Lisa Alspector

Seems like a miscalculation on multiple levels.

Failed romantic comedy.

Until the diverting special effects take center stage, this story, about an alien intelligence that builds an army out of flesh and metal, pathetically exploits genre conventions without generating self-reference, camp, or thrills.

This mildly moody SF thriller belabors standard dramatic conceits involving jealousy and sexual betrayal.

The characters seem both reduced and idealized, and the plot has turns a dispassionate dramatist would avoid.

Writer-director Peter Greenaway never uses narrative lightly...references to the act of filmmaking exhaust their impact pretty quickly.

Its ponderous explanations about why there are vampires in Arizona in the new millennium (blah, blah, blah).

The story is painfully slow.

A promotional tool that establishes its superfluousness simply by existing, this clumsy, smirking movie has a bitter soul.

Not particularly sensitive or funny comedy-drama.

Ill conceived or badly handled.

Isn't absurd enough to be funny.

Jamal (Martin Lawrence), starts trying to make the best of a bad situation, which becomes our job too.

Excruciatingly earnest yet convictionless movie.

Ugly Americans in Paris have run-ins with the native werewolf culture in this horror-for-laughs story, in which the characters' stupidity and the deadpan acting are out of sync--instead of being campy or clever, the plot and performances are just unconvincing.

Poorly paced action comedy.

Stylish but insubstantial thriller .

The labored storytelling in this movie about displaced ambition diminishes the impact of the powerful performances.

The filmmakers uphold an unfortunate tradition in movies based on TV shows by busily adding superfluous plot elements.

The writers must have racked their brains for the formula: two parts other movies to one part childhood revenge fantasies

Nearly toothless 1998 existential drama.

Adam Sandler displays no virtuosity and stirs no pathos in this special-effects comedy.

A euphemism for the right of anyone to make movies just as awful as those of big studios.

The insultingly trendy post-postmodern tale rationalizes its own product placement by using overkill.

It makes me sick all over again just describing this--the most affecting scene in a sluggish would-be comedy that reflects the dubious state of the art of fat male comedians exploiting themselves in 1997, the year its star died.

Formula thriller that exploits homosexuality better than murder-mystery clues.

Corky never becomes sympathetic, and without this fundamental irony the movie doesn't have a leg to stand on.