Populated with whiny, unappealing characters that are impossible to care about and flatly staged sitcomish set-pieces...this lame Canadian import's a real woofer.

Skeet Ulrich continues to disappoint in one high-profile project after another.

Duller-than-a-Vitalife-convention compilation of talking heads.

If Lee's intention was to cement our loathing of blackface comedy, he's succeeded all too well.

You'd think creating confusion during something as woodenly simpleminded as Dudley Do-Right is no easy task, but you'd be wrong.

The film's title accurately captures the sensation of sitting through it -- stay home.

A vanity vehicle for the dubious acting talents of Pras.

An aimless, pointless dawdle.

A shovelful of silly manure from the get-go.

Hamilton's quasi-Luddite tale doesn't make a coherent movie under the best of circumstances, and these were, apparently, something substantially less than that.

Beautiful it ain't, but it is kind of cute.

A swamp of clichés, contrivances, and cheap ham-and-cheese hero sentimentality.

There's nothing wrong with Down to You that a smart script and savvy direction couldn't cure.

The Forsaken discourages one from caring in the least how its breed of vein-tappers came to be, or even what will happen if they take over the world.

As an audience member, you end up feeling like a sucker for even having tolerated that sickly sweet notion about a father, a son, and their silly radio.

Alas, for now we're at the mercy of a screenplay whose beats are too often as poorly calculated as the movie's title.

An incomprehensible mess.

I'd write it all off as something that is, after all, intended for young viewers -- but then I'd be insulting their intelligence as cruelly as the movie does.

Houston, we have a problem. It's called The Astronaut's Wife and it's an utterly predictable rip-off of classic '60s and '70s exercises in paranoia, from "Rosemary's Baby" to "The Parallax View."

Psychological thrillers depend on convincing audiences to suspend disbelief, but this one doesn't manage that for a moment.

Giuseppe Tornatore has long been a master of cheap sentiment ("Cinema Paradiso," " The Legend of 1900"), but his latest film is his most shallow, reprehensible exercise in nostalgia to date.

This self-consciously kooky road movie about an unusual trio of bank robbers aims for Hal Ashby misanthropy, but hasn't a single emotionally grounded or plausible moment to justify its purely cinematic eccentricities.

A clumsy, witless cartoon version of E.B. White's rather uncelebrated children's story.

This talky, self-important flick is a bore of biblical proportions.

The dialogue is trite and tinnily recorded, and the actresses have the chops of high-school drama students.

The backdrop of exotic pagodas and wartime woe isn't nearly potent enough to buoy the feeble drama that plays out in the foreground.

Has a blithe tone and a capable cast, but Veber's script is 100 percent laugh-free.

As though fatalistically compelled, all three leads self-destruct: Li is as flat, colorless, and stiff as a panel of Sheetrock, Karyo plays his every syllable in overdrive, and Fonda seems trapped in the midst of a failed screen test for Pretty Woman II.

An early scene inside a theater seems intended to wink at Sin's critics: "Disgusting! Cheap melodrama," a lady sniffs during intermission. It's a neatly reflexive acknowledgement of what we ourselves are watching, but even at that, our filmmaker is praising himself too extravagantly by half.

If Company Man were a wreck on the interstate, it would involve multiple cars and at least one jackknifed tanker truck, and traffic would be backed up for miles as passing motorists slow to gawk.

So wretched that it practically defies description.

This is sub-par Aaron Spelling sludge all the way.

Should be shot at sunrise. Or strung up by the neck from a tall tree. Or at least run out of town by a big posse.

Frankly, there wouldn't have been enough shtick here to warrant an SNL skit. And if the material isn't even up to those standards, then who the hell green-lit it as a feature?

It is merely another inept teen movie ripping off better horror movies.

It's a warped kind of romantic comedy in which the whole is substantially less than the sum of the parts.

This is nothing more than a bare-assed fart in the face of Smith's fans.

A preachy, monotonous failure hyped as a follow-up to his incendiary 1991 debut, "Boyz N the Hood."

Take the G out of Glitter and it's litter.

Once the action starts to kick in, Megiddo morphs, minute by minute and scene by scene, into a Mystery Science Theater smorgasbord.

