Gregory Weinkauf

With a movie like this, there's no risk of spoiling the ending, because the entire plot is merely a formality trudging toward a foregone conclusion. The viewer's biggest challenge is to survive fits of yawning so violent they could disrupt ornithic migratory patterns.

A shame, this frenetic mess, as there were loads of reasons to be hopeful.

Happily stuck between a rock and the deep blue sea.

With a sneer and a wink, Drowning Mona plunges us into a fresh deluge of idiotic Americana .

The movie climaxes with an entire audience farting -- a more concise review than this one.

It's just that this clunky, inane vehicle sputters barely a few feet down its quaint English highway before you want to bid it "do zvidániya, dumb-ass!"

Doesn't swing, doesn't score, can't make it to first base, never even drags its sorry ass out of the dugout.

A mind of overcooked pasta and a stomach of iron may get you through it, but it really is worth considering how desperately you need cheap chuckles while executive producer Adam Sandler and his favorite charity case laugh all the way to the bank.

Such a remarkable rift between its charming source material and its heinous cinematic realization that the producers may as well have skipped the hassle of securing licensing rights and simply called this mess Mike Myers: A--hole in Fur.

Ultimately it's an ugly, insipid rape fantasy, nothing more.

A strong contender for Worst Picture of All Time.

All in all, the only lesson here is how to irritate. This is a stupid movie for stupid people. If you're a stupid person, knock yourself out. Please

As in the comparatively quaint original film, there are whiffs of greed, carnage, social upheaval and the triumph of the numskull, but it's all rendered noxious nonsense by zooming hot rods, vague T&A, irritating jump-cuts and a bunch of dipshit Power Ranger wannabes slamming in hell's moshpit.