A charmless, vandalized version of a classic.

Chris Columbus, true to his namesake, has chartered new waters of lazy hackdom with this "Clash of the Titans" remade as a CW tween soap.

When your movie is nothing more than a cheap and uninteresting homage, best not to call attention to that fact with a ten minute opening scene to that effect.

Jonah Hex tries to hedge its bets too much, and the result is a movie that probably won't please the few faithful with Jonah Hex bedsheets, nor fans of mindless summer action flicks.

What doesn't work at all -- saving the worst for last -- is a ship-sinking performance by John Leguizamo as Lorenzo.

As for me, watching this overripe, ignorant parading of Hollywood privilege an hubris put me in mind of a different song--Neil Young's "Revolution Blues." Specifically the bit about Laurel Canyon being filled with famous stars . . .

I do hate to say it -- it's really a drag, but why did they let this Cat out of the bag?

Suffocatingly boring.

We loved this movie the first three times we saw it, when it was called "Life of Brian," "Wholly Moses," and "History of the World Part 1."

Sarah Jessica Parker’s Carrie should be a cautionary tale of perpetual adolescence; her character should be out dating any number of Hollywood’s graying beer bellied frat boys. But no. Instead, we are asked to identify and sympathize with a person who gets everything she wants, but complains anyway.

There's never any real danger in the movie, which makes The Expendables feel like one of those chummy Rat Pack flicks that were just excuses for a bunch of pals to get together and goof off.

Tron: Legacy will only be enjoyed by men in their thirties and early forties searching for a Proustian moment.

Uncomfortable, offensive, and boring.

It’s a waste.

There's enough estrogen gone awry in this bitchy teen comedy to make "Mean Girls" look like a Disney after-school special.

Waiting is, at its root, a heaping handful of almost-funny ideas cobbled together without much skill for shaping a story. The result is that one in five provokes a smile, while the other four make the viewers slightly sick that they now have to remember what they just saw.

I can’t say I was too surprised by how risible, grotesque, and incoherent I Know Who Killed Me is. But I can’t say I was prepared for its pretentiousness. If the picture has any use at all, it’s as a case study in what happens when the talentless attempt to emulate the inspired.

If raunch-comedy maestro Judd Apatow had not just an evil, but an evil-and-untalented twin, this grotesque excrescence would be his signature work.