No one is bad in The Big Wedding, but no one is remotely believable, either.

A handsome Holocaust melodrama hobbled by a transparent and cartoonish script.

Although there are several truly jolting scares, there's also an abundance of hackneyed dialogue and more silly satanic business than you can shake a severed limb at.

A smart aleck-y kidnapping caper that whooshes around to a thumping electronic beat.

It's too gauzy, and - with its Ron Bass script - too goopy by half.

I could make a joke here about the new Pokemon movie.

Cage appears as a knight of the Crusades, slogging across the continents, slaying infidels and unbelievers and anyone else who gets in his way. There isn't a minute when it looks like he's having fun.

For all its mayhem, for all the smashing windows and kabooming fireballs, the grenade launchers and giant helicopters, A Good Day to Die Hard not only fails to top its predecessors, it also forgets the basic Die Hard rules.

Teeming with socially awkward misfits, Gentlemen Broncos is not without its absurdist charms, although Hess (who co-scripted with his wife, Jerusha) pushes the envelope in ways it doesn't need pushing.

A bubble-brained comedy with as much bearing on the real world as a Pokemon cartoon.

Never going to be remembered as a tying-the-knot screwball classic (it probably won't be remembered past March), but one could do worse.

Catwoman, which talks about the "duality" inside all women (wild vs. docile, rapacious vs. cuddly), does have its guilty pleasures. Most of these come courtesy of ice queen Stone.

Isn't as jaw-droppingly awful as its trailers suggest.

What a stupefying thing it is.

Mike Myers, responsible for the picture's one, or possibly two, laughs.

By Twisted's final twist, though, it's all Judd can do to keep a straight face.

Full of clunky humor, battle-of-the-sexes musings and spicy accordion music, Everybody Wants to Be Italian is relentless - but not necessarily relentless fun.

Basic Instinct 2 is supposed to help Stone show it's possible for a woman to be sexy in her late 40s. But it's Rampling - who is 60 - who comes off as the more provocative and alluring. Stone's purring, snarling, bedroom kink is embarrassing.

A mix of "Alice in Wonderland" and William S. Burroughs, "Psycho" and the psychotic. It's pretty much a squirmy experience all around.

Impossibly arty and, at times, narratively incoherent, Filth and Wisdom still has its goofy charms.

Despite all the stock characters and scenarios, Fox and company manage to bring things to life. And cut some hair.

Contrived story lines and an altogether phony resolution erase whatever energy and wit the film displayed, leaving the viewer with an empty, disappointed feeling.

A syrup-thick New Age ghost story of the same sappy stripe and mawkishness as another Costner foray, "Message in a Bottle."

Guy Ritchie's Revolver premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival two years ago September. That's 26 months on a shelf somewhere, depriving moviegoers the thrill of jaw-droppingly awful Ray Liotta line readings, of bloody shoot-outs, bags of money, cutaways to frosty babes sucking on lollipops, and even a bit of violent anime.

At this point in her career, Lopez can clearly bend the universe -- but no amount of bending can make Enough anything more than formulaic.

The greatest lacrosse movie of the 21st century - and, unless I'm mistaken, the only lacrosse movie of the 21st century.

Reaches breathtaking lows of incoherence, sexism, racial stereotyping, and -- did I say incoherence?

Where the first pic breezed along with gags and gunplay, this forced follow-up is artificial to the hilt - fueled on a kind of trying-too-hard hilarity that makes even good actors look bad.

A thuddingly dull remake of the 1971 crime drama starring Michael Caine.

Unravels in a series of spooky dream sequences, dopey detective work, and a couple of richly hambone-ian De Niro soliloquies.

Piles dumb gag upon dumb gag - it's like benign pummeling. Occasionally, you just have to laugh.

A messy fish-out-of-water gangland romp.

Stephen King without the snap, David Lynch without the kink, teen horror without the teen hormones, Darkness Falls falls apart in a crescendo of creepy-crawly hoo-ha. It's more like Darkness Kerplunks.

A collection of double entendres that would make a stevedore blush.

Yes, it's stupid. But sometimes it's stupid with a capital S, and it's in those moments of transcendent idiocy that you can't help liking Saving Silverman. At least, a little bit.

Has its compelling moments, and its playfully inventive ones, too.

A lethargic, lurching holiday-themed comedy.

It's getting tiresome, this stuff.

Fuzzy, feel-good movie about baseball, babes and believing in yourself.

About as not-funny as a comedy can get.

Hopped up like a kid on a sugar rush, Hoodwinked Too! tries to emulate the "Shrek" formula - mashing Hans Christian Anderson and the Brothers Grimm with pop-culture references and wisecracking anthropomorphic sidekicks.

Another tale of Tinseltown drugs, sex and excess - has transferred itself to the screen with mind-boggling, laugh-inciting horribleness.

Little kidniks with an appetite for zap-pow silliness might find this to their liking. Everyone else, beware.

Just a big chunk of waste flushed from a Hollywood studio.

Long, lumbering and endlessly unfunny.

Affleck, for his part, behaves as if a Zero from "Pearl Harbor" dropped one too close to his noggin. He looks permanently shell-shocked.

88 Minutes proves itself to be a maddeningly mediocre, ineptly manipulative "real-time" thriller.

A tad more character development would have been nice.

Struggles mightily to find its loony essence. But Bullock's apple-cheeked larkishness is all flailing limbs and bug-eyed reaction shots - there's no there there. Cooper's character is woefully underwritten, Church's is yet another vain anchorman-wannabe cartoon.

Dark and murky, grainy and grim.

Has a dark, low-budget feel and an incongruous combination of self-consciously jokey patter and gross-out gore.

Gets stupider as it moves along. By the end, you just don't care whether that cold-hearted snake Petrovich (that would be Reno) gets his comeuppance. Just bring on the Battle Bots, please!

As far as director Nicole Kassell and writer Gren Wells are concerned, the C in Big C must stand for cute. The film reaches into the pits of moviegoing hell when it finds Marley on a celestial white couch, ringed in billowing white curtains, communing with God. And God is embodied by Whoopi Goldberg.

Awesomely ridiculous thriller.

Much of the dialogue is the silliest sort of fantasy mush, and a good deal of the picture appears to have been shot while the lighting guys were out to lunch.

Slackers is, well, consummately cheesy. Ugh.

Totally lame.