Nick Schager

Plays like a torturous tone-deaf joke that won’t end.

Worst of all, Scream 7 doesn’t concoct the sort of ludicrous denouement that has always been these movies’ signature, instead delivering perhaps the most deflating conclusion in the series’ three-decade history. That alone should indicate that Ghostface has lost his luster and should withdraw to the Horror Hall of Fame where he deserves to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Freddy, Jason, and the rest of the genre’s genuine icons.

A far cry from [Stanton’s] Pixar gems Finding Nemo and WALL-E, both of which have infinitely more to say about the human condition than this schematic and bathetic bowl of chicken soup for the soul.

Its phoniness epitomized by Emma Mackey’s lead turn, it’s the biggest dud of the artist’s career, and the holiday season’s most egregious misfire.

[Its] sole imperative appears to be boring its audience to death.

A B-movie of unholy bombast and absurdity.

With very rare exceptions, it’s less entertaining than a year’s worth of marriage counseling.

Heed its title’s advice and just don’t.

Arguably the least inspired film in the actor’s canon, if not all of movie history.

A feature-length ego-stroke of monumental hubris that instantly assumes pole position in the race for year’s worst movie.

A dismal misfire that strains to meld Meet the Parents-style comedy with The Exorcist-grade horror.

By choosing to reside in abstraction, it imparts only generic and empty truths.

Regardless of how you feel about Ronald Reagan the president, most will be united in finding this biopic a preachy, plodding, graceless groaner.

Most notable for excessively straining for R-rated credibility at every turn.

So drearily routine and slapdash that even an A.I. would deem it too plagiaristic.

A documentary that not only formally resembles a conspiracy-minded YouTube post, but is about as reliable and convincing as one.

A sequel that ups the ante in virtually every way—none of them good.

Merely more of the same gung-ho corniness, delivered with a chintziness and wink-wink self-consciousness that undercuts its aggro appeal.

Just as busy, corny, and predictable as its 2003 iteration—as well as destined to swiftly pass into the cinematic afterlife that is both convenience store bargain bins and cluttered streaming platform libraries.

Its characters may be desperate to remember the things they’ve willfully suppressed, but as this dud confirms, some things are best left forgotten.

It’s the safe and simplistic course correction that—neutered of the very absurdist immensity that was this franchise’s calling card, if not its sole reason for existing—lands with a crashing thud.

A B-movie with a C+ premise and D-minus execution, the last of which largely falls at the feet of director Robert Rodriguez.

Featuring not a single convincing element or exchange, this fiasco plays like a wannabe-Knight and Day exercise in eliciting annoyed reactions.

Fails to locate a humorous rhythm or coherently develop its collection of characters. It’s the skeleton of a promising idea rather than a full-fledged movie.

Dismally lazy nonsense whose only redeeming element is that its credits roll a good 10 minutes before the conclusion of its stated runtime.

Offsetting its naughtier impulses with feel-good schmaltz, it employs a tired formula to losing results.

To call the proceedings one-note is to oversell their depth; the sheer dearth of ideas in this fiasco is almost impressively profound.

Some of the chintziest and most uninspired exploitation cinema this side of Sharknado.