Kevin Maynard

Plays out like a raunchy episode of "Felicity."

Why waste the price of a movie ticket when you can see wildebeests cavorting for free from the comfort of your own recliner?

Offers little in the way of splendor in the grass.

A chronic snore. My advice: Roll a fatty and re-rent the first one.

Black, who is creatively marooned in the thankless Chris Farley fat-boy role, deserve better, and so do we.

So desperate to be rebellious and cool, that it's impossible to see it as anything more than one big case of "been there, done that" -- even if your drugs have already kicked in.

The film's greatest flaw is its miscast leads, who conjure up zero dewy-eyed, wish-fulfillment magic.

The total lack of sexual chemistry between them doesn't help. Frankly, I'd rather see Scott Thomas play a nun than sit through another one of these turgid romancers.

The narrative disjointedness is not at all relieved by confusing editing, an uncertain tone, and a dragging pace that makes the film a progressively dreary experience.

Plays like mediocre outtakes from better bell-bottomed fare (Richard Linklater's authentic, seriocomic "Dazed and Confused"; Fox's "That '70s Show") without making any kind of impression of its own.

Plays out like a raunchy, substandard WB soap.

This is a second-rate Woody Allen midlife crisis comedy without the laughs.

Limp satire isn't worthy of its good intentions.

The biggest piece of supernatural hooey since estranged wife Demi Moore's "The Seventh Sign."

This is one of those movies in which there are only two types of people: officious yuppie pricks, and the beautiful folks who stop and smell the daisies. What keeps it (barely) from being completely intolerable is Keanu Reeves' hilariously awful lead performance.

Populated with whiny, unappealing characters that are impossible to care about and flatly staged sitcomish set-pieces...this lame Canadian import's a real woofer.

Duller-than-a-Vitalife-convention compilation of talking heads.

Skeet Ulrich continues to disappoint in one high-profile project after another.

A vanity vehicle for the dubious acting talents of Pras.

The film's title accurately captures the sensation of sitting through it -- stay home.

Psychological thrillers depend on convincing audiences to suspend disbelief, but this one doesn't manage that for a moment.

Frankly, there wouldn't have been enough shtick here to warrant an SNL skit. And if the material isn't even up to those standards, then who the hell green-lit it as a feature?

This is sub-par Aaron Spelling sludge all the way.

Has a blithe tone and a capable cast, but Veber's script is 100 percent laugh-free.

This is nothing more than a bare-assed fart in the face of Smith's fans.

Take the G out of Glitter and it's litter.

This self-consciously kooky road movie about an unusual trio of bank robbers aims for Hal Ashby misanthropy, but hasn't a single emotionally grounded or plausible moment to justify its purely cinematic eccentricities.

Houston, we have a problem. It's called The Astronaut's Wife and it's an utterly predictable rip-off of classic '60s and '70s exercises in paranoia, from "Rosemary's Baby" to "The Parallax View."

Giuseppe Tornatore has long been a master of cheap sentiment ("Cinema Paradiso," " The Legend of 1900"), but his latest film is his most shallow, reprehensible exercise in nostalgia to date.

The film's a vacuous bore.

This talky, self-important flick is a bore of biblical proportions.

Hard to watch -- not because of its unflinching realism, but rather for its mawkish reliance on every boy hooker flick from "Midnight Cowboy" to "Johns."

Should be shot at sunrise. Or strung up by the neck from a tall tree. Or at least run out of town by a big posse.

The backdrop of exotic pagodas and wartime woe isn't nearly potent enough to buoy the feeble drama that plays out in the foreground.

Slow as a funeral dirge, the movie's all talk about art and passion and obsession without anything to show for it.

A preachy, monotonous failure hyped as a follow-up to his incendiary 1991 debut, "Boyz N the Hood."

Such a witless, bombastic, by-the-numbers hunk of millennial hooey it made me nostalgic for Commando. This one throws in every hoary hellfire cliché.

Crude and witless.

Strives for folksy charm but ends up just lying there like a plate of kippers.

As intriguing as the premise sounds, Mission to Mars hasn't a single moment of real suspense.

Hellish matrimonial misfire.

It's "Shampoo," 30 years after. What a surprise, then, that this effort ranks lower even than the Steve Martin remake of "The Out-of-Towners."

Who the heck green-lit this garbage heap anyway?

It's a sugar rush that'll leave you feeling like a rotten cavity.

I'd rather go on an all-Crisco diet than sit through Poor White Trash again.

Love & Sex is nothing but pain and suffering.

This grade-Z programmer is a painfully earnest, clichéd, amateurish waste of time.