Final is one big hunh? barely worth the effort; just because it doesn't make any sense doesn't mean it's art.

Which leaves Witherspoon, that delicious pastry, to heave the movie on her small shoulders and carry it home. The load is light -- the movie weighs no more than a glass of flat champagne -- but even she can't withstand the burden.

It's as light on its feet as a dead elephant. It's never clever or smart, nor is it terribly thrilling or engaging during its numerous fight sequences.

Renders it a cross between "Three Men and a Baby" and "Monsters, Inc." But it's bereft of the charisma of the former and the energy of the latter; stuck in a frozen wasteland, it possesses all the vigor of a Popsicle.

It's utterly frustrating: What could and should have been biting and droll is instead a tepid waste of time and talent.

The X-Men franchise takes a giant leap backward and off a cliff with its fourth offering.

If this it supposed to be comedy, why isn't it ever, for one second, funny?

This limp gender-bender-baller from a first-time director and rookie screenwriter steals wholesale from that 1982's "Tootsie," forgetting only to retain a single laugh.

This pallid little ditty, like the rest of Lance Bass and pals' oeuvre, is soulless, banal and derivative.

Feels like an in-joke, a party where everyone on the screen's having a better time than anyone in the theater, and they all couldn't care less. And that's just no fun at all.

Obnoxious, transparent cornball comedy.

Travolta is stuck giving a remarkable performance in a film so trivial and offensive its mere existence is as loathsome as it is laughable.

Who wants to pay to see a movie so bad the actors and writer-director feel the need to keep reminding us of how bad it is?

It punishes rather than entertains; it condescends, it offends, it loathes its audience.

The movie's all flash and formula, as original as the letter A, especially when it collapses in a dung heap of gunfire and corpses.

Deadly dull thriller.

A film bereft of emotion, characters and words with more than two syllables.

A turgid, unfunny, out-of-time rockspolitation movie.

An overlong compendium of Oprah moments meant to move and inspire, even if, by the end, it's too exhausted with itself to offer up a single authentic tear or revelation.

An antiadvertisement for itself.

There's nothing more enervating than a stupid film with only random, and perhaps accidental, flashes of smarts; the rare prescient moments only serve to highlight how banal and vacant the rest of the movie is, especially when it stoops to conquer the gross-out market bled dry by the Farrelly Brothers and their myriad acolytes.

A bland, obnoxious 88-minute infomercial for Universal Studios.

In one of the year's most woefully manipulative and oppressively pandering offerings: I Am Sam, a dolled-up TV movie-of-the-week masquerading as profound cinema.

Warner Bros. is presumably aiming this movie not at children but at full-grown dopers with bad munchies glued to the Cartoon Network. Dude, pass the Scooby snacks.

It's an exceptionally dreary and overwrought bit of work, every bit as imperious as Katzenberg's "The Prince of Egypt" from 1998.

Not strong enough to stomach this leather-clad jerk-off session, which Miramax dumped onto Paramount in a rare case of common sense.

Seems to exist solely to prove there is something beneath the bottom of the barrel.

Sandler and Spade continue their avid quest to dumb down America.