It's mesmerizing nonetheless for its flagrant disregard for narrative, character, pacing, performance and good lighting.

Miserable as it crawls for two eternal hours toward being "life-affirming."

Because the movie is otherwise so well made and so full of sweet emotion and "good" values, I was happy to ignore the shortcomings.

The result is a thrill ride with enough plunges and turns and loop-the-loops to make it worth a spin. What the picture lacks is the magic and resonance you feel in the best of popular entertainments.

Too much of nothing and far from the potentially star-making material that Foxx deserves.

Watching movies like this strain to fit new technologies like VR into old genres and plot conventions, you can't help wondering whether the real artificial intelligence experiment these days isn't Hollywood itself. Plug the psychological profiles of 200 hit movies into its hive-mind, and out comes one plastic-bodied, loop-brained clone after another.

A movie drunk on its very existence, one that misses more frequently than it hits and couldn't care less.

It's the year's funniest, most absurd sight gag.

A movie that barely lives.

These pictures need a light touch and a lot of attitude, but this time you can hear heavy breathing in the background.

Has no intention of taking a more sophisticated path to make its point.

The best movie she ever directed was "This Is My Life," a biting comedy she also wrote that was soundly defeated by both critics and audiences. I think she's lost her nerve and her edge ever since.

It's a half-life better than Martin Lawrence treading similar, simpler water in "Big Momma's House."

Crude, stupid and unfunny.

Little Nicky is but a meek gross-out cousin of "The Waterboy."

Like a guy who finally gets what he wants, you just want to go home once it's over.

The best and worst of old school -- retro but stale. Frankenheimer, along with Ben Affleck, donates what cool there is.

An amusement park special, screaming from start to finish with no brakes, no plot and no acting to speak of.

If only director Luis Llosa and his cast could see the joke and seize upon it; instead, like its computer-morphed snake, the film doesn't have a clever bone in its body.

Stinks from the Earth to the moon.

Tired comedy.

Perhaps a bit miscast, and with a penchant for too many double-takes, Perry nonetheless is game.

When Annabel Chong sits in front of Gough Lewis' camera and complains about her need to have one of those normal everyday lives, you want to tell her that having intercourse on camera with more than 200 men is probably not the way to get to normal.

I think the script by television writer Channing Gibson (no relation) is the funniest of them all.

It's often a lapsed, under-informed documentary with restagings.

About a moron - oxy and otherwise.

Too dumb to realize that the senselessness is viral.

A downright dumb movie that, with its breathless pace, lack of character development and uninventive gags, might be torture for even the kids to sit through.

Stupid.

It's fast-moving, it's got fine special effects, the hero and heroine are pure and quick-thinking, the bad people die badly, and the script draws its fair share of laughs.

What keeps coming to mind throughout The Jackal is that for what it cost to make this movie you could probably pay some nice hit man to eliminate everyone at Universal who thought making the movie would be a good idea, and still have enough left over to throw one of those hit man parties and have a really great time.

It's downright boring.

No-one's-home acting by Bierko and Mol doesn't help, while the talented D'Onofrio ("The End of the World") and Mueller-Stahl (a veteran of European pictures) are better than the material.

An infuriatingly indulgent piffle of adolescent wish-fulfillment.

The writer-director has come up with a sumptuous, happy piece of fluff.

The big trouble with the movie is that it's difficult to care whether these two get together. Ultimately I did care - when I realized that their union would presumably represent a chance that the movie might end soon.

Of course, turning a novel by Woolrich into a light romantic froth is a little like turning King Lear into a musical comedy. But Benjamin has the right comic touch to pull this off.

A film where suspense and exhilaration are incompatible, and a receding plot line is merely the platform for cars to fly through panes of glass.

But in its own overblown, melodramatic way, complete with hideous and obtrusive music by Michael Kamen, clanging sound effects that will leave your ears ringing and a penchant on the part of director Paul Anderson ( "Mortal Kombat" ) for quick flashes of blood-drenched gore, Event Horizon is kind of a hoot.

