Peter Travers

Their (Travolta/Jackson) teamwork was classic. Basic breaks up the team. What's up with that?

What we have in the misbegotten mess called Kings is a film of countless good intentions – one that starts going bad in its first scene, gets worse form there and then dissolves into pure chaos.

Call it "Apocalypto" for pussies -- a PG-13 rating, puh-leese! -- or prehistory for peabrains. Just don’t call it friendo. 10,000 B.C. will take your money, rob your time and hit your brain like a shot of Novacaine.

Zoolander 2 sweats its silly ass off to please. The results are scattershot. But when it works — oh, baby. There's a bit with Justin Bieber and a selfie that, well, no spoilers.

Valentine's Day is a date movie from hell.

I hate Safe Haven. It's a terrible thing to do to your Valentine.

The fifth entry in the Ice Age series is a loud, lazy, laugh-starved cash grab that cynically exploits its target audience (I use the term advisedly) by serving them scraps and calling it yummy. Even two-year-olds can see through the hustle.

Breathlessly boring.

It's a monster fail.

Leslie Mann and wild-card Chris Hemsworth, as her cock-flashing hubby, get the heartiest hoots. The rest is comic history warmed over.

Jonah is fated to ride alone. Don't make the mistake of keeping him company.

Abort! Abort! It's that time of year when Hollywood releases movies it should never have made in the first place.

Isn't much of a movie, but it's worth a look just to see screen legend Kirk Douglas, Michael's eighty-three-year-old father, kick ass.

Slick-dick director Simon West, of "Con Air" and "The General's Daughter" infamy, continues to show no flair at all for blending action and character. Jolie and Lara deserved better. So did we.

It sounds sappy, and sometimes it is, but director Koepp and co-writer John Kamps stay alert to the humor and pathos of Bertram's isolation.

If only their stuff had a spark of life it might be forgivable, but Allegiant plods along like a franchise on its last legs. Who remembers where we left off last time in Insurgent? My point exactly — no one.

This medieval borefest drags down the talents of Sophie Turner and Kit Harington, but can be commended for one thing: truth in advertising. It’s dreadful to the max.

Even the best actors – and this coming-of-age movie boasts a handful of them – can't fight this much tin-eared dialogue.

The shortage of wit and the excess of goo can be summed up in Sandler's line to these children of divorce: "I'm like the stink on your feet — I'll always be there."

The film looks and feels authentic, but Duchovny has powered his undeniably personal journey with a counterfeit heart.

A comedy so devoid of wit and point that not mentioning the other actors trapped in this rathole would be an act of charity.

The movie that might have been goes down in flames.

At one point, Black puts out a fire by pissing on it. It's my job as a critic to piss on this dumb excuse for a movie. Consider it done.

Looks aren't everything. Case in point: Sucker Punch, a dazzling visual design that goes tone-deaf every time it opens its dumb mouth or makes claims to profundity.

The only tragedy you'll face is paying good money to this swill.

When a stage musical as beloved as Annie hits the big screen and falls ignominiously on its fat one, you might ask: WTF? For starters, updating the Depression-era tale to NYC 2014 is a really dumb idea. The strain of the shoehorning is evident in every scene.

Result? It's not scary, just busy.

An erotic thriller with flaws.

Director Gary Fleder ("Don't Say a Word") pushes the same old cliches in "Blade Runner" packaging.

This, however, is not Mamet – it's a beast of roaring stupidity that devours everything in its path, including the veteran filmmaker.

It's the perfect Valentine's date night movie, but only with someone you hate.

The only way to react is by bringing a barf bag or a strong sense of gallows humor.

Everyone looks pretty and cries ugly in this glossy, grit-free tearjerker from the bestselling Colleen Hoover that traps the actors in marshmallow and gives soap opera a bad name.

The young Smith has energy, but not the acting chops. And he's no miracle worker. The burden of carrying this dull, lifeless movie is just too much. And it's hell on an audience. It's not a good sign when you sit there thinking – Make. It. Stop.

How special.

