Megan Lehmann

Prywes has produced a technically accomplished nostalgia piece on a shoestring budget, but the plotting is too sitcom-lite to support its aspirations to magic realism.

Combined with the eyestrain produced by the cheap cardboard 3-D glasses, the resulting vertigo is decidedly unpleasant -- although having moon rocks and blobs of cream pie flying out from the screen is kinda cool in a retro way.

Bart Everly followed Frank around for two years, yet his film seems to consist mostly of regurgitated C-Span and news footage from the period, interspersed with asides from the outspoken liberal.

Seems to exist solely to drive this observation home in the most heavy-handed way.

See it only for Paul Bettany's performance.

At some point, all this visual trickery stops being clever and devolves into flashy, vaguely silly overkill.

Violent and unoriginal actioner.

A well-intentioned, semi-autobiographical pastiche, is trapped in a straitjacket of political correctness, self-conscious acting and spurts of try-hard dialogue that come off as precious.

Not as vile as "Sleepover," nor as tangy as "Mean Girls."

What is astonishing is that husband-and-wife writers Wally Wolodarsky (who also directed) and Maya Forbes, with combined credits that include "The Simpsons" and "The Larry Sanders Show," could churn out something this nasty and ludicrous.

The worst crime perpetrated in the Swiss-cheese screenplay by Gerald Di Pego ("Angel Eyes") is the cynical use of a mother's love for her child as a plot device for an intelligence-insulting sci-fi dud.

For a movie that's trumpeted as providing a probing look beyond the comic's onstage patter, there's an awful lot of onstage patter -- and what nasty, hateful stuff it is.

There's a hint of nostalgia toward the end, with Jason encountering two nubile female campers in a virtual reality Camp Crystal Lake -- but it merely serves as a reminder that the franchise should have quit while it was ahead.

Despite a crafty premise and a clever kink in the tale that almost saves it, Connolly isn't dexterous enough to achieve the Hitchockian level of suspense the movie needs.

Vivid visuals can't save an insipid plot.

A rote exercise in both animation and storytelling.

It's so gosh-darned darling it almost turns your stomach.

One of the silliest, most sieve-like screenplays of the year.

Can be summed up by the fact that Ashton Kutcher, making a glorified cameo as a narcissistic model-slash-actor, is the best thing in it.

There are more misses than hits among the myriad plot strands that make up the sweaty Spanish sex comedy KM.0.

First-time director Ed Solomon has corralled a stellar cast for his indie drama Levity -- and then put them through paces as plodding as a draft horse's.

There's little action in this snail-paced bore, you'll need a high-powered magnifying glass to spot the comedy and the "buddies" have about as much chemistry as a pair of wet socks.

It wouldn't matter so much that this arrogant Richard Pryor wannabe's routine is offensive, puerile and unimaginatively foul-mouthed if it was at least funny.

An exercise in drudgery... The whole thing is so patently uninteresting it's hard to see it as anything but a Douglas family vanity project.

The promising tension between Gypsy and the arrogant Lucian never amounts to much, and the climax is comically melodramatic.

Anselmo handles sensitive issues not with kid gloves, but with a metaphorical baseball mitt, fumbling with tone and obviously laboring to force quirks upon characters and situations.

The script is so overstuffed with painfully obvious clues (the constant patina of sweat on the cocky doctor's face, for one) that we don't need the ominous rumbles on the soundtrack to tell us where we're headed.

Boasts one of the most ludicrous plots ever committed to digital video.

Clayburgh is the most dignified thing about this dreadfully overwrought, often preposterous romantic comedy.

This furious finger-pointer's doc is so one-sided, it undermines its own integrity.

The finished product looks like it was thrown together during a lunch break -- by a drunk person. The level of ineptitude on display in this urban version of "Three Men and a Baby" is simply gobsmacking.

Presumably, Deville wants to show life returning to normal after WWII, but in the context of this inert movie, "normal" equals "tedious."

Psst! Wanna vicariously experience a consciousness-raising LSD trip and watch Sarah Michelle Gellar star in some explicit sex scenes?

The film is lousy with cartoonishly off-putting characters.

The documentary's director, Arnon Goldfinger, may have had a chance of expanding on the limited audience for such a film if said clan, the Bursteins, exhibited either talent or likability.

There's obviously some philosophical comment on the alienating effects of ho-hum toil buried somewhere in this weird mess, which features an irritating, theremin-heavy score. But can you be bothered stifling a yawn and searching for meaning? I would prefer not to.

Enough to give you brain strain -- and the pay-off is negligible.

It's really just about a bunch of pathetic losers whiling away the hours with their hands jammed down their pants.

It all falls apart when the Wendigo unleashes its fury - no doubt upset at being neutered to look about as frightening as Bambi.

A stinker.

Incoherent, laugh-free comedy.

Lurches so wildly and meaninglessly between genres and time frames that all it creates is motion sickness.

The gay sex scenes that punctuate Eloy de la Iglesia's limp Spanish comedy, Bulgarian Lovers, are frequent and graphic, and it often seems as if the lackluster story exists solely to showcase them.

Riddick-ulous.

It's awkward, listless and fails to reach any sort of climax.

An exercise in cynicism every bit as ugly as the shabby digital photography and muddy sound.

Tedious and obnoxiously manipulative.

It's just another discordant note in this tone-deaf movie -- a trashy, exploitative, thoroughly unpleasant experience.

Kicks off as a cheap piece of retro schlock and quickly devolves into a putrid bloodbath with a thin narrative made utterly indecipherable by the first-time director's clueless approach to filmmaking.

A confusing mishmash.

Unfathomable balderdash.

Kicks off with an inauspicious premise, mopes through a dreary tract of virtually plotless meanderings and then ends with a whimper.

The only feeling the character seems capable of is lust -- and when he hits on the male nurse looking after his newborn baby in the hospital, this hollow, unfunny "comedy" moves from merely tedious to nasty.

As if the witless cultural stereotypes weren't bad enough, misogyny is rampant -- bare-breasted women abound, yet the protagonist remains fully clothed while having a bullet removed from his butt.

How do you inject life into a film whose central character is dull, slow, stupid and grim?If you're Arnaud Desplechin, you don't.

Amateurish, irritatingly gabby indie.

Contains much more prosaic ingredients. Like props and sound effects that could have been borrowed from an off-off-Broadway play, a host of painfully strained performances and a plot that's almost unbearably stupid.

This witless action comedy begins to insult the audience's intelligence from the opening scene.

The cheap-looking special effects, embarrassingly clunky attempts at humor and one-dimensional characters are bad enough, but the PG-rated movie's most offensive crime is its uncomfortably lewd interactions between adults and kids.

The family at the center of "Catch" is likable and authentic, but the seriousness of their plight sits uneasily with the shoddily assembled escapist goof it generates.

Nasty, borderline bigoted, stunningly amateurish film.

Not as bad as rumor would have it. It's worse.

Another repulsive, fetishistic trawl through the life and crimes of a serial killer.

Exploitative rubbish.