there's no downside to a movie that peeks up the skirts of babes in micro-minis, but writer-director Angela Robinson's dimwitted satire is libido-killing proof to the contrary.

Result? It's not scary, just busy.

Purists, be warned: This scare-flick quickie has as much relation to the 1953 Vincent Price classic with the same title as Paris Hilton does to acting.

An appallingly clumsy and stupid take on drugs, kidnapping and suicide in suburbia.

Oh, how good actors can trap themselves in drivel.

This movie isn't over-the-top -- it doesn't know where the top is. Trash addicts will eat up every graphic minute, even if they prefer to wait for the DVD.

There's something pernicious about a toxic mix of sitcom and snickering sex jokes getting packaged and effectively sold as wholesome fun for the family.

Build a comedy around Jim Carrey in manic mode and they will come. Case in point: Fun With Dick and Jane, a pointless, painfully unfunny and yet inexplicably popular remake of the 1977 fizzle with Jane Fonda and George Segal.

It's getting harder to sustain a rooting interest in the career of Johnny Knoxville.

Following "Derailed," this comic turd makes it two strikes for Jennifer Aniston. She looks great, but her acting is board-stiff.

Roth takes three powerhouse actors -- Julianne Moore as the mother, Samuel L. Jackson as the cop who interrogates her and Edie Falco as another woman who lost her son -- and reduces their talents to rubble and their characters to screeching cliches.

There I sit, suffering total numbness of body and brain, no longer having to wonder what it might be like to be buried alive in gooey marshmallow.

Could 1960s-style sex, drugs and rock & roll really have been this dull?

There's no code to decipher. Da Vinci is a dud -- a dreary, droning, dull-witted adaptation of Dan Brown's religioso detective story.

Not since Gus Van Sant inexplicably directed a shot-by-shot remake of Hitchcock's "Psycho" has a thriller been copied with so little point or impact.

The F&F franchise ran out of gas half way into the 2001 original.

I can't believe that even the most rabid chick-flick masochists wouldn't gag on it.

Can no one save the talented Sandler from himself? I hate this movie. Click. I hate this movie. Click. I hate this movie. Click.

I laughed once or twice during this flat and fatuous farce, mainly because director and co-writer Greg Coolidge lifted a lot of it from "Office Space."

Estevez means well. But having your heart in the right place is no excuse for insipid ineptitude.

No go. Marshall deserved better than this misbegotten tribute.

The real evil in this flick isn't Blackheart (Wes Bentley), the devil's son, it's the soul-sucking devil of modern cinema: Hollywood formula.

A dull, dumb and unforgivably dated thriller, free of thrills and any kind of perfection.

The perfect summer movie, that is if you're eight years old or under. For the rest of us, the sequel to the first "Fantastic Four" that miraculously amassed more than $150 million in 2005, is a plotless, brainless, witless bore.

It's Carell who projects the movie's only sense of mischief. But it's too little and too late.

No comedy this year can beat this dud for mealy-mouthed hypocrisy.

I like Longoria Parker on "Desperate Housewives" and truly believe she could have a career on the big screen if she promises to never again work with writer-director Jeff Lowell, who perpetrated this offense of a ghost comedy on her and on her otherwise gifted co-stars Paul Rudd and Lake Bell.

Nothing the skunk does can begin to match the stench of this movie.

Talk about disappointing. Director Doug Liman exuded style and cool in "Swingers," "Go" and "The Bourne Identity." He lost his way in the star bloat of "Mr. and Mrs. Smith," and now his mojo is buried in this amped-up sci-fi chase flick.

Call it "Apocalypto" for pussies -- a PG-13 rating, puh-leese! -- or prehistory for peabrains. Just don’t call it friendo. 10,000 B.C. will take your money, rob your time and hit your brain like a shot of Novacaine.

I'm guessing it's the pressure of an idiot script by Gary Scott Thompson and understandably clueless direction from Jon Avnet that forces Pacino to ham it up so vigorously that you want to garnish him with cloves and a slice of pineapple.

Film critics have been asked to say as little as possible about M. Night Shyamalan's new scare film about the perils of messing with Mother Nature. Fair enough. But I will say this: It's not happening.

Murphy, teaming again with his "Norbit" director Brian Robbins, is assuming we'll all line up for lazyass toilet jokes and pay for the privilege. Prove him wrong, people, please.

The new Mummy is, how can I put it? Just freakin' awful.

