Some screwball moments elicit a chuckle or two, but the script is weak and the characterizations clichéd.

Becomes exceedingly disgusting when it wallows in the psychological torture of a child, a no-no under any circumstances.

This one's aimed at those airheads who, like George, have been swinging on a grapevine and slamming into too many trees. [16 July 1997, p. 3D]

Ten minutes into the picture, you're searching the screen for life-support machines.

A movie that has neither dramatic focus nor a single memorable performance, aside from one or two that are memorable for the wrong reasons?

Kris Kristofferson, as a scaled-down old gray mentor to Blade, still looks like the visual equivalent of your five worst college hangovers.

Usually, I'm as slow as the pacing of a movie in figuring out who's done it. If you can't solve this mystery with an hour to go (as I did), better call for a transfusion so a better type of blood will start flowing to your brain.

A bottom-rung Bette Midler vehicle disguised as a biopic of novelist Jacqueline Susann, the movie is a wannabe satire shackled by misplaced reverence.

Can't scare up a decent plot.

Stuffing painters, writers and, naturally, Gustav Mahler (Jonathan Pryce) into about 90 minutes, the film comes off as little more than a handsomely mounted scorecard of sexual escapades.

But most of the humor is about as fresh as the air left behind whenever Witherspoon uses a toilet.

The Wal-Mart of cinematic soap operas. One-stop shopping for your emotional movie needs.

It's so-so. As in mediocre. Even gross-out comedies need the stink of genius.

Almost everyone in this has done better, and those who haven't, like young Ms. Panettiere, have plenty of time to do so.

Not worth the ride.

There's not a cliché that isn't nailed.

The movie goes wrong from the start.

Couldn't be murkier or less emotionally involving if it were "The Matrix 8," a natural observation because Keanu Reeves stars in both.

A succession of tired race jokes made worse by the bad comedic timing of the bland, under-talented Ashton Kutcher.

The movie tries to be both comical and touching, as befitting the coming-of-age genre. But it feels forced, derivative and sometimes sappily sentimental.

Doesn't make the movie worth watching -- even if you're monstrously bored.

There's sad news to report about The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl in 3-D: Put on the cardboard glasses, and you can still see the movie.

The players fall into recognizable stereotypes: the big and clumsy kid, the real talent who's also a showoff, the buffoon, the gross-out guy. But no one is more formulaic than the coach. He starts out smug with the kids and ends up smitten.

Just about any golden age Hollywood hack could have made a zestier drama about one of the greatest rescue missions in U.S. military history.

However, anyone seeking a good time that involves wit and logic will consider the film a definite wrong number. [26Feb1997 Pg 03.D]

The screenplay is thin, the dialogue lacks nuance and the acting is often laughable.

Writer/producer John "Home Alone" Hughes, the Marquis de Sade of kidcom, and director Les Mayfield manage to squeeze the very bounce out of what should have been a can't-miss update. [26Nov1997 Pg09.D]

With its Rocky Horror meets Camelot aura, this little black movie reeks of self-satisfied smugness and pretentious perversity as only a Sundance Festival favorite can -- especially one that squanders the considerable quirky charms of indie-film darling Parker Posey. [10Oct1997 pg 04.D]