Connie Ogle

What's lacking is any sense of Beverly's brightness. She's supposedly smart, but she never displays a shred of intelligence.

Comes off curiously flat.

A slightly dull film by photographer Sam Jones.

Sets out to be a study of grief and how to overcome it, but it rings too false to offer much hope - or entertainment.

McGillis, though, is the film's worst enemy. Her wooden attempts to recreate Kathleen Turner circa 1981 undermine too many scenes.

What to Expect has no standout character who's consistently funny, and it must operate within the confines of a "kids are the most important thing in our lives" mentality, which is more tiresome ground, comedically speaking.

Not entirely unwatchable.

A sporadically funny, always predictable, weirdly downbeat fantasy.

Freedom Writers is prone to throwing in unnecessary plot developments, so it never quite succeeds as anything more than "Dangerous Minds" Redux.

While patience is a virtue in a marriage, we shouldn't need quite this much to make it through a movie.

Midlands finds some measure of success in its use of regular, real-looking people -- as opposed to the oddly glamorous characters who turn up in most romantic comedies -- but it's as though the writer used up all the personality traits before he got to Shirley.

What The Bank Job ends up stealing is all your precious time.

Something we've all seen before, far too many times, not only in its premise but also in its lame parade of scatological jokes and its sad, tired pratfalls.

The film isn’t overlong. But it tries to fit so many themes into its brief running time — that it merely touches on most conflicts instead of exploring them in depth or with any delicacy.

Unfortunately even a clogging Timberlake can't stop the movie's march to a conveniently happy ending. Nor can he block the flow of psychobabble. It's enough to make any fan beg: Play ball. Please.

Unfortunately there’s far too little magic in this clumsy attempt to marry fantasy and realism; the film doesn’t have the grace or imagination to bridge the gaps between the two.

The guys are more amusing than not, and they display the easy chemistry of real-life pals.

If nothing else, director/screenwriter Jordan Roberts knows good music. If only we could say the same about his script.

From the first strains of its overly dramatic, self-important score -- come on, this is not by any stretch of the imagination "Citizen Kane."

The sloppy charms of Just Married don't exactly break new ground, but they don't make you want to swear off romantic comedy forever, and in these "Maid in Manhattan" days that's saying something.

If you try hard enough, you might be able to forget that the story doesn't make a lot of sense or provide adequate thrills, although it tries to scare you a couple of times in the cheapest possible way.

Joyful Noise is too tone-deaf to put its few blessings to good use.

The dance numbers grow tiresome after a while, and director/screenwriter Ramon Salazar throws in so many calculated oddities that it's impossible for anyone to become too attached to his characters.

Turns out to be a more disappointment than joyful reunion, a tedious and desperately drawn-out affair that tests your patience even as it brazenly courts (and often earns) your contempt.

Worst of all, nothing happens that we don't see coming. Nothing. If, as Nathan seems to believe, surprise is a crucial element in any campaign, then The Last Samurai might win a battle or two for your attention but is doomed to lose the Oscar war.

Mostly honest in its portrayal of teen sexuality -- it exists, whether we like it or not -- but also offers up the troubling notion of teen pregnancy as romantic and magical.

Taking a lightweight comedy such as this seriously is probably a fatal error, but there's no way around it: This House is built on a shaky foundation.

The problem -- aside from the fact that one of the best things about Foer's story is its irreverent, intricate, just-maybe-brilliant writing -- is what Schreiber has decided to cut.

Too much of the breezy humor that made the book a delight is stripped away, replaced with predictable jokes and broad slapstick, sitcom-quality encounters with women and bears and a pushy, grating sentimentality.

It's a cheery, impossible fantasy.

Despite its contemporary-sounding anti-French cracks, could easily have been made 20 years ago.

Merely adding an older generation of lovers to a love story does not make your romance one for the ages. Doesn’t even make it "The Notebook."

What you don’t expect is camp. The Counselor is more "Wild Things" than "No Country for Old Men", with which it shares a border town setting. But at least "Wild Things" knew what it was. The Counselor treats its material seriously and seems to have no idea it’s a joke that can’t even muster up a bit of smarty-pants Tarantino cleverness or energy.

The best thing you can say about Scooby-Doo is that Matthew Lillard makes a really, really good Shaggy.

Filmmaker Christopher Cain has turned a national tragedy into a teen romance, and not in a grand, entertaining, "Titanic" way.

Maybe there's a good movie to be made about the affair between Franklin Delano Roosevelt and a distant cousin. I wouldn't bet on it, and Hyde Park on Hudson isn't it in any case.

