If laughter is the best medicine, Patch Adams is but a sugary, fitfully amusing placebo.

To that long list of third- and fourth-rate comedies we can now add Sorority Boys.

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

Really two movies in one, and there's not enough breathing room for both of them.

They took the most famous tale in the world and broke it.

The problem is not the credulity-stretching script. Or even that much of the movie just isn't all that funny. The problem is that it thinks it's freakin' hilarious.

A fairly straightforward, if preachy, tale about environmentalism.

Lee's understated performance is a small treat.

Reprises all the tedium of slasher flicks.

A protracted and only sporadically imaginative menu of ways to be murdered.

Hatched by screenwriters watching "The Sixth Sense" on methamphetamines

After watching this movie, which stars Robert De Niro, Harvey Keitel, Kathy Bates and Gabriel Byrne, I was moved only to find my own bridge to leap from.

Its main purpose -- and no, you are not experiencing ocular breakdown -- is spiritual.

Most of the comedy, such as it is, consists of the uppity Chase acting "street" and the ghetto-fabulous Tiffany putting on moneyed airs. But, if you've seen the trailers, you already know that.

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

Not that much deep thinking went on here.

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.

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

If there's one piece of wisdom to be culled from this botched project, it's this: No one gets Carter.

Crazy, ugly and scary. In fact, a sense of the grotesque runs thought the film; an extended joke about Sandler's black, dead foot (from frostbite as a kid) borders on something you find in John Waters.

Under the direction of "Die Harder's" Renny Harlin, the movie has a crackling pace and a glossy look. It's all the more pernicious for that, this slick glorification of hate and loathing that portrays women as sexually promiscuous and men as infantile, violent and feeble-minded. Here's one Ford that doesn't have a better idea.

Predictable, lazy and as overprocessed as Kate Hudson's hair, this thoroughly joyless movie also possesses a deep nasty streak, making it loathsome when it might have been merely annoying.

If this sounds like "Tootsie" with a ball, well, it is. Screenwriter Bradley Allenstein should be hauled up in writer's court for his shameless cribbing of that far superior comedy. Someone call a foul.

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

Alas, the movie's producers could use a genie of their own. Surely, if granted three wishes, they could have produced a better film.

Definitely stuck in the fourth grade.

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

The results are a wheezy, tired attempt to milk more laughs out of the '60s, by doing exactly what "Austin Powers" did.

The movie isn't a disaster, and if you responded to the first one, its memory may carry you over the roughness, the excessive, ugly violence and lack of conviction here. Hill and his stars are merely going through the motions, but the motions are immensely familiar. If you've been there before, then you've been there.

The problem, or problems, stem from the lazy, unfunny script; the weak computer-generated animals (never have God's creatures looked less lifelike while dancing to Chic's "Le Freak"); and the squandering of so much talent.

It's not Deuce's satisfied clientele, but the audience, that gets the shaft.

The unapologetic laziness and ineptitude of Jack's impersonation, which is played for cheap laughs, is just as lazy as Sandler's performance as the real Jill. You don't buy it for a minute.

Coasts on comic fumes, relying on colloquialisms, foreign accents, racial stereotypes, lemon sharks, Speedos and inopportune erections to supply the funny. Any one of these things might work in a comedy that was less contrived.

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

Bizarre yet popular.

For da love of God, spare me.

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

It's hard to imagine an audience that won't break up in laughter at this bewildering mixed message: Enjoy this movie, but you really shouldn't be watching it.

Insufferably cloying experience.

Not good enough to qualify as classic Gothic horror, not nearly fun enough to qualify as great B-movie camp.

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

Isn't appropriate for any innocent child -- assuming such lovely creatures still exist. But boys and girls who enjoy surprise attacks in their entertainment (of the aforementioned toilet variety) are going to have a blast. Sad but true.

Here, common sense flies out the window, along with the hail of bullets.

This movie reeks, stinks, smells and destroys life as we know it with one olfactory destructive blast.

