Robert Wilonsky

It will linger like a foul odor or the taste of tinfoil between the teeth.

An antiadvertisement for itself.

A stunning piece of work--stunningly inept, stunningly incoherent, stunningly awful in every single way imaginable.

Welcome to Mooseport... is intended to be a comedy; that hypothesis is a generous leap of faith, given the fact that "House of Sand and Fog" contains more moments of mirth than this rather joyless exercise in waste and torpor.

A football film made by a man who apparently has seen little of the game outside of movies, and not very good ones at that.

It's absolutely awful, and even Gene Hackman can't carry it across the goal line.

Were it not for the involvement of producer Bruckheimer, who has made billions by conning millions into believing they can't live without his celluloid crack, it's doubtful Kangaroo Jack would even exist. As it stands now, the "movie" barely exists anyway.

The movie's so unfunny, it almost appears to be that way on purpose, kind of like an Ingmar Bergman film.

Indeed, this is the very kind of lame-brained folly Levy and his SCTV cohorts used to mock on their old show; now it's how he makes rent.

It's an exceptionally dreary and overwrought bit of work, every bit as imperious as Katzenberg's "The Prince of Egypt" from 1998.

A film bereft of emotion, characters and words with more than two syllables.

So awful it's hypnotizing.

Penned by Rock and a handful of his pals, is such an utter disaster it seems to go out of its way to avoid comedy. It's the very definition of oxymoron: a crowd-pleaser that doesn't.

As the year stumbles toward its conclusion and critics begin penning their best-and-worst compendiums, here's a holiday contender fit for the all-time Naughty List.

A whole lot of something about nothing.

In one of the year's most woefully manipulative and oppressively pandering offerings: I Am Sam, a dolled-up TV movie-of-the-week masquerading as profound cinema.

A spastic, indecipherable, unholy, and altogether unwatchable mess.

A bland, obnoxious 88-minute infomercial for Universal Studios.

An overlong compendium of Oprah moments meant to move and inspire, even if, by the end, it's too exhausted with itself to offer up a single authentic tear or revelation.

This all-star Euro-indie is stultifyingly torturous.

A turgid, unfunny, out-of-time rockspolitation movie.

Warner Bros. is presumably aiming this movie not at children but at full-grown dopers with bad munchies glued to the Cartoon Network. Dude, pass the Scooby snacks.

Little Nicky will redefine the phrase "worst movie ever," because it might actually be the worst movie ever.

Just when it looked like "Not Another Teen Movie" might claim the crap crown comes this stoner's tale.

Not strong enough to stomach this leather-clad jerk-off session, which Miramax dumped onto Paramount in a rare case of common sense.

It took five men to concoct the hackneyed plot and conceive the brainless jokes that constitute Not Another Teen Movie, meaning there are five men in Los Angeles right now still trying to wash that stink off their soft, idle hands.

An ugly-duckling tale so hideously and clumsily told it feels accidental. Surely, no one PLANNED something this disastrously unfunny.

It ranks (indeed, it is rank) among the most soul-deadening movies ever made; it has no pulse and seeks to steal yours with a cynical vengeance.

Simply, the worst movie of a wretched year.

Basic really brings to mind a Travolta film from 2000, "Battlefield Earth," in that it's so astonishingly awful it becomes a sort of kinky pleasure; just when you think Travolta has fallen to the bottom of the barrel, he pulls out a shovel and dons his miner's helmet to see what lies beneath.

Cinematic flat-lining.

Sandler and Spade continue their avid quest to dumb down America.

Seems to exist solely to prove there is something beneath the bottom of the barrel.

The dumbest thing this side of a lobotomy.

A torturous, mawkish, ill-conceived remake.

Worst movie of the year.