What we are not spared is the sort of trite movie that lacks the backbone of any good dysfunctional-family comedy: a thread of the universal amid the absurdity.

A cliché-ridden, condescending and ham-handed film that clumsily fails to bring to life what should be an interesting story. You might say none of its punches even comes close to connecting.

Crudup is about as effective as anyone could be in the dreary World Traveler, but he can't keep this shallow, pretentious film from wallowing in banality and staggering self-indulgence.

The Lake House overflows with heart-stopping thrills, if by ''thrills'' you mean ''watching attractive people wait around for letters to be delivered by mystical forces.'' Which, come to think of it, makes this romantic melodrama sound a lot more interesting than it is.

In Percy Jackson: Sea of Monsters, choosing the dumbest character is a colossal task.

A romantic comedy so rote, dull and predictable that it makes "You've Got Mail" seem innovative and fresh.

A loud, dumb movie, but its male, car-obsessed audience will probably enjoy it anyway.

Viewing the new Martin Lawrence kiddie movie is more enjoyable than watching my dog eat a desiccated toad carcass he pried off the road, but only marginally so.

The film is more of an exercise in pandering and propaganda -- give your baby up for adoption, you selfish pig! -- than the heartfelt drama it aims to be.

It's an hour longer than the average sitcom, but The Wedding Date isn't much different from what you see crammed into any TV comedy lineup, minus the laugh track.

It has virtually nothing in common with the charming book written by the Gilbreths about their turn-of-the-century family and everything to do with making money on DVD rentals.

An apocalyptic Bob Dylan song made cinematic, with all the vision and poetry dissipating in the transfer. It's as if the filmmakers listened to "Desolation Row" just one time too many.

Amateurishness -- the camera angles sometimes chop off the top of Reiser's head -- aside, The Thing About My Folks is also weirdly dated, especially with regard to technology.

Derivative and self-important, Third Person is a concept and not much more, precisely the sort of film that makes you wonder why anybody would bother to see it at all.

A tired and unnecessary sequel.

This is 40 is crude and dull, with a supporting cast that reminds you how utterly uninteresting the main characters are.

Nothing wrong with a movie having a point of view, but watching people spout jargon or exposition doesn't really make for riveting entertainment.

Explicitly invites us to mock its artificiality and giggly cluelessness, but beyond its attractive shell the film rings hollow. These days, even a comedy has got to have a heart.

James and Riley might make an interesting Elizabeth and Darcy in a traditional Pride and Prejudice, but this version? It’s dead on arrival.

Loaded with so much drama that the story sinks into a grim, sloppy soap-opera mix.

Mostly, though, The Big Bounce isn't offensive, or even terrible. It's just lazy, relying on numb moviegoers to fork over cash thinking they'll see the next "Get Shorty" or "Out of Sight."

The film is supposed to be about tolerance, but the only acceptance comes in terms of how the islanders accept the Mormon teachings. Somehow, that doesn't quite feel divine.

The cinematic equivalent of herpes, Sex Tape is an uncomfortable embarrassment to raunchy comedies everywhere. Fortunately, no medication is required after being exposed to it: The effects are not permanent, only painful.

Even the most ardent fans of Braff’s first feature film, the charming Garden State, will struggle to warm up to this self-indulgent, uninvolving drama about an immature, almost-middle-aged guy trying to find himself with questions he should have had answers to long ago.

Tiresome romantic comedy that reinforces every imaginable gay stereotype.

Excruciatingly unamusing.

Sluggish, uninspired drama.

They pull it off, but even if you believe in Santa, you'll never believe that this is any sort of holiday classic.

Slow-witted, clumsy and almost pathologically reliant on crude name-calling for laughs - Horrible Bosses represents the lowest end of the comedy spectrum.

There's only one excuse for the sentimental and ham-handed I Am Sam, and it's not to tout the rights of the mentally disabled.

It never comes close to touching the audience's heart.

This shameless cheerleader of a documentary is the sort of propaganda you might expect in a Republican campaign ad or perhaps featured at a small theater located somewhere in Fantasyland.

A romantic comedy need not be original to work. It just needs, you know, romance. Something to swoon over. What Two Weeks Notice provides, however, is a lot more messy.

Unimaginative, exasperating film, hopefully but fruitlessly recycled after the success of 2002's ebullient Whale Rider.

The ghastly first half of this romantic comedy -- is as close to unwatchable as any moment in "Bride Wars." The fact that it stars Renée Zellweger just makes it harder to bear.

The dancing, while reasonably entertaining, isn't anything you haven't seen before on MTV or BET, although the soundtrack might be a worthwhile investment for hip-hop fans.

