The problem with Possession isn't that it's filmed in a lackluster way, but that it shouldn't have been filmed at all. Byatt's novel is an adventure in language, telling its story through a kaleidoscopic array of Victorian-style poetry and prose, alongside gripping accounts of the characters' activities and escapades.

What really hurts is the movie's shallow screenwriting, self-indulgent acting, and woozy camerawork.

Hop away from this one fast!

The plot is predictable, the characters are cliches, and all the actors look and sound like refugees from a movie Martin Scorsese would have made vastly better three decades ago.

Was this spiritless stuff really directed by Paul and Chris Weitz of "American Pie" fame? How the rebels have mellowed!

Fiction and fantasy to evade reflection on the world we actually live in.

Een fans of Jay and Silent Bob may find the story too slender and the jokes too repetitive to be much fun.

The gimmick behind the screenplay is clever, but the filmmakers don't rise to the challenge they've set themselves, merely spinning two unimaginative stories for the price of one.

Brody has offbeat charisma, but it's no match for the corny dialogue he's given here, not to mention the "Wild at Heart" snakeskin jacket he wears.

The film means well, but each scene gets clobbered by sappy screenwriting.

The movie is designed to show off Liotta's acting skills, but pointless mayhem and sheer nastiness crowd out any virtues it might have had.

An interesting cast is wasted in this misanthropic thriller.

A total lack of chemistry between the stars -- neither of whom is particularly good at romantic comedy in the first place -- and you have a promising package that grows steadily less lovable as it goes along. Down with this movie!

Norton's high-energy acting is the only element that saves the picture from being a total loss.

The acting is uneven and most of the romancing seems so mismatched.

How did a dignified pro like Duvall get stuck in this fender-bender?

Travolta and Jackson have some effective scenes, but Nielsen is lacking in charisma, and James Vanderbilt's screenplay ought to be court-martialed.

The slasher-movie genre may never die, but can't its perpetrators think up variations more clever than this by-the-numbers rehash?

Violent and vapid, but the visual jolts may please horror buffs.

This boatload of clichés is strenuously unfunny.

This is fatuous twaddle with a nasty, misogynistic edge.

By the time it ended, I'd stopped caring. I suspect most moviegoers will do the same. Here's hoping Shelton scurries back to the athletic world in a hurry.

The plot pants so hard -- that it makes less sense than the average pet-food commercial.

The movie's one good performance is given by the house, full of ominous inscriptions, inscrutable chambers, and fiendish machines. The human characters are played with various degrees of manic overacting.

The film is a disappointment, and at more than two hours' running time, a very long disappointment.

It soon gets down to its real business: fights, face-offs, and showdowns mired in the shallowest sort of Hollywood machismo.

Crash-lands as disastrously as the heroes and never quite recovers its wits.

Perry and Hurley don't have much chemistry, and the story is so dumb you might want to sue it for stupidity.