Frank Scheck

While there’s nothing particularly wrong about minimalistic science fiction — some of the genre’s best offerings have been of that variety — Atomica is a lifeless, tedious affair that won’t play any better on the small screens for which it was obviously intended.

While it might have made for a mildly diverting stage thriller — the hugely successful Deathtrap, for instance, was built on similarly absurd contrivances — the endlessly talky 3 Holes and a Smoking Gun founders onscreen.

The story takes place in 1953, and the relentlessly artificial-feeling film feels like it could have been made then as well.

Sluggish pacing and sub-par special effects mar this would-be epic adventure film.

Ultimately, there’s little to distinguish the proceedings other than their brevity. By the time the piece reaches its familiar death-strewn conclusion, with guns taking the place of swords, it has come to seem like little more than an ill-conceived exercise.

Grillo uncharacteristically displays no charisma, although considering the material he's working with, it's not surprising that he looks like he simply gave up. Speaking of giving up, Willis, who provides a few sparks to the otherwise lamentable Death Wish remake, here reverts to his by now usual phoning it in.

It's certainly a moving tale.... Unfortunately, the film tells the story in the most prosaic fashion imaginable, missing nary a single faith-based film cliché with its one-dimensional noble characters, banal dialogue and requisite sermonizing.

It's hard to imagine a dull film based on the infamous Kitty Genovese murder, but Danish filmmaker Puk Grasten's fictional take on the horrific, real-life crime manages the dubious accomplishment.

This lugubrious drama fails in its essential goal of making us care about its central character’s existential crisis.

Under the stilted direction of Alex Ranarivelo, it's all as clunkily melodramatic as it sounds, with the climactic trial sequences proving particularly slow going.

Strictly for the Beliebers.

Proceeding at a glacial pace, the film bearing no small resemblance to the far superior "Girl, Interrupted."

The latest example of the unfortunately fertile trend is a comedy from Josh Huber that features every stereotypical plot element and predictable gag imaginable. Making Babies demonstrates the need for creative contraception.

With its clichéd characters and situations, formulaic subplots (Alexandre neglects his grad student daughter to concentrate on his career) and overly cutesy comic tone, Le Chef is a cinematic dish best sent back to the kitchen.

Making the most of its low budget with its necessarily claustrophobic setting, the film displays a technical competence at least. But the rote performances and uninspired screenplay by Mike Le will inevitably consign Dark Summer to VOD viewing by undiscriminating consumers.

A visually imaginative but narratively incoherent exercise that provides viewers the unwelcome opportunity to feel what it’s like to watch a video game being played by someone else.

Whatever suspense that might have been generated by the violently gory goings-on is dissipated by the sheer visual incomprehensibility.

For all its vividly and realistically rendered graphic violence and gore, The Basement is an example of torture porn at its most ironic. It threatens to bore its audience to death.

Despite its laudable intentions and important social message, Black November is far too ineffective to have the desired impact.

Extremely crude in its technical elements, the low-budget film does reveal stylistic ambitions through devices like frequently reverting from color to black-and-white film stock. But the shaky narrative style and broad characterizations undo its effectiveness.

It ultimately devolves into yet another rote horror film that in this case lives up to its name by also being seriously underlit.

Wearing its multiple influences heavily on its sleeve, Monday at 11:01 A.M. is too déjà vu for its own good.

Director Andrzej Bartkowiak ("Romeo Must Die") works hard to supply the appropriate grittiness, but other than a few reasonably well-staged fight sequences, the proceedings are dull and visually uninspired. Justin Marks' solemn screenplay lacks any trace of wit.

The most problematic aspect of the film is that Hogan displays none of the cheeky charm and charisma that made him an international star. Although still obviously in great physical condition, he mainly walks through the film looking tired and pained, as if embarrassed to be taking part in such a labored self-reflexive exercise. On the other hand, you can't really blame him.

Unfortunately, for all the debuting filmmaker's talent for creepy atmospherics, I Trapped the Devil feels draggy and attenuated even with its brief 82-minute running time including credits. Despite some good performances, the film goes nowhere, and very, very slowly.

Infusing its generic horror tropes with vaguely satirical aspects, the film doesn't really work on either level. Unintentionally campy (or purposely, it's hard to tell) and marred by ridiculous plotting and dialogue, #Horror is mostly just a horror.

Eden Marryshow (Jessica Jones) makes an arduous attempt in his feature directorial debut, in which he plays the title role of an unemployed actor who gets by thanks to the good graces of family and friends. But his character ultimately proves far more grating than endearing, making Bruce!!! a slog to endure.

It's a good thing that forgiveness is a predominant theme of Woman Thou Art Loosed: On the 7th Day, because viewers will have to look deep into their hearts to forgive this kidnapping drama for its heavy-handed melodrama and tawdry plot elements.

Lead actors Cole and Latimore are competent enough, but they don’t come close to approximating the original film’s stars’ charisma or likability, with the result that their characters’ ill-advised activities leave a sour taste. This is one party you can’t wait to be over.