If the Giorgios were more interesting, perhaps Brooklyn Lobster would feel less sluggish. But as it is, the crustaceans' unhappy destinies are more compelling than the colorless lives of their captors.

The best story here is the one about how Stolen Summer made it to the screen; that's more compelling than anything that happens in Pete's world.

No rose-colored memories can improve this tedious interpretation of the famous girl detective's adventures. Nancy Drew falls somewhere between "The Haunted Mansion" and the live-action "Scooby Doo" movies in terms of quality but is more irritating than either.

The arsenal is empty, and there’s nowhere for The Truth About Emanuel to go except — unfortunately — downhill.

Sometimes I suspect there is secret high-stakes contest in Hollywood among filmmakers to try and come up with a movie without a single original idea. If so, Life As We Know It is a contender.

There's plenty of action, but it's all the same.

With its unfathomably stupid plot, half-hearted laughs and slow-witted action, can only be considered a waste of time. Especially yours.

The actors are their usual reliable selves; you can't really blame them for the unlikely mess Levity becomes.

A by-the-numbers sports drama with a death grip on clichés and acting every bit as flat as the mat, seems unlikely to draw much of a crowd.

There's no real reason to see this movie. It's exhausting and pointless and not amusing enough to make up for its failings. You can do better. The filmmakers could have done better. Honestly, you're better off staying home and making hummus.

Shameless in its desperate grab at the heartstrings.

It's a cannibalization of "Sleeping With the Enemy," a not-so-good Julia Roberts film, with a ridiculous female-empowerment subtext and a relentlessly stupid script that goes nowhere you can't predict before the opening credits roll.

An invasion of the body snatchers is preferable to realizing that the true horror perpetrated here is not on the characters but on the audience.

Watching Wilson and Hudson toil thanklessly through this mess is more laborious than writing the Great American Novel. And a lot less lucrative.

But if My Date With Drew is what passes for filmmaking these days, the movie industry is in more trouble than we thought.

The Last Song, yet another maudlin remake of a Nicholas Sparks bestseller.

Dismal.

If you're going to be offensive, by all means be offensive. Be tasteless! Be "There's Something About Mary." But at least stick to your guns, and don't wuss out when it counts.

One of those blessedly rare films based on a self-help book, is remarkable in one sense: It prevents "The Lake House" and its magical mailbox from being the most ridiculous concept on screen this summer.

Limps along, spinning not a silken web but an extremely derivative, tattered one not likely to snare anybody's interest.

If only someone had recognized the inherent vileness of the premise, we might not have been subjected to this hideous Rumor at all.

This noisy, formulaic film turns out to be immediately forgettable, except for the parts that are so ridiculous they leave you shaking your head in wonder hours later.

Could there be a more inappropriate time to release a cheesy horror movie about evildoing in Louisiana.

An annoying, tedious little film.

Paced at the speed at which Arctic ice melts, The Dust Factory is a sluggish, heavy-handed fable overloaded with talk of paradise and the man in the moon.

Embarrassingly shoddy film.

The movie is less painful than having your kidneys removed, but Turistas doesn't offer a trip entertaining enough to take.

The new Total Recall fails on the most basic levels: Its characters are dull, and its action is duller.

The germ of a better film lies in that joke, but Schaeffer doesn't quite dig it out. Instead, we get painfully unfunny scenes that make us think that when it comes to writing comedy, Schaeffer should stick to his own rule: never again.

Like its eponymous subject, it succeeds only in being shallow and crass and not very much fun to be around.

Yes, it's every bit as brainless as the trailers suggest.

Rich in cliché and brimming with the sort of potent idiocy that can only be found in January-release romantic comedies, Leap Year manages to do every possible thing wrong.

The film does provide some nice shots of Venice and offers one solid reason to display a little patriotic fervor: We do have the freedom to avoid such rote, shallow dullness.

Much like the play within it, Hamlet 2 is lousy. The main difference is that the play is SUPPOSED to be awful. The movie about the play is supposed to be funny.

A cheesy horror film can offer a vicarious cheap thrill or two. Darkness Falls offers only a test of the patience, not even providing much chance to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of its villain.

Exhausts you with its derivative stupidity, leaving you weak and bored and weary of comedy that's not funny, action that's not exciting, dialogue that's not clever. It's not even an adequate rip-off of the TV show.

Don't waste your money.

But the blame for the stultifying Mooseport lies squarely on the shoulders of the screenwriters and anyone else who assumed the limited Romano could carry such a dated, lousy film. The results are in: He can't do it, at least not without a lot more help.