It's simply terrible.

An arthritic failure, genuine only when the two outcast lovers' eyes dart toward each other, then retreat.

The film is obviously a long-form episode of a show better digested in 22-minute segments.

It's an experience as frustrating as watching Jeff Gordon drive a stock car through a bowl of oatmeal.

Good-looking and empty.

Second-banana material.

Excess Baggage aims to broaden her appeal beyond her established, youthful audience. It won't, because it's a messy mixture of so-so comedy and unmoving drama; its inconsistent tone suggests a production where no one was fully in charge.

Otherwise, the movie, which borrows from a dozen pop sources and improves on none of them, is pretty much a washout.

Feels like an interminable pilot for a show to fill that deadly 8:30 slot between "Friends" and "Will and Grace."

It also goes out of its way to give you a schlocky B-movie vibe by wrangling bait in the form of a bunch of Big-Gulp stupid stock characters - that's a whopping 44 oz. more stupid than you probably were bargaining for.

The movie equivalent of the fruitcake you get every year from the folks back home. It's brick-heavy and full of nasty bits you don't want to put in your mouth, lovingly wrapped in pink cellophane.

There's more gymnastic yammering in Loving Jezebel than in a season of "Dawson's Creek."

Too screwy to be really funny.

Competent, to be sure, with some good lines.

A high-spirited, big-bottomed Polaroid of the comedian in a fat suit.

Frill-less almost to the point of minimalist, teary without being lachrymose, hers is a performance you'd think was great were the movie in a language you didn't understand.

Offers nothing new, and a lot less. It's a hollow shell of a film, rife with plot twists that go nowhere.

Not much of a plot, but the trouble is that Shana Larsen's script, as directed by Risa Bramon Garcia, isn't very deep. Worse, none of the self-absorbed characters are that likable nor are they funny.

My guess is you'll probably have more fun watching a game at the ballpark than you will at The Fan.

Without much of a plot to speak of and relying almost entirely on the girls' star power and charisma - which they have in spades - turns out to be a truly entertaining movie for anyone with even a bare knowledge of the Spice Girls' history, which in this age of absolute over-saturation, is hard to avoid.

A wicked, light-headed first half dissolves into a bloody, head-bashing second half . The previews make it seem like a comedy. It isn't.

A movie that features rich Mexican American characters and an uncompromising story line is always timely.

When a movie is nothing but relentless action, there's little chance for dramatic tension to develop.

Overlong, naggingly pretentious, more absurd than absurdist and a cruel, cruel bore.

An unsteady stab at noir.

One of those truly biodegradable experiences.

One of the funniest movies to come along in awhile.

Painfully unfunny.

A way-below-par golfing comedy.

Francis Ford Coppola's Jack has its affecting moments, but in the end illustrates the pitfalls of the "concept" movie, the kind you can boil down to a one-line hook.

Unfortunately, it stars Keanu Reeves and Cameron Diaz, so it has, more than anything else, a sense of ridiculousness.

Wesley Snipes runs around a lot shooting people in plotless film.

An undernourished exercise in pop critique.

If you buy the gross, it's surprisingly funny .

Like two hours of outtakes in search of a studio audience.

A particularly egregious array of Kodak moments.

Mildly satisfying.

The single worst movie David Lynch never made.

There are episodes of "Rugrats" with stronger sexual suspense.

Lacks genuine magic.

Timely in that it joins an already mammoth list of bad movies about post-hippie static, including the recent "Steal This Movie."

Marshall has an astounding instinct for popular entertainment. He's done it again with The Other Sister.

Moore can't help but be rotten. She has no grace and little nuance, which is why she's always best as a hard-ass in movies.

Clooney's stiff cornball delivery and tendency to smile during the most tragic moments bring this as close to the cartoonish Batman television series of the 1960s as any of the movies have come.