A "non sequel" to Alex Cox's 1984 classic "Repo Man," the crazily plotted and deliberately garish Repo Chick only serves to provide further evidence of the cult director's diminishing talents.

It's all largely incoherent, with the screenplay's twists and surprise revelations having an utterly artificial feel.

A Strange Brand of Happy is being billed as a “faith-friendly romantic comedy,” but its overall ineptness has the inadvertent impact of making you lose faith in romantic comedies altogether.

Jewtopia feels like a failed sitcom pilot that might have been created by Jackie Mason.

Derivative and otherwise lacking in originality, the film which features enough gratuitous nudity and violence to satisfy the genre crowd is a strictly by-the-numbers affair that probably won't be filling the multiplexes in Salt Lake City.

Director/screenwriter Stuart Beattie, adapting the graphic novel by Kevin Grevioux, employs a strictly humorless, gothic approach to the material that makes one long for the satirical touches of James Whale, let alone Mel Brooks.

Fouad Mikati's tawdry psychological thriller features the talented actress in a film that bears no small resemblance in theme, if not quality, to the hit movie version of Gillian Flynn's best-seller.

Director Christian Alvart ("Pandorum") is unable to invest much stylization into the proceedings, and Ray Wright's by-the-book screenplay only serves as a reminder of the innumerable demon-child movies that have preceded this one.

Viktor would be campy fun if it wasn't so relentlessly tedious.

A blandly generic romantic comedy mainly notable for its largely centering on Iranian-American characters, Shirin in Love demonstrates that clichés cross all ethnic boundaries.

This latest incarnation represents the sort of charmless, wildly chaotic animated effort that has the unintended effect of reminding us why cutting publicly funded children’s television is such a terrible idea.

Incarnate, much like its central character at key moments, barely seems to have a pulse.

The Turning sacrifices narrative and emotional coherence in favor of a series of would-be scary set pieces that seem mainly designed to discourage aspiring nannies from pursuing the vocation.

A top-notch varied group of actors, no doubt attracted by the colorfulness of their roles, has been assembled, but their hardworking efforts are ultimately done in by the supremely pretentious nature of the material.

For the most part, the proceedings are slow, solemn and tedious.

Definitely third-rate Holocaust material.

The sort of soft-core, erotic thriller that would benefit from a lot more trash and a lot more sex.

This sentimental French farce unsuccessfully strains for laughs while lurching towards its all too predictable denouement.

An aimlessly wandering DIY-indie that will send viewers retreating to popcorn movies at their local multiplex.

The main performers do a reasonably good job of parodying the "Twilight" leads, with Proske particularly effective in subtly lampooning Kristen Stewart's moody mannerisms.

Goss, who by any standard is the real star of the film, displays charismatic intensity and impressive physicality.

After nearly two hours of nonstop mayhem, the film ends on a surprisingly muted note, though pains have been taken to make sure that the hoped-for sequel has been carefully set up.

Crowe himself, as usual, is the best thing in the film, once again upgrading less than optimal material with his indelible screen presence.

In addition to its unconvincing, cliché-ridden storyline, Alina takes itself too seriously.

She's (Milla Jovovich) constantly being besieged by a seemingly never-ending series of monsters, and we -- at least every couple of years or so -- are forced to sit through yet another installment of the mind-numbing series.

The Dreadful is the sort of film that prides itself on being a slow burn but ultimately more resembles a fizzle. Except for Marcia Gay Harden. By all means, give her character a sequel.

Infused with enough deadening scientific jargon to lull a graduate student to sleep, the film, which feels much longer than its brief 80-minute running time, never succeeds in effectively dramatizing its outlandish premise.

Too often settles for raunchiness instead of wit.

And to be fair, Cusack doesn’t phone it in. He gives the part his all, displaying his usual expert deadpan comic timing while delivering the weak quips in Carmine Gaeta and Luke Davies’ screenplay. But it’s disheartening nonetheless to see him working so hard to enliven such inferior material.

This version sacrifices the story’s powerful political and social themes in favor of by-the-numbers plotting.

Laborious and dull, I Can Only Imagine 2 only comes to life in the comedic scenes featuring Ventimiglia, who buries his handsomeness in a buzz-cut, full beard, and Buddy Holly-style glasses to resemble Timmons.

Although ultimately far too muddled in its concept and execution to be anything more than a curiosity, The Scribbler does manage the dubious feat of being one of the strangest films you’re likely to see this year.

Featuring murky visuals, an even murkier narrative that lamely sputters to its conclusion, and frequently amateurish performances — the effectively low-key Isabelle is a notable exception — the film never explores its undeniably disturbing issues with enough thematic depth to compensate for its ragged execution.

There's nothing inherently wrong with agitprop cinema, of which this is a prime example. But passion and righteousness are not enough to make a satisfying film. Cohesion and rational arguments are necessary as well.

Whatever charms the first two movies possessed (and they were considerable thanks to the talented and appealing cast) have been thoroughly lost in this soulless installment.

