Paul Malcolm

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

Lamely engineered and thoroughly exploited tragedy.

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

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

It's a nice try, but the film remains a pinhead's idea of softcore fetish material.

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 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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

Highly reductive and deathly dull slasher flick.

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.

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