Of course, there's little else of interest about Pokemon beyond the consumption factor. Buy more.

It should be renamed "Drop Dead Ghetto" and hauled off to the "Jerry Springer" hall of shame.

If your name's on the marquee, chances are your agent's already dead.

A depressing show of how truly, madly, deeply outmoded Hollywood can be.

Vampire is hardly a consequential film, nor does it suggest hitherto buried reserves of Murphy's talent. But it's a diverting mixture of horror, romance and comedy.

Doesn't have what it takes to be truly terrible.

Dead Man on Campus, a supposed black comedy produced by MTV, is simply awful.

A gooey-sweet, beautifully photographed romantic fantasy…It's also -- at the risk of sounding like a Grinch -- a mess.

Highfalutin swill determined to pass itself off as a jazzy caper.

Godawful.

Any movie that opens with a Goo Goo Dolls song and ends with a line like "I'm going to live -- just not as long as you" is bound to leave somebody reaching for a Kleenex.

There are enough mullets to win this movie a Stanley Cup.

Could have been maudlin from start to finish. Instead, more than half the 154-minute film is riveting - filled with funny, touching bits that don't stoop to cheap sentimentality.

This movie may not be brilliant, but every now and then it's really funny.

Fails to be the histrionic bubble bath that you want to carry you away.

Brainless thriller.

The movie is decidedly old-fashioned, aiming to send kids and their parents out of the theater feeling good about themselves.

A terribly bad movie, one of the worst of its kind in recent years.

A dimwitted, fill-in-the-blanks horror opus that slanders a fine and useful mammal.

It's a truly strange coupling of mooning romanticism and rank stupidity that fairly screams, "Teenage America, we love your money!"

SORRY, SALLY. I didn't like it. I really didn't like it.

This is my idea of a nightmare.

There's gangsta rap with funnier insights into the opposite sex.

As movies about relic sex machines go, this one lacks mojo.

In stupidity, this movie ranks up there among the greats.

The best that can be said about this film is that it's watchable, and that's not the way it could or should be.

It's a movie so foul even the folks at the NAACP Image Awards would have to look the other way.

While it may be true that in space no one can hear you scream, groaning should be a perfectly audible way of saying the intergalactic alien-buster Wing Commander sucks.

Whatever It Takes is DOA -- dated on arrival.

An archaic rail-ride into the heart of boredom.

This is not a movie for the squeamish, by any means. But for those who like their thrillers dark and their heroes a bit more complicated and flawed than the average shoot-without-a-blink type so prevalent in today's movies, 8MM fills the bill.

An hour into the picture, Spade offers a pretty funny imitation of belter Neil Diamond, but it's a long 60 minutes for such a pitiful payoff.

Korine's trying to offer a radical vision of rotten America, but the whole thing feels warmed over.

Hush, which is an absurdly bad mixture of "Rosemary's Baby" and any Bette Davis movie from the 1960s, seems to be a classic case of a grasping mother trying to possess her beloved son.

Another "Exorcist" bastard -- one with a chick-flick pedigree.

You're smarter than this, but occasionally it tricks you into thinking it might be up to something you haven't considered, like an above-average, extra-bloody episode of "Scooby Doo."

Tedious, unfunny.

That Berkley cannot act is indisputable. But her dancing looks like a seizure.

Cult shocker has been turned into throwaway megaplex fodder.

Especially fine are Spade and Louiso, the latter possessing a quality of injured integrity that is priceless here.

This is right up there with the dumbest pictures of the year.

Latest Freddie Prinze Jr. vehicle stalls at on-ramp.

The movie is a dismal and misguided special-effects romp featuring two of the deadest performances recorded this year so far.

Breaks new ground both as an abominable enterprise in guy-talk and as no-budget hackwork.

If filmmaking has ever been less thrilling and more disengaging, I'd like to see it.