Joe Neumaier

The Transporter Refueled should be put up on blocks.

Hitman: Agent 47 is a by-the-numbers schlock action sequel that writes its own epitaph when a character mutters the dusty insult, “You’re dead, too. You just don’t know it yet.”

Shocking. Horrific. Stunning. The plot twists in Final Girl? No, the fact that the movie itself was even made — and that Abigail Breslin is in it.

It’s slow, lethargic, utterly lacking in charm and undeserving of the Cold War setting that is its best trait.

One of 2015’s dullest.

Someone forgot to put anything fantastic into Fantastic Four.

Every joke is lame, every special effect unspecial.

Director Kyle Patrick Alvarez’s film underserves its cast of up-and-comers (Thomas Mann, Ezra Miller, Tye Sheridan), allows the usually solid actor Michael Angarano to go astray with a scenery-chewing role and buries Crudup in fretting and sanctity. Worse, the experiment’s inherent drama is exacted with a tin ear and a cheesy style.

Irrational Man plays, like so much of Woody Allen’s work over the past 20 years, like a bad Woody Allen parody.

Laughable/Bad

The brooding and emotional prickliness gets overwhelming. Kidman tries her best to flesh out her character, but writer-director Kim Farrant gives this still-undervalued actress little to do.

“Holiday” is more palatable than similar, American-bred films like “The Family Stone” or This is Where I Leave You. Still, once Connolly’s sad-eyed, hippie-ish cancer sufferer is gone, there’s little reason to keep going.

Director Benni Diez tries for schlock shocks in this giant-bug flick. Sadly, what’s left out here is the fun.

One achievement of James Cameron’s “Terminator” is that it overcame its low-rent, B-movie trappings. The great sin of “Genisys” is that it costs millions and yet isn’t worth a dime.

Corey Stoll is the only reason to sit through this muddled Jersey-set drama.

Dullness, as well as hoary preachiness, neuters the family-and-their-war-dog drama Max.

This mashup of a teenage assassin lark and high school misfit comedy misses the chance to add a supercool heroine to pop culture.

San Andreas is a disaster — literally. That’s not to take a piece out of Dwayne (The Rock) Johnson. His charm and family-man-style fearlessness as the movie’s star is the only saving grace in this thuddingly repetitive, badly written crash-a-thon.

Its creepy atmosphere aside, Maggie is a slog of the living dead.

Hot Pursuit gets cold quickly. That’s certainly not the fault of stars Reese Witherspoon and Sofia Vergara, who work to keep this blessedly brief action-comedy shaking and cruising to an unthrilling end. The blame lies with a dopey script, director Anne Fletcher and a lazy Hollywood assumption that female buddy flicks should be as half-assed as their male counterparts.

Travolta’s face looks immobile, while Plummer and Jennifer Ehle, as Cutter’s estranged, strung-out wife, look out of place. Sheridan (“The Tree of Life”), though, does seems comfortable in a movie where the colors blur sloppily.

The former “Friends” star clearly wanted something special, but sadly the result is ... this.

James' everyman appeal is stretched to the limits here, like that polyester shirt he wears.

This film, though, lacks any spine. Director Jean-Baptiste Leonetti isn’t sure if he’s making a Hemingway-lite faceoff or a hemmed-in horror flick.

This Australian movie reminds you what can happen when directors pretend to be Quentin Tarantino, complete with snark masquerading as style, slippery timelines, blood and guts and guns everywhere.

If this is your particular poison, it won’t kill you. But anyone averse to Sparks’ sappy touch may get sick from all the bull.

Get Hard isn’t edgy enough to be offensive or witty enough to be challenging. It’s just dumb.

The movie is played fast but lacks wit. The script, written by Kristin Gore — daughter of Al, and author of the book on which it’s based — mistakes frantic for funny.

Every scene is entwined in clunkiness.

Fatigue is all we get from Run All Night.

Unfinished Business squanders almost every opportunity provided by its potentially funny premise. Instead, it becomes yet another blotch on star Vince Vaughn’s résumé.

What on earth is Salma Hayek doing starring in this exploitative, junky piece of torture trash?

Will Smith may have run through every trick in his bag. In Focus, the one-time fresh prince and former box-office champ looks tired, bored and, even worse, uninspired.

This version of the time machine is more powerful — it’s made me go back and hate the original.

Talk about lost in space. The whacked-out outer-space melodrama Jupiter Ascending has embedded in its genes the DNA of “Barbarella” and “Flash Gordon,” some dust from “Dune” and even a bit of Michael Jackson’s Disneyland short “Captain Eo.”