This SCI-FI swill is the brain-child of director Mark L. Lester (Class of 1984), who says it’s really about “kids and the future of urban public education.” No, it’s not. It’s about kids and teachers kicking ass for two benumbing hours. What a waste.

This is Berg's debut outing as a director, but other first-timers, namely Joel Coen (Blood Simple) and Danny Boyle (Shallow Grave), had it all over him for blending horror and hilarity.

There is no wrong time to flush this turd. The only bright spot comes during the outtakes over the final credits.

Despite the strong presence of Kick-Ass star Chloe Grace Moretz as Cassie, the movie is selling the same old YA yada yada yada that made phenoms of "Twilight" and "Divergent."

Plods along in the Oscar-winning, yawn-inducing tradition of "Out of Africa," making me yearn for something less "National Geographic."

What we have here is a comedy on life support, with Haddish and Byrne valiantly performing futile acts of resuscitation. Sorry to report: The patient died.

Small jokes are buried under elaborate setups. Sight gags are repeated to the point of exhaustion — a woman’s shoe steps in gum, then toilet paper, then . . . you get the point. Most painful of all, serious actors strain to be funny.

Among the recent spate of comic-book movies, from "Spider-Man" to the "X-Men," The Punisher is unique.

The Bay-man has made the worst and most worthless Transformers movie yet. I know, hard to believe, right? How could any summer blockbuster be as dull, dumb and soul-sucking as the first three Transformers movies? Step right up.

It's simply a retread of the first Ride Along, a 2014 box-office hit, and proof positive that a bigger budget doesn’t buy bigger laughs.

Don't hammer this film for trying to get inside the head of Mark David Chapman before he shot John Lennon outside the rock legend's New York apartment on December 8th, 1980. Hammer it instead for failing to do so with any depth or insight.

Political satire is so rare that it's a shame to watch the reliable Ralph Fiennes and Donald Sutherland lend their talents to one that is blind to its own incompetence.

The call on this one is: dead on arrival.

(Shelton) knows how to write pungent dialogue that covers a multitude of sins when the film goes off the rails.

Aiming for the heartfelt hilarity of "Superbad," I Love You, Beth Cooper is just super bad.

It galls me that Hollywood thinks we're shallow enough to swallow this swill. Or am I just being paranoid?

Is a Brian DePalma movie that laughs at Brian De Palma movies still worth your time?

Independence Day: Resurgence pretends there's fresh ground to cover. There isn't, but director Roland Emmerich makes a good show of faking it.

I don't know what to say about the acting, writing and directing in G.I. Joe because I couldn't find any.

It's only when the film attempts to express its ideas in spoken English that logic dissolves into a muddle that would test the most rabid Dylanologist.

If you're going to interpret on film the searching mind of an indisputable genius, it helps not to make too many dumbass moves. On that basis, score a triumph for Steve Jobs, written, directed and acted to perfection, and so fresh and startling in conception and execution that it leaves you awed.

What's onscreen is a godawful mess, leaving the actors to suck wind while the film collapses around them. If you've never played the game, you might as well watch the movie stoned.

Misery is enduring this Rocky Horror Paris Show.

Attention, moviegoers searching for the worst movie of the year: We have a late-breaking winner. Cats slips in right under the radar and easily scores as the bottom of the 2019 barrel — and arguably of the decade. Even Michael Bay’s trash trilogy of soul-destroying Transformers movies can’t hold a candle. What happened?

Will Ferrell and Danny McBride can find the dumb fun in anything. Too bad that Land of the Lost is so much less than anything.

Exhibits rank incompetence on every level.

Arriving just in time to win a place among the year’s worst films, Robin Hood — bursting with an entitled sense of its own non-existent coolness — falls flat on its fat one.

Reiner gets lucky with his two stars. Wilson has charm to spare, and Hudson brings humor and sexiness to playing Emma and four au pair girls from different countries. But even they can't float a balloon with lead in it.

The film is a distinct pleasure.

First-time director and screenwriter Hue Rhodes shows no discernible talent for dialogue, humor and, especially, pacing.

Talk about your pious frauds. I've got a better way to show your disgust for Internet scum: Don't see Untraceable.