The performers do what they can with the tired material, with Starr mining his doofus character for all it's worth and Perlman making a committed investment that doesn't pay off. Despite their strenuous efforts and the picturesque Catskill Mountains locations, The Escape of Prisoner 614 comes to feel as laborious as its title.

The lurid and unconvincing Shut In should have lived up to its title.

Suffers mightily from its limited budget and narrative scope.

Aiming for charm but instead coming across as hopelessly forced, Swimming With Men barely manages to stay afloat.

It has all the flaws of the recent Bradley Cooper vehicle Burnt, only without the sex and the charm.

The film’s reluctance to fully explore its provocative moral conflict renders it terminally bland.

Like the first film, the sequel (directed by Kyle Newacheck) proves moronic, witless and relentlessly vulgar. Which is to say, Happy Gilmore fans will love it.

Very little about what happens is very interesting, with the contrived situations and artificial-sounding dialogue giving the proceedings the strained feel of a mediocre off-Broadway play with a misjudged air of profundity.

Faith of Our Fathers is undone by its wobbly tone, hokey script and amateurish execution.

Discerning viewers will recognize The Music of Silence for the tediously sentimental, rote exercise that it is. It's the cinematic equivalent of listening to opera in an elevator.

As banal as its title, USS Indianapolis: Men of Courage lacks even the impact of the monologue about the subject delivered by Robert Shaw in Jaws.

Instant fodder for drinking games, Dangerous Men is a grand testament to its filmmaker's undeniable passion, tenacity and complete lack of talent.

Despite its technical gloss and effective performances, Den of Thieves never manage to feel other than hopelessly derivative.

Severely wasting the talents of Rosemary DeWitt, who really, really deserves better material, Arizona is as arid and barren as the state that provides its title.

I Hate Myself :) centers on two thoroughly repellent, self-absorbed figures with whom spending time proves a nearly intolerable trial.

While this actor-filmmaker has delivered such worthy films as "A Rage in Harlem" and "Deep Cover" in the past, this misbegotten effort would be instantly forgettable if not for its potential as future camp classic.

Lacking the star power that might have drawn American audiences who haven't seen the far superior original, Inside has no reason for being.

Merging standard gangster movie clichés of both the Japanese and American variety, The Outsider only manages to be ultra-violent and ultra-dull simultaneously.

Unfortunately, it all plays out in completely tedious fashion, having all the urgency of watching someone having an impassioned argument with their medical insurance representative.

Twenty years ago, this comedy might have been a slightly amusing diversion. Now it just exudes an air of sweaty desperation.

For a film that's presumably intended to convey the rich emotional rewards of motherhood, it's not terribly convincing.

Clara forgets to have anything resembling a compelling plot. Or an original one. Even science geeks will find little here compelling.

Much of the original cast and creative team have reunited for this wholly unnecessary sequel, which once again proves that oversized animatronic animal figures, no matter how homicidal their behavior, are more laughable than scary.

Hicham Hajji's debut — while featuring an impressive supporting cast and admirably attempting to inject political commentary into its mix — proves such a wan, ineffective vehicle that it leaves its star all dressed up with nowhere to go.

There certainly are moving moments in this inspiring if necessarily somewhat morbid travelogue... but they’re buried in the sloppiness and self-indulgence that too often marks this vanity project.

What starts out as a reasonably effective ghost story devolves into familiar torture porn in Cassadaga, Anthony DiBlasi’s muddled horror film ineffectively blending two genre styles.

Much like the recent, widely reviled I, Frankenstein, this misconceived project mainly signals a need to go back to the drawing board.

Other than undeniably looking good, Harding is unable to bring much depth to his role that, if the film had been shot closer to the period in which it was set, could have been knocked out of the park by a young Pacino or De Niro.

Unfortunately, despite its uncomfortable resonance, Beneath Us barely scratches the surface of its provocative ideas, sacrificing nuance in favor of cheap shocks.

The screenplay by Luke Dawson and Jeremy Slater begins promisingly enough with its slow-burn examination of the various moral issues involved. But once Zoe is resuscitated the proceedings descend into familiar horror film film tropes.

It offers scant insight to go along with its simplistic homilies about the power of faith and the reassuring presence of God.

Hospitality is the sort of film that looks like a thriller, feels like a thriller and essentially plays out like a thriller. The only thing it forgets to do is provide any actual thrills.

A modern cinematic equivalent of the sort of tired sex farces that used to populate Broadway with regularity, If I Were You simultaneously exploits and squanders the talents of its star, Marcia Gay Harden.

I Still See You is painful to watch, and having to learn all the new jargon only makes it feel like an academic chore.

Representing one of Robin Williams' last films, A Merry Friggin' Christmas lives up to its bah, humbug title. Not only because it's terrible, although it is, but rather because one desperately hoped that the beloved actor would go out on a high note.

At least a fright-wigged Joe Mantegna, delivering an execrable cameo as a whacked-out doctor, has a good excuse for his presence; the writer-director is one of his former film students.

The "Dexter" star gives it his all in this indie comedy about a 35-year-old unemployed man coping with various romantic and life crises, but by the end of this terminally cute effort you'll wish that he just stop moping and kill somebody already.