Slack when it should be tight, dull when it needs to be sharp, The Bounty Hunter represents a failed attempt to make an Elmore Leonard movie without having to pay Elmore Leonard money.

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.

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

Superman IV, except for a glitzy new villain named Nuclear Man, is one of the cheesiest movies ever made. It's so grainy and grossly envisioned, it seems filmed on pulp. Superman's crystalline Arctic palace looks as if it's made of no-deposit-no-return soda bottles, and his suit of primary colors has ring around the collar.

Even with these high-end artists on the team, though, the movie seems thin.

Confusing as heck.

[McGowan's] serene psychopathology is the movie's most consistent pleasure, and to see her is to both love and fear her.

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

Behind all the noisemakers and funny glasses, New Year's Eve - and everyone in it - is dead behind the eyes.

I can't imagine why anyone would pay money to see this sorry excuse for a film, which plays more like a home movie than something from cinema professionals.

It would be one thing if Christmas With the Kranks were a satire on the assaultive, bullying nature of contemporary Christmas celebration in this country, but it's not. It's an ugly glorification of it.

It's something no one should watch.

A blundering cringefest, thanks to unintentionally laughable dialogue, hackneyed writing and uninspired direction.

Contains about enough laugh-out-loud sight gags and non sequiturs to justify what it demands of a viewer's time and money.

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.

A rarely funny spoof that's heavy on bone-crushing and blood-gushing.

More in the dumb and dumber tradition of "Halloween" and "Friday the 13th" sequels.

A trite, bantamweight "Bull Durham," hasn't a single line, gibe, gesture or twist that hasn't already been chewed up and spat out in many a movie baseball dugout.

This is a movie for a grade-schooler's -- a female grade-schooler's -- sensibility. It's earnest, silly and sweet, with just enough food fights and musical numbers to keep everyone else from gagging on the goo.

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.

Cinematic sleeping pill.

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

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.

Lacks "spark."

Playing a hero who's meant to be something akin to the young Dalai Lama, Ringer brings less than zero gravitas to the role. He makes the kid who plays Gibby on "iCarly" look like Sir Laurence Olivier.

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

It's still got some panache.

It's depressing enough to sit through an unfunny comedy, but it's worse to watch Falk, Penn and Berg having to earn a living like this.

So twitchy, fidgety, skittery and wiggly that the drug it made me yearn for was Dramamine, followed by a chaser of bourbon, 12 years old.

After a somewhat promising opening, the movie falls flat.

So good it breaks your heart for not being better. It is kept from brilliance by a soggy climax and a clumsy central narrative device.

Everything in it is a cliche including the end.

A big, fat clunker.

If you saw "21 Jump Street" back in the '80s, or any of a number of shows featuring cute and cuddly cops, you pretty much know where this flick is heading.

Travolta is simply useless in Old Dogs, but Williams is actively offensive.

The movie spares no effort to reach out to the crudest, youngest audiences it can.

In the uncertain zone between dumb and truly twisted lies 8MM, a movie that will baffle and disgust you in one disconcerting experience.

Spade is no actor. He's a quipper. And his acerbic asides aren't anywhere near funny enough to carry a 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.

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."

This movie pulls out so many bad-action-movie cliches, you wonder if this is a how-not-to primer.

Absolutely awesome in its relentless mediocrity.

Movie 43 is a near masterpiece of tastelessness. The anthology of 12 short, interconnected skits elevates the art form of gross-out comedy to a new height.

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

The film turns out to have nothing going for it at all, except a small charge for soul-deep Madonna haters.

An offensive, comedy-free comedy.

There's precious little to listen to, laugh at or ogle in The Wash, a sudsy slog that gets sidetracked by, of all things, a plot.

Folks, I think I'm speaking for all of us when I say this is pretty darn fine American entertainment

It's a pestilence of infectious claptrap.

A smutty, imbecilic farce.

Vampires suck? That's a matter of opinion. But here's what inarguably, unequivocally does suck: Vampires Suck.