All cast members seem willing to make total fools of themselves for our delectation. A fine but futile gesture. The bad news is that even with such yeoman efforts, it's still impossible to drag one tired joke around for nearly two hours. Like Bernie, the movie ends up dead on its feet.

Enduing a full 120 minutes of this sh*tstorm takes its toll. Bitterness, anger, malice, bad blood – that’s acrimony, baby. And that's what you'll feel if you blow the price of ticket on this hack job.

Add Showtime to the pile of Hollywood dreck that represents nothing more than the art of the deal.

If you stay and watch the endless end credits, there's a short scene that hints a sequel is coming. That's what I call real pain.

With this last entry, we have officially hit the bottom of the barrel. Whips, chains, butt plugs and nipple clips are nothing compared to the sheer torture of watching this movie.

Ephron, try as she might, can't give her codified champagne spin to a Resnick script that all too quickly runs out of fizz.

Teenagers, even non-ninjas and non-turtles, have been eating up this cinematic waste product for weeks now. In one way, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is a triumph for producer Michael Bay in that it is equally as godawful as his "Transformers: Age of Extinction" and a hit nonetheless.

A dull, dumb and unforgivably dated thriller, free of thrills and any kind of perfection.

Nothing works. Nothing.

Soon to be infamous for bad decisions, this despairingly off-kilter toon looks like a movie, talks like a movie, but feels like a cynical cash grab propelled by the idiocy of turning our favorite mouthy, shamelessly lazy cat into a blah action hero voiced by Chris Pratt.

A trio of appealing actors is trapped in an action-spiked romcom death-sentenced by a lack of humor, heart and a coherent reason for being.

A riveting and indispensable record of the war in Iraq because it comes from the men who lived it.

Gives us good reason to believe that January really is the month Hollywood studios use to bury their cheesiest mistakes.

What I can't figure is why anyone would want to release this tripe in theaters just when Fanning has nearly lived it down. They ain't no friends of mine, or any other moviegoer.

Environmentalists are up in arms. "Where did the shit go?" they want to know. The answer is painfully obvious: into the screenplay.

It's a hoot to watch Fonda cut loose and mix it up with J. Lo, even when the laughs turn mean-spirited.

In this haunting portrait of America as no country for old men or young, Hillcoat -- through the artistry of Mortensen and Smit-McPhee -- carries the fire of our shared humanity and lets it burn bright and true.

One adjective you don’t hear much anymore is “preposterous,” defined as “contrary to nature, reason or common sense.” Yet the word applies perfectly to Inheritance, a blithering botch job of a thriller that begs the question: “Come on, are you f**king kidding me?”

It's too bad Martin already made “What's the Worst That Could Happen?” The title really fits this one.

It's all stupefyingly unfunny. Hot Pursuit is one hot mess.

If you're like me, diluted Smith is still better than no Smith at all.

The Book of Henry starts well, begins flirting with absurdity in the middle – and ends in crashing disaster. But the feeling persists that director Colin Treverrow believes every word in the shambles of a 20-year-old screenplay by crime novelist Gregg Hurwitz.

One idea, mixed with lame jokes, and stretched beyond coherence. Vampire Academy doesn't need a review. It needs a stake in the heart.

The new Mummy is, how can I put it? Just freakin' awful.

A shock ending may be the best hope for this film, a convoluted mystery that thinks it's way smarter than it is.

Winter's Tale is preposterous twaddle.

The best way to handle this relentlessly nice movie that deserved a touch of nasty, is to enjoy the few flashes of what have been before the sheer heaviness of the production stomps out all the fun.

The bloodsuckers in this thriller may not have much bite, but here's a movie that can -- it's guaranteed -- drain the life out of an audience in minutes.

If you see one Minnesota movie this year, make it "Fargo." This botch job should be stamped direct to video.

I like Longoria Parker on "Desperate Housewives" and truly believe she could have a career on the big screen if she promises to never again work with writer-director Jeff Lowell, who perpetrated this offense of a ghost comedy on her and on her otherwise gifted co-stars Paul Rudd and Lake Bell.

