I wouldn't want you to consider even renting this thing. It would only encourage another prequel, this time featuring two dumb toddlers who keep walking into doors and become great pals. Call it "Duh and Duh."

Insufferably cloying experience.

The result isn't merely ludicrous, it's something far worse. It's drab. It's uninteresting. It squanders Chan's uniqueness; it could even be said to squander Jennifer Love Hewitt!

Stinketh like the breath of a dyspeptic dragon.

Redundant, humorless and overlong screenplay.

It's too bad we don't have red, glowing DELETE buttons next to those soda cup holders. I could have done the world a favor.

Hopeless rip-off of Hitchcock's "The Birds."

Definitely stuck in the fourth grade.

Neither character seems especially insightful, and their intense focus on the self and the terrific delicacy of their feelings comes to feel narcissistic and annoying.

This one's a turkey as big as the Eiffel Tower but it's bad in a particularly American way: It's wildly overdone, it throws in everything in an attempt to appeal to everyone, it's gargantuan and anti-logical, pointlessly ornate and pointlessly violent.

Shamelessly manipulative in a crude, bullying way.

It can't fake sincerity. It tries ever so hard, but it doesn't have a single believable second. Every word in it is a lie.

It is the perfect modern product: loud, banal, empty, frenzied, plasticized, flavorless, drab, violent in a bloodless way and sexy in a sexless way.

Terribly tragic, terribly romantic and, ultimately, terribly, terribly dull.

Confusing as heck.

An unoriginal warming over of a skimpy Japanese production that has been re-edited, rescored and rewritten for American tots and padded out to feature length with a plotless short called "Pikachu's Vacation."

Avoid this movie unless a) your child has refused to eat until you take him or her, or b) your house is being fumigated to kill an infestation of mosquitoes with the West Nile virus.

The gratuitous vulgarity is just one more reason that Scooby-Doo should never have left the pound.

You know a movie is in trouble when its biggest laughs come not from its lead players but from a dog and a car

Screenwriter Lona Williams and director Michael Patrick Jann spare no attempt to show characters at their zaniest, wackiest or most grotesque. The effect is disconcerting. Is this light comedy or dark satire? It ends up being neither.

It's not brazenly bad or heroically bad or stridently bad. It's bad in all the old, dull ways of being bad: poor performances, absurd story, dreary special effects, witless dialogue and the excessive length of someone taking himself far too seriously.

A particularly loathsome piece of cultural detritus, a trashy, crass piece of work that panders to the anxieties and desires of adolescents without a scintilla of sympathy or coherence.

A meet-cute whimsy set among divorced fifty-somethings in New York, it blunders on toward oblivion, excruciatingly unfunny and pitifully unromantic.

Equilibrium is like a remake of "1984" by someone who's seen "The Matrix" 25 times while eating Twinkies and doing methamphetamines.

Overblown and idiotic, this new "erotic thriller" is neither erotic nor thrilling; it's long, boring and self-indulgent.

What a bummer! Certainly the meanest-spirited film ever associated with the Disney hallmark.

The movie is simply not professional. It's not, even by the lowest standards of Republic B-westerns in the '30s or bad, cheap horror films in the '50s, releasable.

A stupid and violent delicacy, congealed nachos and Mountain Dew for the Beavis-and-Butt-head set.

There's a thin line between some drag comedy and misogyny, and Girls Will Be Girls, a crass comedy in which all the women are played, with over-the-top abandon, by men, roars past that line.

Though R-rated, its real target audience is under 18 -- either in years or IQ points.

The film degenerates into sophomoric name calling and a brand of insult humor that would embarrass Don Rickles.

Watching it is like being forced to listen to bad heavy metal music turned up to 11 while fat guys in Bermuda shorts compete in a puking contest in the john.

For a suspense drama, Impact is a slack, oddly enervated and mawkish soup of largely lethargic performances.

Leaden, laugh-free, lacking anything resembling a heart, mind or soul.

Not just a bad thriller but also a thing of pain.

So stupid it makes "xXx: State of the Union" look like it was written by Nietzsche.

It is horrible. Time curls up and dies while this Hilary Duff vehicle wheels its weary, conventional way along.

Like a wounded yeti, Batman & Robin drags itself through icicle-heavy sets, dry-ice fog and choking jungle vines, before dying in a frozen heap. Unfortunately, that demise occurs about 20 minutes into the movie, which leaves you in the cold for approximately 106 minutes.

It's uncompromisingly bad, single-mindedly off-target.

Don't even rent the DVD, it'll only encourage them.

The whole thing is coarse and vulgar, as it hides its low fascinations behind a scrim of Holocaust piety until it becomes pure kitsch.

A crackpot Looney Tune, pretentious, abysmally slow, amateurishly acted and, above all, wrong.