Not merely Pacino's over-mannered, near-histrionic performance, but the movie itself could be characterized as busy, busy, busy. It's so full of plot twists and revelations and exploding sports cars that its very perkiness comes to seem comic.

Merely airheaded where it should be lighthearted, Hudson Hawk offers a klutzy, charmless hero, and wallows dully in limp slapstick and lowest common denominator crudeness.

There really is no other movie on Earth quite like it. And that's including "The Human Centipede: First Sequence," the 2009 horror film on which this dismal, nauseating and yet bizarrely artful sequel is based.

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

Much of what's offensive and insufferable about All About Steve can be laid at the feet of screenwriter Kim Barker, best known for inflicting "License to Wed" on the world. Why do these people still earn obscene amounts of money churning out dreck? And why do stars like Bullock keep paying them?

The story moves so slowly and obviously, you don't even need to be in the theater very much (or your living room when the video comes out) to follow it.

Lohan brilliantly brings off her double turn and clearly believes in the picture, as do all who worked on it. These things used to be called B movies in the old days.

A pretty dreary affair to sit through. It's not even scary.

The only quandary in this film is in where to begin despising it.

Someone definitely inhaled too much before making this one.

A more kid-friendly version of "Dumb and Dumber." And there's even a moral: "Yahoo for education," though the movie doesn't really put any muscle behind it.

A depraved, incoherent, instantly disposable piece of hackery.

This film is just a coarser, dumber, smuttier remake of the 1983 Eszterhas-penned "Flashdance," throbbing music, working-class Cinderella and all.

Propelled not by characters but caricatures.

Landis's handling of the cop business is unnecessarily laborious, but Murphy's patented insincerity is winning. And a few of the slapstick set pieces are genuinely thrilling, especially a riotous nighttime chase scene.

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.

You can stick around for the only funny line, which involves a breakfast burrito, but the smart surfer would head for the hills and Willie's goat ranch.

There are two distinctive features to the movie: the mind-numbingly banal plot as one chases another who chases another, and all the offensive material.

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

We're only a little spooked, only a little amused and, by extension, only a little entertained.

There's nothing inspiring about Yu-Gi-Oh! The Movie, unless you count the way it compels kids to continue to support the "Yu-Gi-Oh" franchise.

Sheer torture, the very definition of unfunniness itself.

Arthur Hiller, who last directed the sour "The Babe" -- not the one about that sweet pig -- finds even less to work with in TV veteran Don Rhymer's stupid screenplay.

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.

It has no moments of athletic grace amid the chaos, no apparent sense of strategy. It's basically just mayhem set to rock music.

We don't have much space to tell you about Glitter, so we'll be blunt. This star vehicle for singer Mariah Carey is primarily a showcase for her breasts.

Stinketh like the breath of a dyspeptic dragon.

It's gotten to the point where Gooding's presence on a marquee practically guarantees we'll be bashing our heads against the seat in front of us. Bonk, bonk, bonk.

It plays like a soft-core-porn potboiler left over from the 1970s about a hot vampire chick.

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

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.

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.

In this movie, the sense of charm has been obliterated.

Cruise is walking in the footsteps of Troy Donahue and John Travolta here. He does what comes easy. He bumps and grinds and grins till his lips ache. It's a performance with all the integrity of wax fruit. And Cocktail is mud in your eye.

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

Date Movie, alas, is here to remind us that slapstick can be just plain bad. These are sight gags best appreciated with a blindfold.

A workmanlike, if treacly and overblown, piece of propaganda. Its effectiveness depends entirely on the degree to which you already believe its talking points.

Lazy, boring, vile and tragically unfunny attempt at a horror-film spoof.

Puerile bluster.

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

So bad that I predict there will be drinking games set around viewing it someday.

Supremely idiotic.

Like Nate, we are mere Notties. And we are supposed to feel oh-so privileged for getting to watch Paris through the glass.

The laughs are few, far between and pretty darn faint in this comedy.

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.

A more accurate title would be “Inept, Inadequate and Insipid Comedy.”