The third and weakest chapter in the hit "Conjuring" series messes with the facts about a real-life case of demonic possession as a legal defense, but Vera Farmiga and Patrick Wilson as married demonologists know how to rally nerve-rattling chills to scare us senseless.

What happened, bitches? Didn't the letdown of The Hangover Part II – basically Part I set in Thailand but minus the laughs – teach you anything? Guess not.

It just plain sucks.

Except for Connery, who is every inch the lion in winter, nothing here feels authentic.

What the filmmakers fail to recognize is that history on the page is quite different from what it needs to be onscreen, namely alive and visceral.

"Sixth Sense" rip-off.

Putridly written, directed and acted.

With Newman, the movie emerges as a lively character piece with flashes of humor and grace.

John Q. is as fake as that tear, an exploitative mess trying to pass as social activism.

Blue Iguana makes the freshly minted Oscar winner (for his totally worthy performance in Three Billboards) work way too hard to cut through the film’s blatant stupidity and buffet of clichés.

Nothing can save this repetitive bore. Dude, where's your memory?

The saddest element of Two if by Sea is watching Bullock get dragged down in the drivel.

Off the shelf after two years to capitalize on the popularity of Vin Diesel, Seth Green and Barry Pepper. It should have stayed there.

This Endless Love is a photo shoot, not a movie. It'd play better as a slideshow of jpgs. Even nine-year-old girls ought to cry foul on this movie's endless blandness.

What The Replacements does have is energy.

When a Spike Lee film doesn't fly, it sinks like a stone.

The real horror here is watching Sandra Bullock drop her big Miss Congeniality smile to A-C-T! She does this by not smiling. What happened to the range she showed in "Crash" and "Infamous?"

Even if male stars from Neeson to Bruce Willis have been riding the same gravy train for decades, Garner has the talent to make us expect more. She needed support from the filmmakers. But what did she get? A lazy facsimile of the revenge movie she so richly deserved. There’s no reason audiences should accept it.

This crap is supposed to be the chick flick antidote to Super Bowl fever. Ha!

Elliot fails to make the needed connection between the audience and a peeper who has lost his moral balance.

For those who can push past the sentimental manipulation in these two fact-based love stories there’s an advocacy for selfless generosity that resonates in this pandemic era.

It would be great to see this turd squashed under a truck, preferably a semi.

It's early in the year, but I defy any 2008 comedy to be as stupid, slack and sexless as Fool's Gold. And I'm counting Paris Hilton's appalling "The Hottie and the Nottie," which is marginally better.

Even wild man Gary Oldman, as a priest ready to eighty-six the wolfman with silver nail polish, can't liven up this humorless hogwash. And it's just sad to see the legendary Julie Christie stuck playing the grandmother.

Director Barry Levinson and screenwriter Mitch Glazer lucked out getting Bill Murray to play Richie Lanz, a loser who makes losing hilarious. Murray just kills it.

There is nothing distinctive about this toxic available-on-demand tripe except the absence of Mark Polish, though Michael didn’t spare his wife Kate Bosworth from acting duty in a thankless role. One thing’s for sure: This downpour of offensive ethnic stereotyping is a total washout.

George Orwell’s dystopian satire of aggression in the form of anthropomorphic farm animals becomes a cutsey, cardboard kiddie cartoon of staggering ineptitude and an endurance test for audiences of all ages.

Contrived, manipulative and shamelessly sentimental, this film is notable for the courageous reach of Sean Penn, who gives a bold, heartfelt performance.

There should be a place in hell for hacks who turn out derivative terror trash and then pretend they're doing an important investigative piece on Vatican corruption.

Thornton plays this low-ball farce with deceptive, masterful ease. Appreciate it.

Ah jeez. I actually wanted this one to be good. Or at least decent. Or at least a reminder of what got us all fired up about the first Die Hard in 1988. But A Good Day To Die Hard, the fifth in a creatively exhausted series, is total crap.

Make American movies great again. You can start by boycotting this one.

An indigestible chunk of romantic marshmallow.