The film will leave viewers feeling emasculated in more ways than one.

Elba, who recruited his former Luther director Miller into the project, gives the film more dignity than it deserves, and Henson delivers a performance of complex emotional shadings. But their fine work is utterly wasted in this B-movie exploitation thriller that would barely make for passable viewing on late night cable television.

Misses nary a single cliché in its visually disorienting and narratively confusing proceedings.

Visually murky, choppily edited and lacking both narrative clarity and well-defined characterizations, Captive State is a deeply frustrating viewing experience. It seems to be straining mightily for a future cult status which it doesn't deserve.

The screenplay by Eddie and Chris Borey fails to live up to the juiciness of the original premise, lacking meaningful character development and teasing out its unveiling of its mysterious plot elements in dull, plodding fashion.

While Isaac Feder's raunchy comedy gives the "Sixth Sense" star the opportunity to roll a condom over a banana and talk really dirty, it offers precious little to even the most undemanding audiences.

Starring a painfully awkward Katherine Heigl, One for the Money mostly resembles a failed television pilot.

After a very effective opening scene, it starts to go off the rails and finally derails completely.

Alternately registering as an homage and rip-off of the countless slasher pics that have preceded it, Pitchfork is a strictly disposable affair.

You need more than a little faith to endure Carl Lauten's stylistically ambitious but hackneyed faith-based film that infuses its treacly love story with heavy doses of CGI animation and even heavier doses of Christian moralizing.

The overstuffed film is definitely less than the sum of its admittedly occasionally scary parts.

Essentially a feature-length advertisement for the Mormon Church which makes AT&T's "Reach Out and Touch Someone" TV commercials seem edgy by comparison, Meet the Mormons is strictly for the converted.

Presumably intended for Jackass fans desperately in search of a plot, Action Park makes a typical episode of America's Funniest Home Videos look sophisticated by comparison.

As Finley, Hopkins displays his usual magnetism, even taking the opportunity to play one of his own musical compositions on piano.

Unfortunately, their strenuous efforts (and Esposito tries very, very hard) aren't enough to lift the material above abject hokeyness. This is a film that makes subway riding seem such a miserable experience, you suspect it's been bankrolled by Uber.

Despite the frequent use of graphics and animation to help alleviate the tedium of numerous talking heads (we hear from several other scientists as well), the film fails to makes its significant points accessible.

The most likely reaction among all but the most undiscerning to Santa Fake will be "Bah, humbug!"

Playing like a white-trash Greek tragedy, Dawn Patrol squanders the good will that budding screen heartthrob Scott Eastwood earned for his recent starring turn in "The Longest Ride."

A grim little drama about a young woman's experiences with a left-wing cult, Alison Murray's debut feature suffers from disjointed storytelling and myriad other problems, including a bizarre reliance on modern dance sequences to interrupt the action.

If a film's opening credit reads "Presented by Larry King," run screaming for the hills. The venerable talk show host and his wife, Shawn King, are among the producers of this cinematic trifle that proves yet again that Christmas is responsible for more bad movies than any other holiday on the planet.

It's hard to entirely resist the film's cheerful self-awareness of its limitations or the committedly loony performances by the performers who seem to be having a good time.

A particularly nasty slice of medical-themed horror, Marc Scholermann's film is the sort of thriller in which the tenderest scene depicts an autopsy.

The result is yet another paean to arrested male adolescence that should be mandatory viewing in convents to prevent nuns from thinking of renouncing their vows of celibacy.

Claustrophobic, tedious sci-fi thriller.

Too much of the proceedings are silly rather than horrifying, with the nadir being the appearance of some particularly athletic Yetis who briefly pitch in to lend a hand.

It's a reasonable premise for a horror film, but the execution is remarkably lackluster. The pacing is sluggish to such a point that viewers may quickly fear that they too will fall asleep and meet Mara themselves.

Although earnest to a fault and certainly fulfilling its goal of being family-friendly entertainment, The Great Alaskan Race ultimately proves less exciting and not nearly as adorable as Balto, the 1995 animated film inspired by the same events.

Wedding Palace is being billed as the first Asian-American romantic comedy and the first U.S.-Korea independent co-production. Too bad, then, that this shrill, unfunny effort from director/co-writer Christine Yoo features such broad clichés and stereotypical characters that it doesn’t exactly reflect well on the Korean-American community.

Unfortunately, Sex, Death and Bowling is as ungainly and overstuffed as its title, filled with enough dysfunctional family drama and quirky indie comedy tropes to fuel an entire film festival.

Ultimately, the film staggers under the weight of its pretensions, its plot spiraling into murky illegibility.

Unfortunately, settings alone don't make a movie, and this cliché-ridden effort feels indistinguishable from the countless similarly themed horror films that have preceded it.

It’s all about as predictable and rote as could be.

This example of the rape-revenge film genre (who knew?) serves up its raw meat for its target audience with reasonable efficiency, although the surplus of ultraviolent fantasy sequences quickly proves wearisome.

