Elizabeth Weitzman

In a town as status-conscious as Hollywood, the embarrassment of two "Garfield" movies on your résumé must sting like the Dickens.

It's not unusual for a Henry Jaglom film to fall into a black hole of narcissism, but he has outdone himself with his latest, a satire on Hollywood's unshakable self-absorption.

With so little action or even insight, Marathon is far too long at only 74 minutes. Perhaps for the sequel, we can come along as Gretchen watches paint dry.

The film does deserve credit for juggling difficult racial and class issues - but with a wacky score, cute puppies and silly side stories also jockeying for space, Bamford's best intentions tumble to a heap long before the movie ends.

While it's visually stunning, the pretentiousness makes it hard to take seriously.

If you want to direct a movie that's already been done, it's a good idea to pick one you can improve on.

A few scenes are stylish enough to amuse, but they all add up to nothing - leaving you ten bucks short and feeling like a sucker.

In fairness, the new movie from the Lorne Michaels machine does have its amusing moments. It's just most of them can also be found in "Napoleon," "Talladega Nights," "Eagle vs. Shark," and any installment of "Jackass."

Unless you're struck by the urge to watch strangers work out their petty issues in couples therapy, it's hard to find a compelling reason to sit through Gregg Lachow's irritatingly self-absorbed indie drama.

With little plot and a stifling set, the ­movie needs stronger performances than its leads can offer.

Would that the film were as interesting as the setting.

Though topnotch actors often can elevate mediocre material, they need a topnotch director to help them do it. Steve Carr ("Dr. Dolittle 2") is not that director.

Burns doesn't even bother to disguise his New York accent, any more than he does his boredom.

As irritating as an ideological college student, this earnest debut from Zak Tucker is determined to teach us a lesson about right and wrong.

It's interesting in the same way the early, rejection episodes of "American Idol" are oddly compelling. But, of course, you can watch those for free.

Enthusiastic performances help, but without a logical script or confident direction, the fizz very quickly goes flat.

Frankly, you may prefer the company of cinematic serial killers (Freddy vs. Jason) after you meet the pair at the center of this story.

Southland Tales does have enough energy and audacity to suggest significant potential. But was it ready for public consumption? The answer is no. It's as simple as that.

Cusack is excellent as Joan, the only woman in the film who values a girl's brains over her body, so it's a shame Fywell treats her with amused scorn.

Broderick is uptight; DeVito is obnoxious; and, somewhere, Nathan Lane is thanking his lucky stars he didn't get roped into this dreck.

You may want to wait and watch "Never Land" the way it was meant to be seen -- as a straight-to-video baby-sitter.

It's always admirable when a director decides to make a risky film. On the other hand, it's not quite as commendable to also make a boring one.

A mediocre little thriller that might have promised cheap fun on Blockbuster's direct-to-DVD shelf is instead destined to die a quick death on the big screen.

The marvelous Dussolier makes a poignantly aging lothario, but Fillieres is so off-puttingly strange, we don't really care what she thinks about.

Made in 1998, the picture sags beneath the leaden weight of its pre-millennial theme.

And though Samantha is written as a sly spoof of Ashlee Simpson, Faris frantically overplays her. She might have taken a tip from Smart, a lovely, understated actress who wastes too much time in lousy films.

The characters speak in Dialogue rather than English, the actors are so busy emoting they forget to act and the story feels like a first-draft college project.

Dramatically miscalculated satire.

Director and screenwriter Adam Brooks, adapting Jennifer Egan's novel, doesn't seem to understand what makes a movie relevant.

Despite catchy animation and a few intense scenes, there's simply nothing here we haven't seen before.

Oddly enough, though, only the finale is predictable in a movie that appears to have been edited in an early-model blender. Not a single scene connects smoothly with the next.

Just like its increasingly wan antihero, this blood-soaked series is on its last legs.

Although it's recycled from start to finish, there are some decent jokes laced throughout, plus enough gore to satisfy the most bloodthirsty tastes.

Regrettably, neither cast nor crew is able to save it from itself.

Don't let the title fool you. The one thing they have in common is how decidedly unerotic they are.

Madhur Jaffrey and Faran Tahir fare considerably better as Nina's conservative mother and brother, leaving us confused ourselves: Why didn't Patel focus on them, instead?

Hartley's satire of consumer-driven sexuality is undermined by the straight-faced decision to cast affectless model Tatiana Abracos as the heroine.

This off-putting satire is a jumble of misguided ideas that gather like lint in the navel of self-obsessed director Philippe Caland.

This lackluster outing is mostly just a retread of past glories.

Feels like reading someone else's diary. Undoubtedly, there's some very important stuff in there, but it's most interesting to the person who wrote it.

Tries everything possible to win you over -- satire, gross-out comedy, even earnest romance. But as any high-schooler can tell you, the harder you try, the bigger you fall.

Scenario is ripe for subversive humor, but Ralston never even questions the superiority of the genetically privileged.

If there's a lesson to be found in this shameless vanity project, it's that money can buy anything. Even a movie.

Why would so many accomplished women waste their time and talents on a movie as counterfeit as Mad Money?

Stays firmly, depressingly, inside the lines.

We never get a sensible explanation for Linda's bizarre double life, or uncover any reason - any reason at all - why Bullock would pick this lazy, patchwork script out of all the ones she surely receives every year.

It would be nice to say this predictable fantasy has such a big heart, we can forgive its excesses. But director Kirsten Sheridan overplays nearly every already-corny scene, and there is no chemistry between Russell and Rhys Meyers, who appear to be passing through on their way to better projects.

This preposterous adaptation of the Book of Esther is recommended viewing only for those impressed that it comes endorsed by the American Bible Society.

