Michelle Orange

As an insult comic, Madea has gone the way of her low-hanging bosom. There's little pleasure in watching her go off, and Perry's direction is reliably drab: Sitcom setups dominate, with strange blown-out lighting occasionally swapped in for the flat tones of a WB soundstage.

Over-narrated by Kiefer Sutherland in full "this is extremely important and also very, very cool" mode, from its first self-important minutes Twelve seems as if it can't possibly be serious. Would that it were not.

I found myself forgetting The Art of Getting By as it unfolded, as though the Looney Tunes art department were two steps behind the characters, rolling up the scenery like so much carpeting.

Somewhere in there is a little blonde girl and her dreamy princeling, but damned if I could see them through the dreck.

This latest is grim stuff: Little Fockers hardly bothers with finding a reason to exist, although one might assume a focus on the abiding hilarity of life with small children. That assumption would be wrong.

Tainted by a script (by Jon Lucas and Scott Moore) so risibly broad it makes "Wedding Crashers" look like Bergman in the Hamptons.

Number of chipmunks who speak fluent chola when necessary: three. Number of Spider-Man/Pepe Le Pew mash-ups I can't really get into: one.

The disconcerting thing is how easy it is to fool viewers into being satisfied with not being involved, or even entertained - as long as they can RELATE.

With some focus and critical perspective, The Source Family might have documented more than a spectacle of its time.

Directors Jason Sussberg and David Alvarado present a study of two eccentrics without pushing too hard against their premise.

The problem is, whether real, not real, or some Spector-headed stepchild of the two, meltdowns are still not inherently interesting.

In another light the group's - and the film's - portentous resolution looks a lot like quitting, in true slacker style.

The plot might be summed up this way: America's having a war, and everybody's invited!

Greenfield works against her own interests with absurdly selective arguments and sloppy filmmaking.

Oblique and thickly layered with rhetoric, this account does little to illuminate Mumia the man, but it sets Mumia the statue aglow.

A party disaster movie targeted at kids who find the "Hangover" franchise too sophisticated.

Infinitely worse than you dared to hope it wouldn't be, You Again dumbfounded and then defeated me.

If you've ever wondered how a bunch of blockheaded white boys would handle a bullet wound, you're in for a treat.

The talking animals, though less tough to look at than those in "Marmaduke," are murder on the ears: Maya Rudolph as a neurotic giraffe and Sandler voicing a monkey could take the paint off of a Buick.

It really is just sensory bombardment, and in two dimensions you have even less of a grasp of what's happening and of what you're looking at than the poor bastards on-screen.