The most surprising thing about Some Body is that any film so lewd could be so thoroughly uninteresting.

It's something no one should watch.

Less a movie than an act of vandalism.

Tries to put your tear ducts in a headlock with a litany of catastrophes.

Godzilla, go home.

This time, the jokes about dead animals, gunk in the hair, incest and all other taboos are flatter than the road kill Gilly finds himself picking up for a living.

Supremely idiotic.

A plodding, aggressive film that is neither engaging, disturbing nor funny.

As written by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, The Relic deserved to be taken off the shelf; as adapted by a quartet of screenwriters and directed by Peter Hyams, it should have been left on one.

A hideously unfunny spy spoof with pretensions to social satire in its treatment of a lesbian relationship.

Involves such a disturbing blend of unhealthy mother-son affection and physical pain that it gives new meaning to the term child -- not to mention audience -- abuse.

If Slater were a bigger star, this self-serving vehicle would have been a hoot, a surefire DVD attraction for any Camp Night in the living room, not to mention a shoo-in for one of the 10 worst movies of 2005.

Such a bizarre movie that it has completely occupied my thinking for days. Not because it's a good movie, mind you. It's more like the equivalent of a botched tooth extraction with a coat hanger. Some bloody shard remains stuck in an inflamed, fleshy part of my psyche, and it's going to take some serious tugging and tearing to root it out.

The result is astoundingly boring and, frankly, tedious to sit through.

Why -- when there are so many funnier, smarter, more gifted performers who can't get arrested in Hollywood -- why, for the love of all that's good and holy, does Martin Lawrence get to keep making movies?

It's not new. It's not interesting. I wish it would go away.

Shouldn't fool viewers into thinking it's anything but a pseudo-artsy piece of tripe.

The Cave isn't just a bad movie, it's a very, very, very bad movie, so bad that it can't even redeem itself by turning into high camp.

This one's for Silverstone fans only.

The new film by the phenomenally talented Scots-English trio of director Danny Boyle, producer Andrew MacDonald and screenwriter John Hodge -- they did both "Shallow Grave" and "Trainspotting" -- is a failure so absolute and witless it deserves some kind of mention in the Hall of Lame.

Love! Valour! Compassion!, an adaptation of Terrence McNally's Tony Award-winning play, which has piano music and exclamation points to spare, is excruciatingly predictable, creatively inane and almost offensive in its depiction of gay characters.

Mad City is for those who haven't seen enough movies about hostage situations. It's also for those who haven't seen enough ponderous movies about media exploitation, or Dustin Hoffman's ongoing reliance on muttery method acting.

The kinetics aren't that good, the twaddle is off the charts and the characters seem written by monkeys on amphetamines with crayons.

The "stone"-shtick gets mighty old after about 15 minutes. More than 30 screenwriters worked on the Flintstones script, and the result just proves the ancient saying about too many cooks.

Keaton and DiCaprio manage to bring several levels of emotion to their characters, but everyone else is a cardboard cut-out.

Unfortunately, the dramatic potential of such a moral quandary is left largely unmined in director Joseph Ruben's monotonous parlor game of will-he-won't-he. [14 Aug 1998, Pg. N.39]

In the end, I can't think of a movie that matters less than Just My Luck. It's just negligible.

Whether or not it's crucial for the gay community to have its own "Porky's" is a question for the ages; but please, not Another Gay Movie.

Director Renny Harlin, whose colon-studded credits include "Die Hard 2: Die Harder" and "Exorcist: The Beginning," knows the deal here: Pay homoerotic homage to youth and beauty, crank up the heavy metal on the soundtrack, and spare no effort to backlight the omnipresent rain.

The remake neither pays perceptive tribute to the original nor updates it in anything but hackneyed form.

A stunningly insipid romance, marks an all-time low for actor Zach Braff -- his "Gigli," if you will.

Directed by Jonathan Demme, and starring Tom Hanks and Denzel Washington, this AIDS courtroom drama is so pumped full of nitrous oxide, you could get your teeth drilled on it.

There's little momentum, no real story line, just Carroll's tediously inevitable descent from low to lowest.

Saddled with leaden lead performances, hobbled by an arch, incoherent script and pokey pacing, the new, improved Cowgirls is a miscarriage - misconceived, miscast, miserably boring.

The movie is fast, slick and dumb as a post.

Just what we need least: a warm family comedy about child molestation.That's Georgia Rule, which combines battleship actresses of the "Steel Magnolias" variety, fall-down-go-boom comedy that was obsolete in the '30s, Lindsay Lohan's cleavage and intergenerational fondling just for kicks.

