Paul Malcolm

Despite the lack of zing in Hogan's frequently self-deprecating zingers, director Simon Wincer repeatedly lets scenes dribble on until an awkward silence engulfs everyone onscreen.

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.

It's cheap thrills all the way, served up with the kind of situational purity that only Carpenter seems to care for these days. It's that simple and that much fun.

Ironically, for all the paranoia, York's Defiler and his henchman, an always game Udo Kier, are an oasis of wit in an otherwise parched, self-serious script.

Between spy training and sensitivity training, the two (Murphy/Wilson) prove nicely matched comic foils.

Lamely engineered and thoroughly exploited tragedy.

Kazantzidis struggles for the flavor of classic romance, with a string of standards on the soundtrack to little avail.

Seems stuck in reverse.

Ultimately, Jolie's efforts to establish a character are dashed against the film's increasingly inane dialogue.

Written by a team of three, the script is more plagued by groupthink than is the film's future Earth.

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.

A satirist such as Shearer should need a license to go hunting on terrain so rich with easy targets; he tries to bag them all, and it leaves the film to founder in aimlessness.

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 at times feels less than objective, in part due to Douglas' often breathless narration.

Whatever the cause, everyone involved takes this blend of slick Verhoeven sleaze and Deliverance-brand musk way too seriously.

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.

Nothing comes together after the first ten minutes.

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.