All the men's wives are shrews, prigs or doormats; all the conquests doe-eyed blonds with sucked-in cheeks. All the dialogue is as witty as this exchange: "You're a sick f---!" "No, you're a sick f---!" They're all sick f---s, frankly, and the actors are dreadful while playing them.

It’s Fatal Attraction 101.

Even Liam Neeson seems bored by the imbecilic, repetitive “Taken 3,” an action movie no one was clamoring for and no one will enjoy.

This eye-rollingly bad movie is silly, sluggish and miscast.

This is a perfect example of the kind of indie movie J.K. Simmons will hopefully never have to do again if he wins an Oscar for “Whiplash.”

From junky production values to the parade of unfunny supporting characters to its lazy energy, Dumb and Dumber To falls on its face.

Preposterous things are everywhere in this lethargic thriller.

Director Jake Paltrow’s stark sense of place fades as familiar genre elements are introduced. It winds up like “There Will Be Blood,” but with H2O, not oil. It’s food for thought, nothing more.

This one has a screenplay by Stephen King, adapting his own short story. Unfortunately, that can’t save this low-budget thriller.

No Good Deed is an example of the worst kind of exploitative thriller — and it’s being released during the worst possible week.

The Expendables 3 lets down its cast with a film that’s about as thrilling as the arrival of a monthly Social Security check.

The cloddish, confusing action scenes make no sense. Young viewers’ eyes will glaze from the first-person video-game style. Nonaction scenes feature people sniping at each other, or, in Arnett’s case, croaking out the script’s half-assed witticisms, until the Turtles show up.

The movie’s ennui feels like so much posing, and the Bret Easton Ellis-lite characters are monotone. It’s rich in effort, but it all comes to diminishing returns.

If you're not an 11-year-old boy, or a grown-up in the mood to feel like one, the endless "wow!-that-car-is-now-a-deep-voiced-robot" scenes lack thrill. In fact, the action scenes, as in the previous films, are downright headache-inducing.

Polanski views things so mischievously that the naughtiness is neutered long before sniveling Thomas is tied to a pole. He’s a captive not only to Vanda, but also to all the dull, reductive mind games.

Neighbors stakes its claim in suburban-property cliches. Given the dull, stale results, maybe the end of the world was a better fit.

There are some nice moments of camaraderie, as Feldman and Imperioli do their laid-back thing and Fisher is feisty and warmhearted. Still, the let’s-all-talk-at-once actorliness wears thin. It’s just not worth the mood swings.

The film is put together too choppily to appreciate the bounce-off-walls athleticism of parkour. That’s a shame, since “District 13” star Belle is known as a founder of the sport.

This kind of thing requires a velvet touch, though director Stanley M. Brooks hits only hammer-heavy notes.

The result: a dangerously cracked creep flick.

Here we go again. Danish director Lars von Trier has pumped out Nymphomaniac: Vol II just a few weeks after “Vol. I” came out. And the results are the same: zero stars.

The problem with this hyper-verbal comedy is in the title.

Fine actors are let down by a comatose script and wayward direction in this retro crime drama.

Danish director Lars von Trier makes this tale of one woman’s banal sexual adventures into inadvertent comedy. The film makes an analogy between sex and fly-fishing — and fly-fishing comes off as more intriguing.

This movie is so dumb for most of its running time, you walk away wishing there was less plot and pointless posing and more of the fuel-injected coolness that brought you to the multiplex in the first place.

When people complain about movies glutting the market, this moronic “Black Swan”-meets-“Phone Booth” thriller is what they mean.

The only saving grace is Green, the reigning witch-queen of cinema. The smoky-eyed French actress, best known for “Casino Royale,” “The Golden Compass” and “Dark Shadows,” throws her all into the performance, going bare-chested at times, bared-teeth at others. She’s like Elizabeth Taylor’s "Cleopatra" possessed by a succubus — which is a good thing. Without her, 300: Rise of an Empire would be bloodless and brainless.

It only comes alive when the star briefly shows the casual looseness that once was his calling card.

It’s impossible to find anything that grabs you in Pompeii. This lumpen adventure with a misguided romance buries anything in the disaster-flick genre that might have been a blast.

The remake of the 1987 cult actioner Robocop is a misguided failure — not only because its retooled half-man/half-machine hero now has emotions, but also because its “fear the machines” message winds up feeling creaky.

Far from burning bright, this earnest indie starts out dull and gets duller.

This ludicrously written, buffoonishly acted, irritatingly filmed sword-and-sandals epic hasn't half the sand, sweat or saltiness of other titles in the genre.