Righteous Kill, a.k.a. The Al and Bob Show, is a cop flick with all the drama of "Law and Order: AARP." This movie defines drag-ass.

It's a major dud.

An irredeemably dull tale.

If you stay and watch the endless end credits, there's a short scene that hints a sequel is coming. That's what I call real pain.

If you're gay and/or eight years old, HSM3 is the movie event of the year.

The shortage of wit and the excess of goo can be summed up in Sandler's line to these children of divorce: "I'm like the stink on your feet — I'll always be there."

This crap is supposed to be the chick flick antidote to Super Bowl fever. Ha!

Martin is a gifted physical comic. He deserves an original role tailored to his own talents. Watching something this borrowed just makes me blue.

Audiences with a brain cell left have only one choice: Look for the first exit on the right.

The most shocking thing here is the fact that Peter Chelsom directed it. His 1995 movie, "Funny Bones," is a genuinely transgressive piece of dark comedy. I can't detect a trace of Chelsom in Hannah Montana, which means he won't have to wear a blonde wig to hide his shame.

Director Burr Steers, of the terrific "Igby Goes Down," is stuck polishing clichès.

Never comes as close as spitting distance to a laugh.

What I can’t figure out is how director Peter Hyams can remake a 1956 movie from the great Fritz Lang and not learn anything about suspense, pacing and storytelling in the process. This movie is beyond boring. You could stay warm for two hours by striking a match to the wooden acting.

Aiming for the heartfelt hilarity of "Superbad," I Love You, Beth Cooper is just super bad.

The brooding RPatz doesn’t bite. But his movie does.

The film is a sham, with good actors going for the paycheck and using beards and heavy makeup to hide their shame.

Guy flicks can be just as galling as the chick variety. Here's Exhibit A in how to lose an audience in ten minutes.

A clumsy package of clichés.

A two-hour search for a pulse... A miscalculation from a prodigious talent who has forgotten that you squeeze the life out of romance when you don't give it space to breathe.

What a bold notion for a movie, and what a bust in terms of execution.

Director Michael Hoffman sprays on the tears like a toxic mist. Avoid like the plague.

Even Cate Blanchett can't save this misbegotten horse opera.

Diapers, even from three babies, can't stink worse than this.

To shine in a turd like this shows Brody has the stuff that -- damn the Oscar jinx -- makes an actor last.

Strands Matt Damon and Casey Affleck (both named Gerry) in a desert with little to say and do except lose themselves in an existential wasteland of doomed beauty.

How can a film look so radiant and be so hollow?

It's sad to see risk-taking director Mike Figgis (Leaving Las Vegas, Hotel) do a generic thriller for a paycheck and then not even screw with the rules.

If you ever admired Julia Stiles, Selma Blair and Jason Lee -- and who didn't? -- don't watch them crush their careers in this laugh-free romantic comedy.

When a chick flick goes wrong -- and this one hits a dead end in hell -- it's a wipeout.

A triumph for the machines, more proof that we do indeed live in the Matrix.

Murphy looks comatose delivering the played-out poopy jokes.

Lacks the active verb it promises. It defines blah.

They are all victims of a script of such colossal banality and gross stupidity that smiles freeze on their faces, leaving them looking trapped and desperate, much like the audience.

Except for Connery, who is every inch the lion in winter, nothing here feels authentic.

It's a no-go. View From the Top boasts a first-class cast, but they're all traveling coach.

This spark-free film has no place to go on their resumes except under the heading of "Cringing Embarrassment."

If you can buy the pillow-lipped Angelina Jolie as a psychic FBI agent in Montreal to hunt a serial killer, then you can swallow the other implausibilities in this retread thriller.

Critics and audiences should unite to KO this loser.

Not to be catty about it, but the stench of the litter pan is all over this big-screen $90 million disaster-in-waiting.

"You're an awfully hard man to like, Hitler." Few serious films could survive a line like that. Max certainly doesn't.

This is Berg's debut outing as a director, but other first-timers, namely Joel Coen (Blood Simple) and Danny Boyle (Shallow Grave), had it all over him for blending horror and hilarity.

"Irritating" doesn't begin to describe Julia Roberts as Katherine, an art-history prof who arrives at Wellesley in 1953.

Except for a rare scene of shaggy charm, nothing works. Nothing.

The title of this limp retread of "Minority Report" -- both films are based on stories by Philip K. Dick -- presumably refers to the reason the big names involved did this movie.

