Paul Malcolm

Lamely engineered and thoroughly exploited tragedy.

If only they had the courage of their crassness.

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

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

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."

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

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.

It's amazing that anyone still thinks this kind of shit can fly.

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

He (Berlanti) shoots for bland entertainment and scores.

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.

A soulless affair.

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

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

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

Seems stuck in reverse.

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

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.

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

Opens the floodgates of cartoonish villainy and pitiful sentiment.

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.

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

Screams straight-to-video.

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

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.

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.

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