Director Jonathan M. Gunn and screenwriters Chuck Konzelman and Cary Solomon are hard-pressed to provide the superfluous characters and situations sufficient depth, with the proceedings featuring enough melodramatic plot developments and homilies to fuel a religious soap opera.

The endless parade of parodistic gags displays no semblance of wit, with the filmmakers content to perfectly ape the silliness of the era's music videos and such fashion statements as wearing a single cross earring.

Most anthology films give you the comfort of knowing that if you don't like one segment, another one will be following in just a few minutes. Berlin, I Love You perversely does the opposite. It makes you nervous that if you don't like one segment, which you surely won't, another mediocre-to-awful one will follow.

Featuring enough stereotypical characterizations and situations to fuel a dozen artificial rom-coms, After the Ball pretty much drops the ball in every aspect.

Veteran television director Greg Berlanti (Riverdale, Everwood), who demonstrated real cinematic talent with Love, Simon, is unable to make any of this remotely convincing or, more problematically, entertaining. The wild tonal shifts leave the viewer in the dust, and not even the two stars are able to make any of it work.

Ultimately Adam & Steve mainly goes to prove that indie gay romantic comedies can be just as witless, vulgar and over the top as their straight, major studio counterparts.

The computer animation proves competent if uninspired, and somehow manages to make even its presumably fail-safe puffins devoid of cuteness.

Unlike so many of Anderson’s efforts, In the Lost Lands isn’t adapted from a video game. But it sure as hell feels like one, and not one that would be fun to play.

Although it displays far more imagination than is usual for such teen-oriented fare, After the Dark ultimately sinks under the weight of its pretensions.

Dead Awake, now receiving a limited theatrical release, is the sort of B-movie effort that so screams "direct to video" that it's a wonder they don't hand you DVDs as you enter the theater.

Unfortunately, the power of the message is diluted by the pedestrian filmmaking, with the overall effect resembling a compendium of public service announcements.

Never rising above the level of generic B-movie, Sleepless represents the sort of disposable fare typically dropped into theaters in January.

Attention, Ben Kingsley (I mean, Sir Ben Kingsley): It's officially time to turn in your Oscar.

Unfortunately, the themes don't resonate in sufficiently powerful fashion to compensate for the film's sluggish pacing and strained melodramatics.

It lacks the wit and charm necessary to interest any but the most undemanding preteen viewers.

Strictly for the most obsessive fans of the series, The Gilligan Manifesto mainly demonstrates the pitfalls of intellectuals having too much time on their hands.

Acts of Violence evaporates from your mind while you're watching it.

If the dreary Mystical Laws was designed by its creating organization as some sort of recruitment tool, then they clearly have a lot to learn from the Scientologists.

As the stuntmen duke it out and we see close-ups of the two actors making silly faces, it's hard not imagine a Mystery Science Theater 3000 feature in the making.

Lacking the stylistic flair provided by del Toro in the original, this sequel directed by Steven S. DeKnight (TV's Daredevil and Spartacus) becomes increasingly tiresome in its cliched plotting and characterizations, hackneyed dialogue and numbingly repetitive, visually incoherent action sequences.

Whatever gothic originality the first Human Centipede possessed is altogether lacking in this sorry follow-up.

In the absence of anything truly original in the screenplay he co-wrote with Juliet Snowden, director Stiles White vainly attempts to ratchet up the tension with a series of cheap jump scares fueled by loud noises that are the cinematic equivalent of shaking hands with someone wearing a joy buzzer.

The overall effect is frustrating, because the performances are generally solid (Breaux delivers a strikingly intense turn as the obsessed Nick) and one can sense the intriguing kernel of an idea that could have proved more successful if the execution had been less tenuous.

This endlessly derivative, nearly unwatchable effort from debuting Italian director Christian Filipella is amateurish on every level.

Despite a fine cast featuring numerous screen veterans, this is a cliché-ridden effort that quickly runs out of gas.

Auggie is purposefully grim in style and execution, moving at a snail's pace and seemingly photographed in drab shades of gray. Although its running time is a mere 81 minutes, the pic seems to last forever.

Featuring appearances by a dizzying assemblage of well-known and estimable performers, A Happening of Monumental Proportions is a perfect example of a bad movie happening to good actors. The problem doesn't stem so much from Greer's helming but rather the painfully unfunny script by Gary Lundy.

Starts out as a potentially interesting psychological thriller before devolving into familiar horror movie tropes.

From its generic title to its familiar child in distress storyline to its hackneyed depiction of things going bump in the night, Out of the Dark is thoroughly forgettable.

The ensuing melodramatic plot developments, which include Lana's little boy suffering a potentially fatal brain injury and Ryan being asked by the Make-A-Wish Foundation to visit sick kids in a hospital, are the stuff of which truly bad movies are made. By the time Ryan makes a death-defying leap over a drawbridge and then makes a spectacular comeback at a championship soccer match, you'll be unlikely to hear the dialogue over the guffawing of the audience.

Boredom has long since settled in by the time gunplay is involved.