Director Antoine Fuqua (Training Day) can stage action, but he can't save a trivializing, reactionary script featuring a Hollywood star (read America) as a global savior.

This third hunk of Pie is a worn-out gross-out, a remnant of a genre that now seems so five minutes ago.

Something cold and mechanical has seeped into the sequel. The divas push so hard for fun, it kills the spontaneity that fun needs to breathe.

Director Luke Greenfield, the auteur behind "The Animal," starring Rob Schneider, wants to pass off this limp-dick farce as social satire. Ha!

What the filmmakers fail to recognize is that history on the page is quite different from what it needs to be onscreen, namely alive and visceral.

Grating.

The only people likely to get a kick out of Gigli -- the first screen teaming of Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez -- are Madonna and her director hubby Guy Ritchie. Finally there's a movie as jaw-droppingly awful as their "Swept Away."

When a Spike Lee film doesn't fly, it sinks like a stone.

Every scare is telegraphed. Every surprise is recycled from a better thriller. Even the devil would send this one back.

A dreary film that's damn near torture to sit through.

Never achieves liftoff.

It's too bad Martin already made “What's the Worst That Could Happen?” The title really fits this one.

Environmentalists are up in arms. "Where did the shit go?" they want to know. The answer is painfully obvious: into the screenplay.

Stupefyingly stupid thriller.

It's a little early for self-parody in the career of Vin Diesel. But he's a calamitous cliché in A Man Apart.

The 'roo doesn't talk, except in a dream sequence…I'm dying here.

Despite Joan Cusack, whose comic spark earns the film its only star, Raising Helen is like tumbling into chick-flick hell.

Here's a shrieking bore of a horror flick.

A movie utterly devoid of wit , excitement and any reason for being.

Feels fake, forced and indigestible.

"Your incompetence is most taxing," says the chief vampire (Bill Nighy). A line that pretty much nails this rusty Blade.

The jokes? "Chicks are for fags," says Lloyd. The film is subtitled When Harry Met Lloyd. Believe me, you don't want to be there.

Nothing can save this repetitive bore. Dude, where's your memory?

What's left is a lot of strenuous playacting when what's called for is the finesse of the Japanese original. Skip this stub-toed substitute.

It's probably the movie event of the summer if you're an eight-year-old girl who doesn't get out much.

Alexander breaks the key rule that makes movies move: Show, don't tell.

I'd prefer to think of Sandler in "Punch-Drunk Love," the one good movie of the three he did this year.

Is it the clumsy script or the switch in directors -- Beeban Kidron in for Sharon Maguire -- that has sucked out the charm of the original and replaced it with crude pratfalls and enough shag gags to stuff the next three Austin Powers movies?

Don't ask whether or not you should take The Day After Tomorrow seriously. Don't take it at all.

Talk about your quick-buck exploitation.

It's not just hard to believe any of this, it's impossible. And director Jon Turteltaub (Phenomenom) directs with robotic cheerlessness.

The result is a failed and lifeless experiment in which everything goes wrong.

A comedy so devoid of wit and point that not mentioning the other actors trapped in this rathole would be an act of charity.

Here's a comedy of punishing tedium that pretends to be hip when it's so five minutes ago.

Demolition Man is sleek and empty as well as brutal and pointless.

What Murphy's doing isn't acting; it's masturbation.

The movie that might have been goes down in flames.

This flabby comedy deserves only one thing: to fall on its fat one.

Jonah is fated to ride alone. Don't make the mistake of keeping him company.

The movie left me with the feeling of being trapped with a person of privilege who won't stop with the whine whine whine.

Cage and Baruchel work hard to stay accessible, but the computer-generated effects come on like heavy artillery blowing away any hint of flesh and blood. The Sorcerer's Apprentice should be rated U for Untouched by Human Hands.

Some bad movies should carry a leper's bell to warn off ticket buyers. Such a contagion is Charlie St. Cloud, a load of mawkish swill starring Zac Efron (bereft of the talent he showed in "Me and Orson Welles").

Sorry, no XOXO for this slick, hollow hooey.

It could have been the 21st-century Showgirls. I wouldn't have missed that for the world. Instead, Burlesque, starring Cher and Christina Aguilera playing drag queen versions of themselves with all the vitality of Madame Tussauds wax dolls, is a bust that lacks the pizzaz and bugfuck nuttiness of Paul Verhoeven's 1995 trash epic.

Upchuckingly unfunny.