It shouldn't happen to anyone, much less a Dame – not a movie of such barreling awfulness as Winchester, which strands the great Helen Mirren in a gothic house of cards that collapses on actors and audiences alike.

Who's the idiot responsible for this fiasco? You can't blame the Tea Party, an organization of 9 million that the film's producers are exploiting to get butts into seats. There's an object lesson in objectivism for you.

The real plague is the movie, a sci-fi hodgepodge of bad history and worse special effects.

Toss this ugly-ass crap to the curb, along with the other multiplex garbage, and see a romance that gets it right. I'm talking "(500) Days of Summer."

Yikes! I saw Pixels as a 3D metaphor for Hollywood's digital assault on our eyes and brains. Not funny. Just relentless and exhausting.

Beware all male viewers who enter here, you are in chick-movie hell.

Onscreen, Nina barely scratches the surface much less draws blood. For the essence of a legend, listen to the real Simone sing "I Put a Spell on You." She sure as hell does. This movie emphatically does not.

Director Brian De Palma’s $45 million film version of the book is superficial, shopworn and cartoonish. On film, Bonfire achieves a consistency of ineptitude rare even in this era of over-inflated cinematic air bags.

Maybe its gargantuan god-awfulness is not a exactly a sin against cinema. But throw away your money on a ticket and you’re in for two hours of certain hell.

I'm dumbfounded by the idea of remaking a movie that was no damn good in the first place. Is it the possibility of making it better? The exact opposite happens with Flatliners.

A long sit in the shallows, the equivalent of five half-hour episodes strung together.

If you ever admired Julia Stiles, Selma Blair and Jason Lee -- and who didn't? -- don't watch them crush their careers in this laugh-free romantic comedy.

Not to be catty about it, but the stench of the litter pan is all over this big-screen $90 million disaster-in-waiting.

Jokes dying on the lips of these easy riders are hard to stomach.

Transformers: The Last Knight is all kinds of awful. It's also the worst of the series to date, which is saying something.

It's soft-core pap for horny boys and their hornier dads.

It's a major dud.

Just stay away. It's awful.

The crazy-ass imagination at work in Being John Malkovich hits you like a blast of pure oxygen...this movie of constant astonishments will make you laugh hard and long.

It's a no-go. View From the Top boasts a first-class cast, but they're all traveling coach.

Yes, you read that correctly: zero stars. When talented people create one of the worst movies ever made, you have to ask: What the hell happened?

Upchuckingly unfunny.

The latest reboot of the Fantastic Four — the cinematic equivalent of malware — is worse than worthless.

This out-and-out disaster dissolves in a puddle of botched intentions that will leave children sad and confused and adults scratching their heads.

God-awful is too wimpy a word for this superdiva cash grab that sinks Dakota Johnson and cast in what feels like a random batch of half-baked ideas tossed at the screen in the cynical assumption that we’ll buy any lazy hack-work that is Spider-Man adjacent. Resist at all costs.

Dracula may stay undead in the new millennium, but there's not a sign of life - oh, that bloodless acting - in this sorry mess.

Painfully flat gross-out comedy.

The laughs to be had in this deliciously awful sequel are all unintentional. A bummer for film buffs, but a ball for fans of the misbegotten.

When studios plant these stink bombs in theaters, do they really think that audiences won't notice the stench?

An inexcusable horror sequel that lowers the bar to zero in terms of fun and fright. The only thing that scares me is this turd’s inevitable box-office success.

An irredeemably dull tale.

Be warned, sequel fanboys: This thing sucks!

The script that Nicholas Klein has conjured from Bono's idea is a quicksand that sucks down a solid cast.

Tries for deadpan laughs but is merely lifeless.

Essentially an old-fashioned weepie gussied up for Y2K.

It's probably the movie event of the summer if you're an eight-year-old girl who doesn't get out much.

Memo to Beyoncé Knowles: You were so good as Etta James in "Cadillac Records," so why'd you go spoil everything with a rank cheeseball thriller that buries you in clichés and won't even help you dig yourself out?