Cranston, in a fake beard and dark glasses, seems to be enjoying his goofy act. Trouble is, this isn’t the kind of movie in which goofy earns goodwill.

This Canadian Hamlet, completed years ago, is as airless as a tomb.

The concept is the same, and just as tired as it was when the second, third and fourth sequels to “Paranormal Activity’s” 2009 first installment.

In the monumentally dull 47 Ronin, Reeves mumbles monosyllabic claptrap between dull action scenes. And it’s a shame: At almost 50 years old, the actor allows this turgid, clanky flick to play to his worst stereotypes.

Yes, the film’s CG dinos look great tromping in the Alaskan wilderness, but children deserve better than such unchallenging fare.

Murder on the Orient Express, this ain’t.

A disappointing mess of a genre flick.

This odd Dickens-meets-Sunday-school movie is as artless as the setup is muddled.

Ender’s Game, the book, may have a special place in pop-lit. The movie, however, is as special as a migraine.

Ultimately, Paradise is a tiny version of a saint’s journey among sinners, an immature conception. Peramb-you-later, Lamb.

Machete Kills? “Machete Bores” is more like it.

This nothing-new-here documentary presents basketball’s onetime celebrity point guard in unguarded moments. But the result is banal and fawning, with Lin coming off as a pious, charmless subject.

It’s too bad we can’t take a hit out on The Family. This unexciting, unfunny would-be action satire is filled with Italian-American stereotypes, decades-old TV-style Mafia cliches, bits of business that never amount to anything and actors so much better than the hoary, one-joke material.

Evil babies aren’t exactly fresh meat for parody. Then again, there’s hardly a laugh in this whole hellish thing.

Though Fontaine makes sure the beaches are sun-dappled and the women’s shared house comes off like a sandy paradise, the movie is like the early-’80s groaner “Summer Lovers” with wrinkle lines. Hooray for the freedom and beauty of older women — a demographic that deserves better than the deplorable Adore.

The story feels like quicksand. Riddick, which couldn’t even qualify for proper summer movie placement, moves like Martian molasses and can’t present an action scene to save its life. You’ll wish you had Uncle Martin’s ability to speed people — not to mention awful movies — up.

With no heat at all and a woefully disjointed cast, De Palma’s danse macabre never catches fire.

What’s more depressing: that John Cusack chose the junky, un-exciting serial killer drama The Frozen Ground as his latest step away from John Cusack-y roles, or that Nicolas Cage chose to, at long last, be as un-Cage-like as possible?

The missed opportunities in Austenland are more numerous than dowry-less sourpusses at a ball in a Jane Austen novel.

Paranoia’s twitchiness is like an actual twitch: it’s contrived and clunky, and you forget it in an instant.

It's nothing special. Which sort of makes it a loser all the way 'round. Expect a sad afterlife for it on cable.

Bening and Dillon are equally misused, and the rest of the cast is frankly just annoying. Like Imogene’s early promise, Girl Most Likely is likely to be forgotten quickly. The sooner the better.

The always beguiling Radha Mitchell can’t save this stunted procedural-horror combo.

Whether one thinks Only God Forgives is laughably awful — like, for instance, “Showgirls,” “The Color of Night” or “Battlefield: Earth” — or just plain terrible awful depends, appropriately, on how much you’re willing to forgive it.

Travolta, who was more believable as a middle-aged housewife in “Hairspray” than he is as a former Serbian commando, has the accent down pat. But his Boris-and-Natasha-style syntax seems to represent Killing Season best. Just imagine that voice saying: Dees ees very seelly movie. Catch on cable TV, please.

Laudable as its world-building is, the film drags not just in its interminable middle hour, but also during the redundant monster-on-mechawarrior smackdowns.

What starts as a creepy, original conceit — mysterious Caesarean-section abductions during hospital stays — devolves quickly into standard talk-to-the-camera, jump-at-the-sounds, found-footage banality.

This smart-looking but empty adventure — with a hero that looks more Tom Ford than John Ford — suffers from a shambling script, shifting tones and a surplus of villains. Clunky and drawn out, “Ranger” shoots blanks, even with the star power of Johnny Depp behind it.

Even in shabbily put together dramedies, such as this one, there can be a glimmer of light. Here it’s Christine Lahti’s anguished, nuanced turn as a wife and mother excited to begin a new phase with her husband.

This poor man’s Norman Bates, though, doesn’t make us wonder what makes him tick; he makes us want to shut our eyes.

It is no summer thriller. It’s an anemic actioner that fosters excitement like dead limbs as it lumbers toward a conclusion.