According to legend, a silver bullet can kill a werewolf. Too bad it can't slay bad writing, without which the ill-conceived Red Riding Hood would not exist.

The less said about Simpson's performance the better. From the neck down she fulfills all the requirements, but, honestly, I think General Lee might do a better job with the dialogue.

Not that the film is so horrendously offensive -- it's almost, and I hesitate to say this, too stupid to provoke insult -- but it's juvenile enough to suck a few IQ points out of any audience member with a brain cell.

An insipid comedy in which the women are shallow, acquisitive, backstabbing, selfish harridans.

Here's what is bad: this movie.

Sometimes it seems as though Hollywood can't make a decent action movie anymore. Now that's a thought to make you go ballistic.

It is a grim and monotonous affair despite the overkill of bad guys -- a trio of evil spirits plus a bonus serial killer -- mixed with a few cheap shocks futilely intended to make the audience jump.

The comedy is slapstick, the colors Day Glo, the outcome inevitable.

This movie didn't have to be good, but that it's so boring in its badness is tough to swallow.

The Back-up Plan is about as much fun as 36 hours of labor, only you don't get to go home with a baby at the end. Instead, you leave with a throbbing headache and a lot of questions about why anybody still thinks Jennifer Lopez can anchor a movie.

Tale is anything but spellbinding.

Full of It's message is directed straight at 9-year-olds -- lying is bad! -- and yet there's plenty of sexual content. Unfortunately there isn't much else.

Silly, tedious, inept disaster.

There's nothing here you haven't seen before, especially if you own a PlayStation.

You don't believe Celeste for a minute when she tells a new guy that she needs to be alone for awhile. You know he's coming back in short order to provide the happy ending. Here's hoping she doesn't want him to get a job, too.

A star rises in the east. A savior is born. Two thousand years later, a surprisingly dull film is made.

Just My Luck is way too long for such a slight premise, and Lohan, so appealing in Mean Girls, is years too young for the part.

A devastating lack of romantic connection between its two stars. Lopez had more chemistry with "Enough" co-star Billy Campbell, and for most of that film they were beating the hell out of each other.

Charmless and grating and immediately forgettable.

The sort of entertainment that makes you happy to be grown up and able to avoid the current onslaught of trite, lazy, unimaginative films aimed at tween-agers.

There is humor in the familiar just waiting to be rehashed for new generations, and A Guy Thing surely isn't the last stupid leave-'em-at-the-altar film we're likely to see.

A royal mess, a lethally stupid romantic teen comedy.

Young girls are the only ones likely to enjoy this vapid road-trip movie.

Oddly tone deaf.

Inherently laughable, but in all the wrong ways.

Downright terrible: impossible to enjoy, impossible to believe.

Crushingly inept family comedy.

The search for true love is the backbone of romantic comedy as well as the lifeblood of match.com, but this film's clumsy, completely inauthentic portrayal of it is handled in a shockingly tedious fashion.

The film is probably not evil incarnate, but it's so irritating you wish it -- and just about everyone in it -- would just shut up and get out of your room.

Insulting to anyone with a healthy sense of humor and the simple desire to laugh.

The whole incoherent mess is sort of like a downbeat Gap ad, only longer and a lot more boring.

The idea, I suppose, is that love connects us all, even when it goes wrong. Fortunately, even love doesn't usually go quite so badly as this movie does.

It’s bad enough to make you look askance at Salma Hayek, Maria Bello, and Maya Rudolph, all of whom deserve a chance to do something funny other than pose as wives exuding various degrees of sexiness.

It's not quite true to say that death is preferable to sitting through Over HerDead Body, but it's a safe bet that if you struggle through this witless romantic comedy the lure of being six feet under will cross your mind.

A lot like getting socks for Christmas: Better than finding coal in your stocking but not exactly as thrilling as unwrapping a big-screen HDTV.

Plentiful helpings of dreadful acting, confusing action cinematography, choppy editing and embarrassing dialogue, with the added bonus of a plot almost as dumb as that of the original film.

There are not enough synonyms for ''bad'' to describe the pretension and utter banality of the masturbatory The Brown Bunny, a film so exhaustively awful even its creator Vincent Gallo once disavowed it.

The most astounding thing about this abysmal comedy -- aside from the fact the studio actually allowed critics within a mile of it -- is that it's so ghastly it is beneath even the meager dignity of Paris Hilton.

It's just awful. Pointless, lazy, derivative and paralyzingly dull.

In the end, Bratz celebrates something even more important than good grades or good friends: the vital acquisition of totally awesome shoes. Fitting for a movie that exists only to separate you from your paycheck.