I wanted Paquin, who deserves better than this, to call on her vampire pals from "True Blood" and yell, "sic em!" Oh wait, they're already bloodless.

At one point, Black puts out a fire by pissing on it. It's my job as a critic to piss on this dumb excuse for a movie. Consider it done.

This lame-ass chick-flick sampling of "Crazy Heart" is more like country Kryptonite.

It's hard to deny that The Rite is guilty of sins against its audience.

The movie ultimately reveals itself as a pretender with no balls. Creatively, it's all wet.

The real plague is the movie, a sci-fi hodgepodge of bad history and worse special effects.

It's the perfect Valentine's date night movie, but only with someone you hate.

It's a lame trailer, but the movie itself is much, much worse.

Gordon, who died shortly after the first Arthur, never had to see the luckless 1988 sequel that made his beloved characters seem like strangers. The new Arthur, insipid when it should be infectious, leaves the same deadly impression.

Nothing works. Nothing.

Start hating me now, Twihards, but the sexless, bloodless, padded and plodding Breaking Dawn, Part 1 is the worst Twilight movie to date. (I don't get it either.)

Hal claims that a Lantern's only enemy is fear itself. The thought of a sequel to this shamelessly soulless Hollywood product scares me plenty.

Even wild man Gary Oldman, as a priest ready to eighty-six the wolfman with silver nail polish, can't liven up this humorless hogwash. And it's just sad to see the legendary Julie Christie stuck playing the grandmother.

Larry Crowne is more than a missed opportunity. It's alarmingly, depressingly out of touch.

The cheap thrills wear off way fast, and we're left with atrocious acting, feeble writing and clueless directing (from first-timer Steven Quale). The horror! The horror!

We're getting more of the same, but less of the impact, like weed from a bad dealer.

Yikes! Chris Renaud and Kyle Balda direct strictly for short-attention spans on a fruit-loopy palette that made me want to puke. Had Dr. Seuss lived (he died in 1991), I'm confident he would have puked as well.

Way to go, Battleship: Take the crassest of cynical junk, slather it in jingoism and sell it as rah-rah fun for right-wingers.

Since the new Recall is totally witless, don't expect laughs. Originality and coherence are also notably MIA.

This feeble followup to 2010's godawful "Clash of the Titans" sucketh the mighty big one.

The shopworn script by Pablo F. Fenjves, who ghost-wrote the unpublished O.J. Simpson book, If I Did It: The Confessions of the Killer, gets no help from director Asger Leth (Ghosts of Cite Soleil).

The movie plays like an evangelical prayer meeting, though I'd hold the hallelujahs. The characters we came to admire as vulnerable misfits hit the stage like visiting royalty and with a nonstop perkiness that makes the Von Trapps look like manic-depressives.

I don't know what to make of Act of Valor. It's like reviewing a recruiting poster.

Here's Madge one more time doing something for which she is eminently unsuited – directing.

This Parker spits in our collective eye. Don't blame us for spitting back.

I can't detect the hand of Hill in even a single scene in Bullet in the Head. It plays like a Stallone vanity project, impure and stupefyingly simple.

Is it the worst of the seven screen Sparks so far? Nope. My vote still goes to 2009's "The Last Song" with Miley Cyrus mothering those unhatched turtle eggs. But it's still pretty damn insufferable.

This movie made my ears hurt. Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett and James Ellroy could have turned this pulp into insinuating jazz. What's here is a cartoonish bore.

There may be worse movies this summer than The Great Gatsby, but there won't be a more crushing disappointment.

Whitney Houston deserved better than to go out onscreen with this botch job remake of a 1976 soap opera that never deserved another thought.

Ah jeez. I actually wanted this one to be good. Or at least decent. Or at least a reminder of what got us all fired up about the first Die Hard in 1988. But A Good Day To Die Hard, the fifth in a creatively exhausted series, is total crap.

An indigestible chunk of romantic marshmallow.

Add Showtime to the pile of Hollywood dreck that represents nothing more than the art of the deal.

Writer-director Roman Coppola is trying to capture a time he's too young to remember, when the French New Wave reinvigorated film art.

While the first movie steadily tighened its vise, the second loosens its grip through strained acting and incoherent plotting.

Director Gillian Armstrong turns Sebastian Faulks' pungent novel about World War II into a soporific.

How the hell did Ben Affleck, 29, wind up replacing Harrison Ford, 59, as our hero? Who's next as Ryan -- Ozzy Osbourne's guppy son, Jack? Chronology hasn't been this royally fucked with since Memento.