Lighter on horror than it is on inadvertent humor.

A flashy homage to a dozen better movies, this self-conscious Hong Kong action flick is so packed with visual thrills, you may not notice that there's absolutely nothing beneath its impressively slick surface.

The movie veers so wildly between being zany and grim, we're left feeling more empty than entertained.

A great idea that never gets off the ground.

The sort of slick-looking indie that plays well at film festivals, this heavy-handed boxing drama is really just a flyweight bulked up on cliches and false sentimentality.

The writing, directing and acting are all so sketchy, it's a mystery that Kattan didn't just try out this material the way he should have -- in a three-minute sketch.

Competent in the extreme, the talented Jolie would make a great Jane Bond. But mired in this joyless orgy of preposterousness, her biggest challenge is simply keeping a straight face.

Sets out to be a social critique but settles for smug disdain.

We're bombarded by witless racial clichés, stale sexism and homophobia and enthusiastic celebrations of extreme flatulence.

Neither chimps nor children should be subjected to such shabby mediocrity.

There's a fascinating and terrifying story to be told about Elizabeth Bathory, the dramatically depraved 17th century sadist known as the Blood Countess.....This ain't it.

Normally, I'd recommend a movie like this only to diehard fans. But even they may want to wait until it hits cable.

Turns out to be as heavy and earthbound as an injured dragon.

This tale of disaffected sexual depravity is practically a parody of the worst of French filmmaking.

The result feels as if she (Trish Doolan) gathered all her friends, turned on her camera and let them loose. Which is perfectly fine, if you don't expect anyone to pay to watch the finished product.

Ever been on a blind date that you knew would be dismal from the start? Well, this is the movie version of that date, stretched out over the slowest two hours imaginable.

There's a lot of scary stuff in Wes Craven Presents: Dracula 2000. There are eyeball-sucking leeches, decapitations, punctured necks... and appalling acting.

A superficial tween comedy that mocks celebutantes like the Olsen twins while simultaneously pushing stars Hilary and Haylie Duff as their replacements.

The question is, if Sarabeth is so desperate to escape this oppressive distillation of Jewish neuroses, why would filmmaker Debra Kirschner think we'd want to stick around?

The plot is as riddled with holes as Matilda's victims, making her sudden appearances more distracting than distressing.

An exhausting combination of generic thriller, political tract and sentimental weepie.

Just another trip down a very dusty road.

Where the first film was a seminal forerunner of early stalker classics like "Halloween," this version feels as stale as old gingerbread.

Striking naturalism and blatant dishonesty blend awkwardly in this bleak drama.

Paul Auster's suffocating romance makes you feel as if you're helplessly stuck inside the head of the most pretentious person you know.

Those who need little more than a car chase, gunplay, pretty girls and a solid soundtrack will be entertained. And Ice Cube fans won't be disappointed. Everyone else may want to think twice before shelling out hard-earned dollars.

To be fair, Sandler deserves some credit for bringing us the first mainstream movie about Chanukah. Too bad it's completely idioticah.

A jumbled composite of blurred images, poetic yearnings and metaphoric dialogue.

It's hard to say which is worse: The fact that 20th Century Fox believes this sour, sexist fantasy reflects anyone's actual experience or that Hollywood is so woefully behind the cultural curve.

Commits the cardinal sin of moviemaking: It leaves you bored.

There are a few funny jokes scattered throughout, but the halfhearted direction and clunky script are underscored by performances that feel like they belong in community theater.

At its best moments, the film offers a tender portrait of the park's youngest regulars, charmingly earnest performers from a nearby music school. But then, inevitably, their stories fade into a backdrop, as his camera turns to catch yet more women sunning in the square.

Arnold's heart is in the right place, but somebody needs to save him from himself - and soon.

Novice director Lucky McKee wrote the first draft of this labored horror flick while he was in school, and for a student film, it's not bad. But it's not ready for the big time.

A warmed-over ripoff, rather than the gritty urban drama it so desperately wants to be.

Oddly enough, given his limited role, the movie seems to have been made around Nelly; when he's not onscreen, everything falls apart.

If karma exists, Alvin and the Chipmunks must be Lee's punishment for appearing in the likes of "Jersey Girl."

Having mined England and Ireland dry, filmmakers are now turning to Wales for their quirkiness quota.

Does little more than re-create the oppressive feeling of suffocating employment. And why put yourself through that experience without the promise of a paycheck at the other end?

The unhappy dead populate Geoffrey Sax's third-rate thriller White Noise like a pre-Christmas crowd at a suburban mall. This is a shame, since they are neither scary nor sad, and less likely to haunt an audience than simply bore them to death.

Profoundly mediocre supernatural thriller.

One of Walsch's precepts is that you should never make a living doing something you hate. If I'd known that, I might not have felt obliged to sit through every excruciating minute of this sanctimonious infomercial.

Only a memorably commanding Ruehl transcends the limitations of her two-dimensional character.

After languishing unseen for years, Laurent Firode's long-delayed comedy is finally getting its day in the sun. Too bad there's such a heavy shadow hanging over it.

It's an ugly affair overall, but at least you can say you've never seen such beautiful shirts.

All the subtlety of an Olive Garden commercial.

You don't have to rise very high to get above the level of these gags.

The movie is hindered by its weak script, but there's also a bigger problem to overcome: If we want to laugh at superficial celebrities, we already have plenty to choose from in real life.

By the time you've worked through the allegorical implications, you may be wondering why you didn't just go see "Charlie's Angels."

Goldberger's stubbornly insular script - adapted from a novel by Harry Crews - might have fared better on stage, where the story would feel more contained than suffocating. But by the time you crawl across this finish line, you'll know just how those sluggish the birdsfeel.