Father of the Bride, Part II is a virtual avalanche of cheap emotion. Short on comedy but long on maudlin sentiment, this sequel stumps so hard for the traditional values of home, hearth and family that any possible entertainment value is canceled out.

Usually, Ephron is one of the most reliable comic voices in the movies, but here her gifts seem to have deserted her. Though she shows her customary talent for smart one-liners, the spirit of the film is forced and desperate, as if she lacked faith in her gags and were trying to shove them down our throats.

This Hollywood Pictures production (basically, a Walt Disney adult venture) culls every Capitol-corruption cliche in the book for the dullest 90 minutes Murphy has ever appeared in.

Far and Away is such a doddering, bloated bit of corn, and its characters and situations so obviously hackneyed, that we can't give in to the story and allow ourselves to be swept away.

What The Two Jakes makes us long for most is the earlier film.

Eddie Murphy's directorial work is amateurish at best. And as a performer he looks as if he is in agony, as if his mother made him stand in front of the camera for punishment.

Red Heat is poorly, or even indifferently, made. It's a joyless exercise, and too much angry resignation seeps in for it to be very funny or very entertaining.

Wayans' choosing to play romantic lead seems more narcissistic than smartly comic (watch him unleash those built biceps once too often); he lacks an unidentifiable shtick. And he seems too easily satisfied with predictable and sophomoric punchlines. Lapses like that give Sucka the Shaft.

Legends of the Fall is a magnificent bore: a western saga lolling in its own immensity - its big music, its big scenery and, yes, its big hair

The only thing this movie should lead you to is the nearest exit.

Will Gluck directs with frantic, go-for-broke pacing, which is what you do when your reserves of wit are bankrupt.

A nihilistic, narcissistic, knuckleheaded move about nihilistic, narcissistic knuckleheads, The Informers might have been an interesting exercise in satire, if it only had a sense of humor. Which it doesn't. You'll need one, though, after forking over 10 bucks to see it.

The relentless vulgarities in Ghosts of Girlfriends Past would be almost tolerable if they were amusing, but Mark Waters's direction is so tentative that the film's single laugh happens more than an hour in.

The scariest thing about this hokey bombast is that it got made in the first place.

Another cheesy, overdrawn and witless "Saturday Night Live" takeoff.

Puerile bluster.

The mind will be starved for subtlety, wit and substance.

A big, fat clunker.

Bewildering, tediously violent.

If you choose to see this puerile tripe, check your dignity at the door.

We should be asking ourselves why so noble a nation would produce swill like Joe Dirt.

Should never have been released, not even on video. It should have been placed in a hazardous waste container, encased in concrete and dumped into the Farrelly brothers' septic tank.

The fat cats of Hollywood have coughed up a hairball.

Size vanquishes both substance and subtlety in the overhyped, half-cocked and humorless resurrection of dear old "Godzilla."

The most surprising thing about the movie is that somebody bothered to make it in the first place.

An abominable, abdominal comedy. Aside from its tastelessness and dawdling pace, the movie’s chief problem is the lackluster chemistry between leading lummoxes Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels.

A gooey romantic comedy that sticks to everything except its principles.

A smutty, imbecilic farce.

Not that much deep thinking went on here.

Another tediously sanctimonious message movie from Alan Parker.

It's stingy at heart. Burton, who collaborated with British screenwriter Jonathan Gems, brings nothing of "Edward Scissorhands's" magic or "Beetlejuice's" wacky fun to this sadly empty exercise. Aimlessly plotted and blandly written.

The rare film that is capable of offending both Trent Lott and Al Sharpton.

A noisy, impenetrable and totally nonsensical cogitation on the nature of firefighters and the sizzling "animal" they love...We just wish somebody would call 911 for boredom.

Chris Farley walks into walls, trips over invisible banana peels and otherwise makes a fat ass of himself in this imbecilic, slapstick adventure from the producers of "Dumb and Dumber."

Ought to be the subject of an obituary, not a review. A creepy film noir modeled on Quentin Tarantino's "Reservoir Dogs," it was a stinking stiff on arrival.

Nielsen earns a few giggles with his big entrance and later on his even bigger belly, but he can't overcome the lousy material.

The only good thing you can say about "Rocky V" is that at least Stallone has the sense to throw in the towel.

It's a moralistic muddle with only one message: If Disney wants to make movies about Germans, it should restrict its efforts to German shepherds.

The slogging melodrama that emerged still more closely resembles the daily musings of an infatuated teenager than a well-crafted, thoughtful story. [14 Aug 1998]

A twentysomething comedy with a brain-dead script, unflattering lighting and 16 performers in search of a scriptwriter...[It] feels like one-sixth of an idea stretched to the breaking point.

I suggest you think of this movie as another bad sausage from the Warner Bros. meat-packing factory. And you should think of this review as a government health warning. Eat this thing at your peril.