What Lynch, who wrote the script at 19, sees as high drama is really high camp. And Fenn seems clueless on how to play her limbless character.

I could puke.

If crap movies carried penalties for inflicting torture on audiences, then Rings would merit a death sentence.

Despite the star presence of Kevin Hart and Mark Wahlberg, this laugh-starved, buddy comedy is crushingly dim-witted and disposable.

Plot analysis is useless, since the film's fate rests with MTV comic Shore in his feature debut.

Promises a road movie of blissful comic romance and delivers a series of dramatic dead ends.

It’s early in the new year, but I doubt that 1996 will produce a film more unthinkingly insidious than Eye for an Eye.

Say the word, girl (Lopez), the next time you're offered one of these barrel scrapers: Enough!

Some movies are so effing awful they're hilarious. Gods of Egypt falls short of that lofty goal. Not because it isn’t effing awful — it so is — but because it pretends to be in on the joke.

John Travolta, trying earnestly to act his way through a ton of lousy makeup and an even heavier slab of bad screenwriting, plays mafioso John Gotti in this chaotic biopic that jumps all over the place but still fails to manifest a pulse.

It's not just that the movie itself is wicked awful, it's that Mr. Deeds brings out the worst in Adam Sandler.

The first big-studio movie released in 2009 has a damn fine chance of being the worst. Bride Wars isn't just chick-flick hell for guys, it should numb the skulls of moviegoers of all sexes and ages.

Every scare is telegraphed. Every surprise is recycled from a better thriller. Even the devil would send this one back.

Verhoeven, who inflicted "Showgirls" on us, skips the provacative questions raised by invisibility and goes straight to rape and murder.

Ninety minutes pass like an eternity. Verdict: Down for the count.

The unholy mess that director David Frankel and screenwriter Allan Loeb have unleashed for the holidays strands an all-star cast...on a sinking ship that churns the waters from absurd to zombified with frequent stops at pretentious.

A total bust, a stupefyingly unfunny and shamelessly lazy farce packed with cringe-worthy jokes and overt product placement.

The cast got to spend a month shooting on Bora Bora. So that explains why they're in the movie. Why you'd spend good money for a ticket to watch them have all the fun and not have any fun yourself passes understanding.

Diapers, even from three babies, can't stink worse than this.

Like the four franchise fillers that preceded it, Underworld: Blood Wars is undoubtedly impervious to bad reviews. What it needs is a stake through the heart.

Sucks bad, real bad.

Do you really need me to tell you how scary this horror show isn't?

I'd prefer to think of Sandler in "Punch-Drunk Love," the one good movie of the three he did this year.

Bad things can happen to talented people. Take Tom McCarthy, who wrote and directed "The Station Agent," "The Visitor" and "Win Win." All gems. His fourth film, The Cobbler, is a failure on every level.

What to say about this lame-brained, limp dick attempt to update a classic Brothers Grimm tale into an f-bomb throwing vomit-inducing 3D franchise? I say, screw the damn thing and run the other way.

Peet is always worth watching, but the role does her no favors, and the script, involving a kidnapping and a surprise cameo by Neil Diamond - you heard me - smacks of desperation beyond saving.

It’s a form of actor abuse to see the legendary Morgan Freeman trapped in this relentlessly violent and vapid mess that does offer one lesson to students of cinema in how to do everything calamitously wrong.

Sorry, no XOXO for this slick, hollow hooey.

Bad beyond belief.

When Macbeth said, "It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing," he must have had visions about Courtney Solomon's Getaway, a car chase thriller with zero thrills and a stench that all the perfumes of Arabia couldn't erase.

The only genuine, blood-curdling scream incited by this stupefyingly dull time- and money-waster comes at the end, when the notion dawns that Blumhouse’s Fantasy Island is meant to spawn sequels. Stop it now, before it kills again.

Everything in One for the Money rings cringingly false, from Heigl's absurd Snooki accent to Plum's romance with Joe Morelli, an Italian cop, played by – faith and begorrah – Jason O'Mara. To dismiss Julie Anne Robinson's direction as clueless would be a kindness.

