Kevin Maynard

This is nothing more than one more run-of-the-mill, surprise-free, suspense programmer.

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

Never better than middling, despite its best intentions.

Plays out like a raunchy, substandard WB soap.

All of the interviewees are compelling, whether proudly showing off bruises and bullet holes from on-the-job scuffles, or voicing their opinions about how the profession has changed.

Good old-fashioned romantic entertainment, just restrained enough to skirt schmaltz.

A trifle of a farce fashioned into a '30s musical that gaily trips as much as it lightly skips, but nonetheless marks a welcome return to form.

Wholly predictable and implausible plotting, thin characterizations, and stilted dialogue.

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

Along the way, we end up losing patience with our couple-to-be because they seem too smart to endure the indignities ceaselessly heaped on them.

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

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

The only reason to sit through On the Line is for some entertaining, if fleeting, musical moments.

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.

A watery cocktail of second-rate, Ab Fab-style bitchery and shameless schmaltz.

Features a sexy, appealing cast, especially Guillermo Diaz.

About Lustig's direction. Badly employing all kinds of tricks like alternating film speed, jump cuts, and various color tints, she ultimately overpowers her actors and does in her own film.

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."

Game boys and girls will be disappointed by this fast-paced but shockingly dull adaptation.

Captures the embarrassment of foreplay, but it could use a few lessons in the art of seduction

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

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

Has its funky charms.

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

Starts as light, fluffy fun but becomes so blithely preposterous that it ceases to exist.

For all its pretense of critiquing our tabloid culture, it amounts to much ado about nothing.

It's a coffee-table movie, but what saves it are a couple of performances.Rowlands puts a spin on every line reading, Harris quietly mines regret, and Shields, assured and sexy, has never been this good.

Hellish matrimonial misfire.

The movie is as schmaltzy as I'd feared, and yet De Salvo does elicit some nice performances from her ensemble cast.

On the whole, this documentary is best-suited to hardcore fans.

Like its accordion-filled score, it's nothing but a golden moldie.

Works best as romantic melodrama and is least convincing as a psychological suspenser.

A mockumentary about small-town beauty pageants that's so confidently unfunny it's DOA.

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

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.

Plays out like a raunchy episode of "Felicity."

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

The film has an unabashed romantic tone that's matched by Wenders' usual flair for visual drama.

Offers little in the way of splendor in the grass.

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.

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

Who the heck green-lit this garbage heap anyway?

Engagingly silly sub-"Moonlighting"-style banter.

A sleek rip-off of "The Birds" that is fast, furious, and watchable, but lacking in the two elements most essential to a silly screamfest like this: scares and laughs.

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

A miserable western that is clearly headed downward toward the latter destination.

There's no spirit of adventure to separate this one from the pack.

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

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

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

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?

A vanity vehicle for the dubious acting talents of Pras.

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