Jack Mathews

We're left with virtually no insight into the appeal of a movement that lasted 30 years.

For a much better film about a similar story, rent "The World's Fastest Indian," with Anthony Hopkins on a motorcycle.

Italian actress, writer and director Asia Argento's performance in the godawful Scarlet Diva is one of those bawl, spit, scream and vomit exhibitions that provoke admiring applause in acting classes and great gales of laughter in theaters.

Larry offers enough scatological humor to fertilize the wheat fields in the star's home state of Nebraska.

A record number of movie cliches are strung together for the otherwise forgettable boot-camp drama Annapolis.

This, the 10th and worst-written entry in the series, would have been better if it had followed Dreyfuss instead of Clouseau, or if Kline had been cast as Clouseau instead of Martin.

Possibly the worst idea for a movie this century.

September Dawn, written by an evangelical Christian, may be the worst historical drama ever made.

More than a bad movie, it's an anti-movie.

This is a "What were they thinking?"-size disaster, with the wrong actors in the wrong roles in a project that had no reason to be remade in the USA.

Ishii instills this unpleasantness with some Hitchcockian black humor.

A ponderously slow experience.

Warner Bros. quietly releases Hiller's latest film, Carpool, without advance critics screenings, without more than a whisper of promotion, without warning or apology to the lost souls who might wander in to see it.

Typical of road comedies, it's a pastiche of sketches.

The individual scenes are just random, uninspired riffs by Carvey or awkwardly flat cameos by the likes of Jesse Ventura and Olympic sprinter Michael Johnson.

The result, at best, is a sweet failure.

Eric Steel's documentary has more than a whiff of exploitation about it.

Fonda's performance is a perfect storm of histrionics, and she leaves nothing and no one standing.

Frankly, after watching writer-director Timur Bekmambetov's grim fantasy - the first leg of a trilogy adapted from the sci-fi novels of Sergei Lukyanenko - I'm still a little confused.

The worst performance in a film that diminishes even the talented Stockard Channing is given by Allen. He's never written a more unpleasant, vapid or irredeemable character for himself, and he makes it worse by overplaying.

Wells' vision of the distant future is cartoonishly simplistic without the subtext of British class consciousness that informed the novel.

The second half of Antoine de Caunes' Monsieur N., about the post-exile life and death of Napoleon, plays less like a movie than a suggestion for one. This is a great disappointment because the first half is very cinematic and very compelling.

The result is a performance that is neither funny nor empathetic, and the romance that develops between the dentist and the junkie patient is not strong enough to support the mystery.

This particular script is deplorable. It's a pure cribbing of Ron Bass' screenplay for "Sleeping With the Enemy," which was no prize itself.

Having these characters interact is both the joke and raison d'etre of "League." Its story is beyond banal.

If you approach this movie in the right frame of mind -- that is, with total contempt -- you can still enjoy it as a comedy.

Drifts from goofy situation comedy to pop culture parody to a last-act load of sentiment that would sink a trash barge.

Surely, Vinterberg was high on some inert gas when he embarked on it.