Paul Malcolm

Despite the film's aspirations to soul healing, its uplift remains mechanical, like an escalator's.

It is, however, Tortilla Soup's cultural transposition that feels most phony. Where Lee brings depth and subtle observation to his middle-class ensemble piece, Ripoll has simply added a thin Latino glaze.

He (Berlanti) shoots for bland entertainment and scores.

Unfortunately, none of the characters -- despite the film's strong cast -- ever seems worthy of the attention.

Achieves a level of hypocrisy astounding less for its brazenness than for its sheer stupidity.

A soulless affair.

Suggests that we're supposed to take this love story as something more than farce. Please. Tom Hanks fucking that volleyball would have been more convincing.

Working from a script by David S. Goyer ("Dark City") that lacks any sense of humor or character, Snipes seems unsure if he should vamp it up or play it straight, while Dorff just plain sucks.

(Lawrence)'s not just unfunny, he's coarsely anti-funny. The film just lurches from one dull skit to the next without bite or much of a point.

The editing looks like it was done in a blender, and the images of death and grief are so genre-primal that the Pangs hardly bother with dialogue.

Its tone is as disjointed as if this were a first effort.

Consistently undermined by a script that swings between the duller side of quirky and facile sentiment.

Even when the film does strike some genuinely heart-tugging notes, they’re invariably shattered by such ham-fisted lines as “You really are blind.” At times, it’s enough to make you wish you were deaf.

Why Crop Circles now, if not to ride the hype of M. Night Shyamalan's "Signs" to some quick cash? The movie’s rambling, slapdash, repetitious nature suggests as much.

The freak show of druggy squalor and the wired sexuality of hardcore kink and flaccid cocks float by solely for our carnivalesque amusement.

Comes off as a desperate attempt to breathe life into dull proceedings.

Callahan's feature debut is a one-way ticket to Palookaville.

Within a few minutes of the film's frenetic opening set piece, however, it's obvious that director David Kellogg and screenwriters Kerry Ehrin and Zak Penn have no idea how to capture the spirit of the source material.

It's supposed to be post-feminist breezy but ends up as tedious as the chatter of parrots raised on Oprah.

Lamely engineered and thoroughly exploited tragedy.

Seems stuck in reverse.

Director Jay Chandrasekhar (Super Troopers, Club Dread) does a fine job with the car jumps. Just try to wake up whenever you hear "Yee-haw."

The film seems to argue that Rock's real-life manipulation of the race card is little more than exploitation, rather than the essence of his incendiary comic critique.

Murphy slogs his way through this dismally dull sci-fi comedy.

"It's no longer funny, but he refuses to give up the joke." That just about sums it up except for the film's shopworn plot -- and its wretchedly cheap production design.

The film stinks from start to finish, like a wet burlap sack of gloom.

The film's failings are only highlighted by the fact that while, occasionally, we're granted real glimpses of interior lives, largely emanating from de Leon, Davao and Picache, those lives are never given the chance to take shape.

A brutish affair replete with sliced bodies, a diced storyline and enough clanky dialogue to wake the dead.

Racing flick results in a wreck as horrifying as the film itself.

A better title for this flick might have been Astigmatism: Nothing ever comes into focus long enough ... to deliver even the faintest sense of fright.

Hyams ("End of Days," "Timecop"), who is his own cinematographer, has no idea how to shoot or compose Xiong's wired choreography.

A betrayal of all things Buffy, not to mention a complete waste of Gellar’s strengths as a young actress. Even the most hardcore of her fans would do well to give it a miss.

At times, both swans and humans appear oddly out of sync with their flat backgrounds, while the film's few musical flights of fancy never achieve visual liftoff.

If only they had the courage of their crassness.

An ostensible action-comedy that can't seem to get either side of its genre equation right.

Mechanical revenge fantasy that skirts every serious issue it raises along a slick, cynical trajectory.

So what in this high-concept lame-a-thon makes screenwriter Bradley Allenstein think he can diss the Clippers?

A mind-numbing exercise in high body counts and big tits.

While the film is well-paced, visually it is deathly dull.

If you're above the target age of 5, Thomas may coax you into a naplike stupor.

Thai director Kaos (a.k.a. Wych Kaosayananda), making his inauspicious Hollywood debut, still can't breathe any life into it. You'll just want to get back to your Game Boy.

If, as it appears, Rosenthal is competing with the knife-wielding Myers for the title of biggest hack, he wins by unanimous decision.

Highly reductive and deathly dull slasher flick.

Opens the floodgates of cartoonish villainy and pitiful sentiment.

A pretty miserable time at the movies.

Wears its lack of originality in a crowded slasher marketplace like a red badge of desperation.

Rollerball pushes the Hollywood action movie to stratospheric new levels of incoherence; pounding at the senses, it's mashed story, character, time and space into a chunky hash.

A hodgepodge of psychosexual horror gimmicks, from the virginal psychic artist to the impotent psychotic actor.

A cheap "Star Wars" rip-off with swords instead of light sabers.

It almost appears like a little thought went into this otherwise grim exercise in soullessness.

Screams straight-to-video.