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."