A script by Peter Gaulke and Gerry Swallow that is minus a shred of Farrelly wit.

It's "The Exorcist" warmed over.

Filming this mess in North Carolina (strike three).

How do you rate a cinematic black hole that doesn’t deserve a single star? Do you simply give it five eyerolls? Better question: How does a movie, with all the talent in the world going for it, become a such a blithering botch job?

Allen screws up his directing debut with a script that smothers his wit in a blanket of bland.

One of the worst movies of this or any year.

In one scene, raw sewage is dumped on Joe. See Joe Dirt and you'll know how that feels.

Talk about your quick-buck exploitation.

The jokes? "Chicks are for fags," says Lloyd. The film is subtitled When Harry Met Lloyd. Believe me, you don't want to be there.

Limp exercise in erotica...Rourke appears comatose, and Otis, though lovely in or out of her skimpy wardrobe, wears the pained expression of a woman who has accidentally stepped into something squishy and rank.

The only people likely to get a kick out of Gigli -- the first screen teaming of Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez -- are Madonna and her director hubby Guy Ritchie. Finally there's a movie as jaw-droppingly awful as their "Swept Away."

For starters, it blows. Madonna continues to mistake a knack for striking poses with the interpretive skill of a real actor.

The Devil Inside manages not only to scrape the barrel's bottom but to drill a hole in said bottom and funnel deeper into the scum.

Director Garry Marshall is a menace. He keeps killing holidays with all-star comedies in which a laugh would die of loneliness.

I'm guessing it's the pressure of an idiot script by Gary Scott Thompson and understandably clueless direction from Jon Avnet that forces Pacino to ham it up so vigorously that you want to garnish him with cloves and a slice of pineapple.

A movie this unspeakably awful can make an audience a little crazy. You want to throw things, yell at the actors, beg them to stop. But the film drags on, digging horrible memories into the brain -- like Bruce Willis and Danny Aiello's singing.

The film is in black-and-white so the gore doesn't spray quite as colorfully. But you'll still puke up a storm. Not so much at the movie, whose shock value wears off quicky, but at Six, who seems to hate himself almost as much as his audience. Masochists will give the movie a thumbs-up, as long as their thumb isn't already up their ass.

Unwatchable, unbearably unfunny farce.

If the devil made them all do it, he's one dull bastard.

Whatever juice is left in the "Cop" franchise or in the once unstoppable career of Eddie Murphy peters out ignominiously in this poor excuse for a sequel.

The 'roo doesn't talk, except in a dream sequence…I'm dying here.

Laced with such rampant misogyny that the laughs stick in your throat.

While the first movie steadily tighened its vise, the second loosens its grip through strained acting and incoherent plotting.

Say this for the soundtrack, it drowns out the lousy dialogue.

Droolingly stupid weepie. Useful tip: The movie dies way quicker than she does.

Fair Game, written and directed by men, allows model Cindy Crawford to make her screen debut as Miami lawyer Kate McQueen.

It feels manufactured to be suitable for mass consumption.

Before the jacked-up antics get to be too much, director Tony Leondis and co-writers Erich Siegel and Mike White get in a few satiric licks at a technology we've all come to call home.

A shit stain on the genre.

At 87 torturous, laugh-free minutes, the film could change the most avid cat fancier into a kitty hater.

Peet does it with a twinkle, finding class among the crass.

With this kind of epic ineptitude -- hell, the flick is set in the year 3000 -- you go for "worst of the millennium."

That generous half star rating I tacked onto this comedy abomination is all for Paris Hilton. Come on, it takes guts (or gross dim-wittedness) to appear on screen again after "House of Wax."

Shallow, sycophantic and absent a single unguarded moment, Melania is a near-two-hour infomercial disguised as a documentary. What’s the movie actually worth as entertainment? I’ll start the bidding at two cents.

Even in these pandemic times, when we all hunger for escapism, this long journey to a lame ending hardly fills the bill.

This animated tale of a grumpy fish is as bland as blueberries, yet some wonder if sad Mr. Fish can inspire suicidal thoughts. Nah. Positive messaging swims will all these fishes.