Laura Sinagra

Disney misfire.

As a gloves-off Erin Brockovich, Ryan never makes it into the ring.

Less "Freaky Friday" than just plain freaky.

If Martínez-Lázaro, as he reiterated at the Miami Film Festival earlier this year, wants to expand the U.S. Spanish-language film market, one hopes he'll aim higher than this.

Maybe it's the terrible lighting, but Friend-out-of-water Aniston spends most of this flick looking like she needs Dustin Hoffman to bang on the glass and get her out of this mess.

A convoluted writing exercise gone horribly wrong.

If hopeless literalist Kasdan could have decided on a tone this could have been a gynophobe's "Independence Day."

With no irony and no plot beyond Girls Have Band, Voss reduces Kali and Fauna to earnest Janus faces of Hole's schizo aesthetic.

The barf stream of gay jokes, pussy jokes, fat wife jokes, more gay jokes, and walrus penis jokes ends up making you pine for Lucy's gift of forgetting.

The God-squad answer to Todd Graff's "Camp."

Too bad the central bedfellowship never gels, and Franc. Reyes's script turns a dissection of ambition into "Sleeping With the Enemy"-style nonsense.

Another in a line of Dogme half-wits whose madness is posited as a state of tortured grace, the young wife in Kira's Reason is a woman well past the verge.

The new tunes sound like Buster Poindexter mainlining Sweet 'n Low, and at a critically song-starved moment, John Goodman's Baloo admits, "King Louie? He split!" Before the third defibrillation of "Bare Necessities," you and your kids might too.

This charmless nonsense ensues amid clanging film references that make "Jay and Silent Bob's Excellent Adventure" seem understated.

A cockeyed shot all the way.

The film outs itself as a shallow indie "Rambo."

Without a scorcher like Pam Grier, the sub-NYPD Blue dialogue and acting dilute what could have been a shrieking wake-up call about for-profit prisons.

When this flick is honest about its pimping, it has that Rat Pack charm. But attempts at real ruggish posturing--like that de rigueur sideways-gatted, full-body-exposure firing stance--are just plain laughable.

Really, any wit at all would have helped balance the playful but crass butt-seeking money shots.

A movie that's two-thirds flashback (and could have been called "Ex, Ex, Ex, Why?").

Cube is still adorable, but the potentially poppin' battle between the shop and big-box competitor Nappy Cuts gets obscured by sloppy chronology and flat, cartoonish politicos.

Even in the teen-flick "Sweet Valley" of 1987, there were few places outside John Hughes's brain where paying somebody to be your girl didn't look like prostitution. Yet somebody made the Slow-Times-at-Clueless-High stinker Can't Buy Me Love.

Nothing plot-wise is worth e-mailing home about. But director John Polson's surging pace, double-flip edits, nu-metal bash-ins, and copious jump-fucks make a sure-handed tempest in this teacup.

Unlike Reese Wither-your-spoon, stagy Murphy actually does deserve her own "Philadelphia Story," or "Singin' in the Rain." She's obviously a camp genius (see "Clueless," not "8 Mile"), but this dopey script, topped with too-pretty Kutcher's rote 70's Show blowups, ain't it.