Charles Taylor

The pacing is off, the emotional tone is wobbly, and none of the actors seem to be acting in the same style or the same movie.

Kubrick's much-anticipated final film boils down to the most elaborate monogamy lecture ever.

The embodiment of every conservative paranoid's slathering fantasies about Paula Jones, Vince Foster and Whitewater.

Seems best suited to all the couch-potato swinging dicks who get off watching the police on "Cops" keep the public safe from people in possession of marijuana.

It's not just our emotions that are being played on here, it's not just our intelligence being insulted because of Ron Howard and Akiva Goldsman's presumption that we won't have any interest in a character whom it's not always possible to like. It's John Nash's life, being turned into an Oscar machine and an easy way to jerk tears.

I understand how hard it is for parents to find movies to take their kids to, but the thought of them or their children getting stuck at this stinker galls me. Summer vacation feels short enough as it is.

The picture starts off slick and amusing, gets convoluted, draggy and strange round about the midway point, and ends up just plain ludicrous.

Sandler deserves to be damned to the pits of hell for this witless masturbatory comedy.

Even dressed up in tabloid lighting and cut with jagged edits, this pulp nihilism never goes beyond daytime TV banality.

It's mostly terrible. The movie has no sparkle, no charm, nothing to sweep us off our feet.

A dreary, ludicrous thriller.

I think you'd have to be comatose or mentally incompetent not to find Enough ludicrous.

The film is a plodding, earnest adaptation that strips the source of its richness and ambiguity.

One of those movies that you continue to pull for even after it becomes clear that it isn't very good.

It's like receiving a box of Valentine's chocolates in which someone has deliberately hidden ground glass. Flee.

It's hard to remember a movie that has asked us to care, without giving us reason to, about a character who is so thoroughly and relentlessly a prick.

This alleged thriller, which might be described as "'Gaslight' Goes to College," is one of the most incoherent features in recent memory.

It's a flat, clumsy piece of filmmaking. When Phillippe and Ward are in bed, the shots are so badly matched that I believed they were having sex, just not with each other.

Who cares about old guys and young girls? This handsome romantic slop finds other problems.

The movie is flat-footed, and the pacing gives you time to rest between laughs.

Stay away from this cautionary tale about the gay porn industry -- it blows.

Ben Affleck provides a charismatic star turn, but John Frankenheimer's out-of-season heist thriller is dead on arrival.

It's a terrible movie, stuck in plot idiocies and big, noisy set pieces like a tire mired in mud.

LaBute is some kind of find: an auteur for people who don't like movies.

If you've ever sat in a jet waiting on the runway, feeling it lumbering along in place and then bucking and shaking when it's cleared for take-off, you know what it's like to sit through Air Force One.

A sustained piece of showboating mythmaking, and something of a snow job.

There's a vacancy in The Million Dollar Hotel, and it's between Wim Wenders' ears.

Middlebrow kitsch, but kitsch straining for respectability and therefore without the energy that can make kitsch entertaining.