It does wonders to a critic to know that [Britney] could be a continuing font of teen and post-teen kitsch for years to come.

Tells us nothing we didn't already know, and it tells it over and over and over.

Here's what I really like about The Mod Squad: Nobody in it gives a damn.

Can a script exploring some truly deep questions about human sexuality and emotions be any shoddier and wooden?

The plot for They Live is full of black holes, the acting is wretched, the effects are second-rate. In fact, the whole thing is so preposterous it makes "V" look like "Masterpiece Theatre." [5 Nov 1988]

So predictable it could have been written by a chimp who's watched too much TV, the huge movie is as dumb as it is loud, and it's way too loud.

One thing the makers of Saving Silverman do not have to worry about: Hannibal Lecter will never visit them to eat their brains. That is because they have no brains.

The dialogue is fast but bad, the acting is loud but awful and the morality is chaste but unromantic. As for the food, it looks vulgar.

It's sickeningly violent!

There's no escaping the hackneyed plot or Mayfield's conventional hand. So don't go.

Stars Samuel L. Jackson in the worst role of his career -- one hopes.

In terms of actual social conscience, the movie gets a demagogic, rabble-rousing F. It also gets a failed grade for honest writing.

Go expecting the very worst. Just don't expect to laugh.

An animated King and I? Now there's torture, especially in this wretched, lurid, absurd concoction which seems to have been conceived to annoy adults and bore children.

Someone definitely inhaled too much before making this one.

As a child, I thought pure hell meant eternal agony in the flames of Satan. Now I know it's looking down at your watch and realizing Serving Sara isn't even halfway through.

A truly awful and extremely loud scareflick.

This is supposed to be funny? It was so depressing I almost started to cry.

A nonstop moronathon... Bio-Dome offers a pants-load of poop and masturbation jokes, deviant innuendo and simian sight gags destined to gross out and offend just about everyone.

Enervated, torpid, slack, dreary and, oh yes, nasty, brutish and long.

About as awful and shamelessly pandering as a fanzine movie could dare to be.

It's all too silly to bother. Without style and attitude, nothing gets old faster than horror.

Don't hold your breath waiting for The Punisher to be original, not for one second of its torturous two hours.

There should be a special room in Hell where the makers of films like Patch Adams are sent.

So stupefyingly hideous that after watching it, you'll need to bathe in 10 gallons of disinfectant, get a full-body scrub and shampoo with vinegar to remove the scummy residue that remains.

If it were the last videotape available in the only video store in the remotest corner of Alaska, I'd take one last slug of Jack Daniels and start walking directly into the howling snows.

Suffice it to say, there is no comedy, no chemistry, no nothing in this movie.

Indeed, I'd say Undiscovered belongs on the WB, but that would be gravely unfair to the channel, which looks like the BBC in comparison.

The Devil's Own, which stars Harrison Ford and Brad Pitt, is so epically awful, it's practically homeric.

Rarely has an act of such cinematic cruelty as Tideland been perpetrated on filmgoers.

Broken Arrow, a deafening, brain-deadening action thriller, takes a mighty blase approach to nuking Denver.

An offensive, comedy-free comedy.

A special place in purgatory must be reserved for John Leguizamo, who produced and stars in The Babysitters, a loathsome slice of exploitation at its most cynical and crass.

After all the bloated lines are delivered, and dozens of women are debased, and Bishop has attitudinized the story line into incomprehensibility, audience members will be asking themselves how they got on this Hell Ride and what they did to deserve it.

The movie suffers most of all from a feeling of creeping irrelevance, as if it's being delivered well after its sell-by date.

Depraved, worthless piece of filth.

This toxic, contemptuous, unforgivably unfunny bagatelle finds Allen at his most misanthropically one-note.

The yuck factor spins off the charts in Splice, a thoroughly repulsive science fiction-horror flick that slicks up its B-movie tawdriness with high-gloss production values and two otherwise classy stars.

The overall effect is like wading through hospital waste. Verhoeven, who also directed the maliciously stylistic "Robocop," disappoints with this appalling onslaught of blood and boredom.

A gruesome tale of obsessive love and mutilation, it's less a work of art, however, than a luridly stylish expression of female self-loathing...A prettied-up snuff movie.

Stinks like a cat box that hasn't been changed in a hundred years.

See critic run. Oh, for the days of Smell-a-Vision.

A million monkeys with a million crayons would be hard-pressed in a million years to create anything as cretinous as Battlefield Earth.

If there is a Hell, Not Another Teen Movie will be playing for all eternity on every screen there.

Sheer torture, the very definition of unfunniness itself.

The movie's flexibility with its own rules would be less noticeable if it were busy thrilling us.