Displaying an amateurishness that undercuts even its more promising elements, Hell Mountain is the sort of instantly forgettable cheapie effort that has become all too prevalent in movie theaters and VOD listings. This one is for hard-core horror movie completists only.

For all its visual stylishness, The Carpenter’s Son feels like such an essentially misconceived project that it seems destined for future cult status, with audiences at midnight screenings shouting out the more outrageous lines in unison with the actors. Which may not be what the filmmaker intended, but sounds like a lot of fun.

Attempting to be a cautionary tale for the Airbnb era, the pic squanders its potential with ham-fisted execution.

This is not to say that there isn't plenty of obvious truth and common sense in many of the film's assertions. But then again, even a stopped clock is right twice a day.

Neither the dramatic nor action elements are remotely compelling, with the nearly two-hour running time feeling interminable.

This witlessly antic sex farce about a yuppie substance abuser coping with myriad personal issues during a stint in a rehab facility pretty much fails on every level, other than providing big-screen exposure for a passel of veteran older actors.

The Choice is the cinematic equivalent of staring at a Hallmark Card for two hours.

Film noir is combined with horror to zero effect in Dylan Dog: Dead of Night.

Amateurishly shot, written and acted, the film lacks any redeeming values to compensate for its horrific aesthetic.

Shot before Brie Larson appeared in her breakout film Room, this fish-out-of-water musical set largely in India is the sort of unmitigated disaster that the actress would no doubt have preferred to stay under wraps.

Don’t Sleep practically begs audiences to defy its ill-chosen title.

A tediously unfunny comedy that is chiefly distinguished by the fact that it marks one of the last screen appearances by the late Dennis Farina who steals the film as a Tom Clancy-obsessed, would-be military thriller writer.

Relentlessly unpleasant and nihilistic in its approach and execution, The Divide is best appreciated as a virtual instruction manual on how not to behave during a crisis.

A bizarre mixture of black comedy and horror/suspense, Happy Birthday is a juvenile effort that at least has the decency to make its American and Mexican characters look equally bad.

Judging by the number of Nagels listed in the film's credits, ClownTown would seem to be some sort of family project. A trip to Disneyland's Haunted Mansion would have been a better choice.

Director Magán displays no flair for action sequences, although the budgetary limitations obviously didn't help. Nor does he successfully pull off the dramatic scenes.

The end result doesn't even satisfy on its own sleazy terms. Not only does it lack the satirical nihilism of the "Hostel" films or the admittedly clever torture machinations of the "Saw" series, it doesn't even provide its target young male audience with the requisite nudity.

A lame would-be comedy that wouldn’t be any funnier even if you were smoking the most powerful weed on the planet while watching it, Doobious Sources is a total bummer, man.

Suffering from tonal inconsistency and all-too-familiar thematic elements, as well as an absurd framing device whose logic is not even consistently maintained, Locker 13 hardly deserves being opened.

Awful Nice, about two perpetually warring brothers, grates on the nerves from first moment to last.

Featuring endless scenes of multitudes of women baring their breasts in public in various areas of New York City, Free the Nipple is an unfortunately tone-deaf and poorly executed drama that doesn't exactly help its cause championed by the celebrity likes of Miley Cyrus and Lena Dunham.

An L.A. Minute simply recycles clichés in an unconvincing matter that smacks more of sitcom tropes than the big screen.

Completely lacking in visual, narrative or stylistic coherence, the film also suffers from cheap-looking visual effects and poorly staged and edited action sequences that will not exactly please the fanboys.

It’s the sort of self-regarding, preachy documentary that should be sold in health food stores, not shown in theaters.

Writer-director Bilandic fails to infuse the painfully thin proceedings with any narrative momentum or comic flair, resulting in an oppressive weirdness for weirdness' sake.

The not so fair and balanced film might have made its religious themes palatable if it worked reasonably well as a thriller. But director/screenwriter Lusko shows no flair for the genre, his muddled execution lacking any sense of pacing or suspense.

The clunky narrative doesn’t ring true for a second, and the hackneyed dialogue is even worse.

By-the-numbers retread.

14 Cameras is another pointless exercise that equates sliminess with terror. The film is creepy, all right, but not in a way that proves remotely edifying.

What seemed sharp and pointed onstage comes across pedantically in the film, which treats its subject with a clumsy heavy-handedness.

A hopelessly muddled, tedious exercise that barely manages an interesting moment despite its plethora of violence and gore. As usual, Rockwell gives it his all, but he's unable to rescue the film from being instantly forgettable.

Writer-directors Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer basically reprise the tired formula from their earlier efforts, which is to throw in as many pop culture references as possible to cover up the lack of any real wit.

There have been films that treated Nazi doctors conducting evil experiments in concentration camps more sympathetically.

Unfortunately akin to going to a dance club stone cold sober and wearing ear plugs. You get the gist of the general experience, but euphoria is far, far away.

This overlong and amateurish effort only serves to demonstrate that noble intentions and sincerity aren't enough to make for compelling drama.

More scares are induced by the creepy soundtrack composed by Slash and Nicholas O'Toole than by the perfunctory special effects.