Give the girls a cheer, but remember: "Bring It On" is still the poo, Missy. Take a big whiff.

Say the word, girl (Lopez), the next time you're offered one of these barrel scrapers: Enough!

From the lowercase lettering of the title to the deadly familiarity of the plot, there is much to grate on your nerves in this TV Afterschool Special trying to pass as a real movie.

We have to suffer through two hours of this rancid summer cheese.

There should be a place in hell for hacks who turn out derivative terror trash and then pretend they're doing an important investigative piece on Vatican corruption.

The Hughes boys blow it by burying a fine cast -- Robbie Coltrane as a cop and Ian Holm as a royal sawbones are standouts -- in stock scares, sappy romance and cliches that really are from hell.

Launches the fall season with a crashing thud.

A romantic thriller of more than usual ineptitude.

The big problem with Big Trouble, despite a fine cast and director (Sonnenfeld made "Get Shorty" and "Men in Black"), is that the damn thing isn't funny.

I'd rather be buried in a mound of Floridian chad than watch director Donald Petrie force Bullock to jump through another desperately unfunny comic hoop.

Where's Sandler in all this? Lost in gimmicks that smack of desperation. Damn it.

Stinks worse than dino dung. Sure, the creatures look good.

Overheated, underdone farce. Race for the exit.

So what's not to like? There's the bad CGI, the choppy pacing, the comically intense acting, the repetition, the dullness and mostly the idiot plot about how there's only one male dragon and everything will be fine if they kill the Big Dick. Wha? Somebody get a hose and put this Fire out.

Beware all male viewers who enter here, you are in chick-movie hell.

Promises a road movie of blissful comic romance and delivers a series of dramatic dead ends.

Exhibits rank incompetence on every level.

It's not the trite talk that sends Cruel Intentions into a tailspin, it's the lightweight casting.

Does romantic comedy have to come off as sugared stupidity? It does here.

Get out your pooper-scoopers. Doo happens June 14th, warn the ads for Scooby-Doo. And they say there's no truth in Hollywood.

Doesn't deliver an ounce of charm.

It feels manufactured to be suitable for mass consumption.

I don't know what to say about the acting, writing and directing in G.I. Joe because I couldn't find any.

That generous half star rating I tacked onto this comedy abomination is all for Paris Hilton. Come on, it takes guts (or gross dim-wittedness) to appear on screen again after "House of Wax."

Ninety minutes pass like an eternity. Verdict: Down for the count.

What I can't figure is why anyone would want to release this tripe in theaters just when Fanning has nearly lived it down. They ain't no friends of mine, or any other moviegoer.

Misery is enduring this Rocky Horror Paris Show.

Toss this ugly-ass crap to the curb, along with the other multiplex garbage, and see a romance that gets it right. I'm talking "(500) Days of Summer."

You'd get more of a jolt from Angela Lansbury on "Murder, She Wrote" and more intellectual stimulation from a cozy game of Clue.

To be honest, I started hearing things, too. Just when Jones was delivering an inexcusably sappy speech about baseball being "a symbol of all that was once good in America," I heard the words "If he keeps talking, I'm walking."

If you see one Minnesota movie this year, make it "Fargo." This botch job should be stamped direct to video.

Girl 6 is shameless stuff -- pompous, sentimental and attitudinizing. To swat the Spikeman with his own symbol, the film feels like he phoned it in.

Fair Game, written and directed by men, allows model Cindy Crawford to make her screen debut as Miami lawyer Kate McQueen.

Whatever juice is left in the "Cop" franchise or in the once unstoppable career of Eddie Murphy peters out ignominiously in this poor excuse for a sequel.

This is crap as we know it, a 113 minute package of romcom suck.

Sucks bad, real bad.

The half-star rating goes to John Krasinski for heroically rising above this vile dung heap of a movie.

This tear-jerking twaddle, adapted by David Nicholls from his 2009 bestseller, is nearly as bad as Anne Hathaway's British accent, which is heading for infamy.

In between scenes of the muscleheads torturing their victim, Bay indulges his taste for treating women as sluts and grisly brutality as a nifty excuse for a cheap laugh. Pain and Gain is personal all right. You leave these characters with the distinct impression that they're Bay's kind of people.

It would be great to see this turd squashed under a truck, preferably a semi.

The call on this one is: dead on arrival.