If you can overlook its condescending wholesomeness and static, visually drab, endlessly repetitious animation, then you have a more forgiving soul than I do.

Yet another leaden, witless, cliché-drunk, teen romantic comedy starring the preposterously good-looking stars of mediocre TV series.

The film's a vacuous bore.

Hard to watch -- not because of its unflinching realism, but rather for its mawkish reliance on every boy hooker flick from "Midnight Cowboy" to "Johns."

It's a gleefully unfettered gross-a-thon first --also second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth -- and a movie perhaps seventh.

A peerless indignity, a club-footed vomit launch of teen-horror clichés, overproduced self-importance, and scareless gore.

Slow as a funeral dirge, the movie's all talk about art and passion and obsession without anything to show for it.

If you're desperate for a James Bond fix, skip the movie and blow your 007 bucks on a copy of the soundtrack.

A trial of cliche, strained optimism, and dire quasi-comedy.

Such a witless, bombastic, by-the-numbers hunk of millennial hooey it made me nostalgic for Commando. This one throws in every hoary hellfire cliché.

Invoking unpleasant memories of "Caligula" (only without the sex), Titus does no justice to Shakespeare.

This poor movie is like an abandoned car without plates: Nobody wants to admit it's theirs.

Dracula 2000 is a stake in the heart.

Greenaway has hit a brick wall, and it's no fun to watch.

Thinking (logically or otherwise) about this movie is a waste of your brain cells.

Go see this movie and you'll be...yup. You should save your money; Norm Macdonald should save his career, by quitting movies altogether.

Struggles like a fat kid on the gym rope to conjure up even a single decent laugh.

A treacly, ham-fisted, German-American co-production about family ties that should only have been released in the circle of Hell reserved for movie critics.

Virtually unwatchable.

First the TV show, then the video games, the playing cards, the books, the clothes, and now the movie -- the dreaded movie.

Disheveled tripe pieced together with the good intentions.

Crude and witless.

Dim and eye-rollingly foolish -- Call it Dumb, Dumber, Dumber Still, and Dumbest.

It has no subtlety, no shadings, and no suspense, and might as well not have a screenplay.

As intriguing as the premise sounds, Mission to Mars hasn't a single moment of real suspense.

Hellish matrimonial misfire.

Who the heck green-lit this garbage heap anyway?

It's "Shampoo," 30 years after. What a surprise, then, that this effort ranks lower even than the Steve Martin remake of "The Out-of-Towners."

Strives for folksy charm but ends up just lying there like a plate of kippers.

A slick, simplistic, and laughable effort that's reminiscent of a bad Jerry Bruckheimer film. A really bad Bruckheimer film.

Antitrust is anti-fun, anti-wakefulness, and anti-interesting.

A stiff, clumsy, amateurish mess, one of those ethnically righteous movies likely to be endured exclusively by its story's demographic.

Better, as they say, than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick -- but only just.

This wretched jumbo helping of Christian Fundamentalist agitprop takes itself entirely too seriously to be anything but ploddingly dull.

Appears to have been written and directed by a grade-school dropout snorting airplane glue.

Inept, unfunny, and so brimming with bad ideas it's a wonder it wasn't manufactured by mandrills rather than adult humans.

It's a sugar rush that'll leave you feeling like a rotten cavity.

I'd rather go on an all-Crisco diet than sit through Poor White Trash again.

The only thing about this movie that will haunt you is its boggling ineptitude.

As for genuine willies, well, chances are you've had more disturbing encounters with, say, a belligerent Shih Tzu.

This grade-Z programmer is a painfully earnest, clichéd, amateurish waste of time.

Love & Sex is nothing but pain and suffering.

There aren't even any naked chicks in it. What the hell is up with that?

Brand-new and uproariously unimproved.

A miserable western that is clearly headed downward toward the latter destination.

Dreadful demonic disaster.

Because so little of what occurs on-screen either engages or entertains, there's ample time for the boiler of your self-respect to build up quite a head of indignation at the forfeiture of your time, money, and (exceedingly minimal) cerebral exertion.

Sitting through the film is like Chinese water torture, for sure, and for reasons beyond the forced, idiotic campiness of the thing. For one thing, there is not one word of dialogue.

Whipped is cinematic suicide, if not for actor, then certainly for audience.