This is the sort of movie in which even the opening credits, which continue until nearly the half-hour mark, are unbearably pretentious.

A desperately strained comedy.

While the original was no classic, it had a few mild laughs and the plus-sized actor displayed a certain buffoonish charm. Such is not the case with this painfully unfunny, slapdash follow-up in which the title character is so relentlessly obnoxious that you'll be cheering for the villains.

Its Hitchcockian aspirations are sabotaged by a tendency towards lurid melodrama that is more laughable than chilling.

Mister America proves a witless, one-note political satire whose deficiencies are even more glaring when such humor feels entirely redundant to our current state of affairs.

The action is nearly relentless, only occasionally interrupted by humorless, tedious exposition, but despite the freneticism it’s almost all completely boring.

Whatever sociological interest it engenders is smothered by its hamfisted execution, including stubbornly lugubrious pacing, overly self-conscious performances and awkward dialogue and voice-over narration that all too bluntly lays out its themes.

It's all very familiar in that Blair Witch kind of way, with neither the characters nor situations proving remotely interesting.

Despite its copious nudity, it is less likely to incite lust among its viewers than a strong desire for a long hot shower.

This low-rent, convoluted tale about a young woman returning home to solve the mystery of her mother’s violent death is amateurish to the extreme.

The latest entry in the "This film is so bad we're not screening it for critics" genre.

An awkward mixture of melodrama and whimsical romantic comedy that should make the briefest of appearances in theaters before, like its main character, moving on to other planes. It might serve a valuable purpose if it at least prompts viewers to finally schedule those long delayed colonoscopies.

Gallo displays none of the screenwriting elan he's exhibited in such previous efforts as Midnight Run and the Bad Boys films, although here it's hard to separate the ponderous dialogue from the way it's delivered.

There’s nary an amusing or unpredictable moment in the film.

Tedious, visually unsatisfying, poorly acted and narratively disjointed, Area 51 is a textbook example of directorial sophomore slump.

Coming across as more than a little desperate in its unrelenting freneticism, Think Like a Man Too possesses none of the charm of its predecessor. By the time the seemingly endless film reaches its conclusion, you’ll wish that what happened in Vegas had stayed in Vegas.

Director Conor Allyn’s idea of enhancing a fight scene is employing such stale devices as freeze frames and split screens.

While its provocative themes certainly bear exploring in our sex-obsessed societal landscape, The Olivia Experiment is too superficial and cliche-ridden to make them resonate, and its attempts at humor fall thuddingly flat.

Failing to provide any backstory or psychological motivation for the killer’s actions, the film essentially devolves into torture porn.

The only thing it delivers is unrelenting tedium. Every aspect of the production proves so amateurishly realized that it begins to feel a put-on, although the humor seems to be strictly unintentional.

Bad movies are bad. Bad theater is worse. But bad movies resembling bad theater are perhaps worst of all.

Long on mood but short on just about everything else, this would-be thriller directed by David Jacobson is as boring as it is baffling.

As ineptly directed by Robby Henson, the violent (but not too graphically so) goings-on are largely incoherent, with matters not helped by subpar performances, laughably inane dialogue and cheap CGI effects.

Schilling the director proves even less adept than Schilling the screenwriter, bathing the melodramatic proceedings in an overbearing musical score more appropriate for a daytime soap.

While the 1986 edition was no classic, it's light years better than this update, which naturally opened without being screened for those ultimate villains, the critics.

An action comedy that nearly renders the term an oxymoron, Killers is devoid of suspense and laughs.

Director Patrick Lussier and co-screenwriter Todd Farmer were previously responsible for such enjoyable guilty pleasures as "My Bloody Valentine" and "Drive Angry." Unfortunately, their latest collaboration, Trick, is definitely no treat.

The real crime, rather, is how utterly boring it all is.

A low-rent, post-apocalyptic sci-fi tale that doesn't succeed as either homage or parody of such obvious inspirations as the Mad Max series, Future World proves as original as its title

Best viewed as a glossy advertisement for the venerable military academy that is its focus, Field of Lost Shoes doesn’t exactly score points for objectivity.

What the film doesn’t have is anything resembling a compelling narrative.

The funniest bit involves a particularly sadistic brand of torture that he inflicts on Hannah.... She quite rightly screams in protest, as should anyone forced to watch this movie.

The sketchy characterizations, laughable dialogue and less-than-stellar performances by the formidable cast, all of whom have done far better work in the past, provide further reasons why Darkness should never have seen the light of day.

Marred by juvenile humor and ersatz emotion, the film, directed by Pitipol Ybarra, is so bad that an even worse Hollywood remake seems inevitable.

Directed and scripted in boring, incoherent fashion by Francesco Cinquemani, Andron brings new meaning to the word "derivative."

Exploiting the serious issue of homelessness for the purpose of cheap romantic melodrama, Other People's Children squanders whatever potential it might have had.

Cursed, a modern-day werewolf tale that fails to provide either Craven's trademark chills or Williamson's trademark satirical wit, is a distinctly subpar film that, but for the current boxoffice streak enjoyed by such formulaic genre entries, deserved to go direct to video.