Filming this mess in North Carolina (strike three).

This putrid dish marks a new low for director Roland Joffe.

Say this for the soundtrack, it drowns out the lousy dialogue.

Abort! Abort! It's that time of year when Hollywood releases movies it should never have made in the first place.

The language is leaden, the pace glacial and the characters indecipherable. It's easier to read the actors -- they all seem eager to win an Oscar. Fat chance.

The script that Nicholas Klein has conjured from Bono's idea is a quicksand that sucks down a solid cast.

What Lynch, who wrote the script at 19, sees as high drama is really high camp. And Fenn seems clueless on how to play her limbless character.

The film takes a true story and drags it through a swamp of hyped-up Hollywood cliches.

Gives us good reason to believe that January really is the month Hollywood studios use to bury their cheesiest mistakes.

Laced with such rampant misogyny that the laughs stick in your throat.

A slipshod sequel that looks tossed together over a weekend by people who couldn't care less.

Dracula may stay undead in the new millennium, but there's not a sign of life - oh, that bloodless acting - in this sorry mess.

A shit stain on the genre.

Reeks like something produced from a squatting position.

Crass manipulation can clean up at the box office, so do your part: Nail this flick as a bottom feeder and pay the bad word forward to three others.

Peet is always worth watching, but the role does her no favors, and the script, involving a kidnapping and a surprise cameo by Neil Diamond - you heard me - smacks of desperation beyond saving.

Painfully flat gross-out comedy.

It's not just that the movie itself is wicked awful, it's that Mr. Deeds brings out the worst in Adam Sandler.

John Q. is as fake as that tear, an exploitative mess trying to pass as social activism.

In one scene, raw sewage is dumped on Joe. See Joe Dirt and you'll know how that feels.

A script by Peter Gaulke and Gerry Swallow that is minus a shred of Farrelly wit.

Unwatchable, unbearably unfunny farce.

Transformers 2 has a shot at the title Worst Movie of the Decade.

One of the worst movies of this or any year.

There is no wrong time to flush this turd. The only bright spot comes during the outtakes over the final credits.

The laughs to be had in this deliciously awful sequel are all unintentional. A bummer for film buffs, but a ball for fans of the misbegotten.

Awful.

Putridly written, directed and acted.

The real horror here is watching Sandra Bullock drop her big Miss Congeniality smile to A-C-T! She does this by not smiling. What happened to the range she showed in "Crash" and "Infamous?"

Talk about your pious frauds. I've got a better way to show your disgust for Internet scum: Don't see Untraceable.

It's early in the year, but I defy any 2008 comedy to be as stupid, slack and sexless as Fool's Gold. And I'm counting Paris Hilton's appalling "The Hottie and the Nottie," which is marginally better.

The first big-studio movie released in 2009 has a damn fine chance of being the worst. Bride Wars isn't just chick-flick hell for guys, it should numb the skulls of moviegoers of all sexes and ages.

Memo to Beyoncé Knowles: You were so good as Etta James in "Cadillac Records," so why'd you go spoil everything with a rank cheeseball thriller that buries you in clichés and won't even help you dig yourself out?

Simultaneously full of itself and full of sh--, Brooklyn's Finest is a cop movie so shallow, dumb, derivative and infuriating that it feels like a parody of bad cop movies.

How do I hate Armageddon? Let me count the ways.

If the devil made them all do it, he's one dull bastard.

If you have to ask why this sucks, you deserve to waste your money. Why not also check out "Like Mike," "Juwanna Man" and "Hey Arnold! The Movie"?

The bloodsuckers in this thriller may not have much bite, but here's a movie that can -- it's guaranteed -- drain the life out of an audience in minutes.

When studios plant these stink bombs in theaters, do they really think that audiences won't notice the stench?

Bad Boys II has everything. Everything loud, dumb, violent, sexist, racist, misogynistic and homophobic that producer Jerry Bruckheimer and director Michael Bay can think of puking up onscreen.

I could puke.

A movie this unspeakably awful can make an audience a little crazy. You want to throw things, yell at the actors, beg them to stop. But the film drags on, digging horrible memories into the brain -- like Bruce Willis and Danny Aiello's singing.

With this kind of epic ineptitude -- hell, the flick is set in the year 3000 -- you go for "worst of the millennium."

Lethal Weapon 3 offers mediocrity wielded by experts. It's not a movie, it's a machine.

Derivative and blindingly dull, Quick Change is an occasion for a quick nap.