The lame gags, ineptly staged, don't produce anything in the way of genuine laughs, though there is the occasional funny line.

Neither impressive enough to prove inspiring or campy enough to be entertaining, Samson is as underwhelming as its title character if he went bald.

Veterans Englund and Shaye admirably give it their all, but their best efforts are not enough to elevate the subpar material directed in mechanical fashion by Zariwny.

Clearly aiming for high artistic ground, the film doesn't even satisfy on an arousal level, with the discreet nudity and endless yakking not exactly proving a turn-on.

The film is so ridiculously overwrought that it makes the Madea films look subtle by comparison.

Erotic thrillers are a time-tested genre, but this effort, scripted by Wesley Strick, is neither erotic nor thrilling.

Fails to live up to even the feeble potential of its premise.

Although there's a long cinematic tradition of mixing comedy with scares to excellent effect — Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein being a prime example — this lackluster effort manages to be neither funny nor scary.

This overstuffed, witless and bloated stillborn $140 million epic is unlikely to spawn the studio's intended franchise — unless, as is so often the case, international audiences come to the box-office rescue.

Featuring endless scenes that defy credibility..Any Day truly succumbs to mawkishness in its final act.

Ironically, the most original aspect of Maximum Impact is its title. Somehow, it has never been used for an action movie before, despite sounding like every one ever made. And after this, it may never be used again.

In its tiresome attempts to send up its star's image and not take itself too seriously, the film becomes exceedingly laborious.

The film is nearly unendurable.

A painfully unfunny, would-be comedy.

Derivative to such a degree that it seems almost a parody of its genre that has lost significant box-office steam, Maximum Ride is so ineptly executed that it might as well feature its own Mystery Science Theater 3000 soundtrack.

Featuring a non-stop barrage of gross-out effects depicting the substances that its title would indicate, this low-brow horror film is mainly suitable for audiences desperately pining for yet another "Toxic Avenger" sequel.

An experimental, transgressive work that pretty much fails on every level, A Hole in My Heart, depicting the efforts of a trio of amateur porn filmmakers, eventually will be considered a minor footnote to a talented director's career. In the meantime, it's the audience members that will have to suffer.

Unfortunately, the R rating will prohibit the target audience -- namely teenage boys who find penis jokes endlessly hilarious - from seeing this relentlessly unfunny and vulgar effort until it shows up on video and cable.

This stupefying dull mockumentary purports to explore themes of media manipulation and political propaganda, but whatever points it’s attempting to make are buried amidst the ponderous goings-on that will result in a quick exit from theaters.

Featuring unlikeable characters, preposterously contrived plotting, ham-fisted dialogue and strained attempts at poeticism, Among Ravens is a misfire on every level.

The film lazily directed by Warren P. Sonoda barely manages to squeeze a single laugh into its interminable 112-minute running time.

Making their previous vehicles Step Brothers and Talladega Nights seem the height of comic sophistication by comparison, Holmes & Watson features the duo parodying Arthur Conan Doyle's famous characters to devastatingly unfunny effect.

Tell Me How I Die doesn't even have the smarts to be snappily paced. By the time the seemingly endless film reaches its conclusion, the title will seem like wish fulfillment.

This faith-based drama "inspired by true events" (a phrase that hereafter has lost all its meaning) manages to be dumb on so many levels that, well, it simply has to be taken on faith.

There's nary a believable moment, emotionally or otherwise, in No Postage Necessary, which also suffers from its overly treacly musical score composed by Closshey. The film bears as much relation to real life as cryptocurrency does to hard cash.

A deadly earnest polemic whose good intentions are smothered by its inept execution.

Whatever doubts the viewer may share about the true circumstances of this tragic event are quickly erased by the ineptness with which the story is dramatized.

None of the characters,--whether human, fantastical, or anthropomorphically animal—prove remotely engaging. And the cheap animation, the sort of low-grade CGI endemic to endless direct-to-video efforts, proves visually unappealing.

It can be definitively stated that Dirty Grandpa is utterly unfunny.

A dreary indie ensemble drama about six thirtysomethings coping with the emotional aftermath of their friend's suicide, the ultra-talky and static Walking on the Sky would barely pass muster as an Off-Off-Broadway offering.

Sorry, but you need to have something to think about during this latest edition of a franchise that is dead creatively if certainly not commercially.

It's all about as dreary as the constant rainfall featured as part of the Portland, Ore., setting, and the director, when he's not leeringly photographing his leading lady's naked body in the shower, vainly tries to up the scare ante by periodically raising the soundtrack volume to intolerable levels.

This is a film so bad that not only was it not screened in advance for critics, it's publicists wouldn't even provide background information. It might as well have been entered into the Witness Protection Program.

One of the most egregiously awful horror films in recent memory.

The Walking Deceased is strictly DOA.

It's completely undone by its terrible screenplay, inept direction, oppressive musical score and muddy visual palette.

Barely qualifies as late-night cable television fodder.