Robert Wilonsky

Obnoxious, transparent cornball comedy.

Deafeningly dull movie.

A film built upon transitions so weak and obvious it's astonishing the entire thing doesn't collapse on itself.

Every movie Dugan releases looks like something made on accident--tosses yet another stink bomb into theaters for audiences to sniff over.

Full of conspiracies, all The Skulls lacks is a brain.

The film has no form or function; at best, it's a 90-minute infomercial.

Instead of satire, we're treated to diarrhea jokes, dogs dangled from the windows of speeding SUVs and tasteless sobriquets bestowed upon anyone who looks vaguely ethnic.

A movie that leaves you wondering what the fuss was all about when its end credits appear; it's a mish-mash of a dozen other, better films ground up and watered down--Seven, Silence of the Lambs, and Manhunter, to name a few of the usual suspects.

Proof of Life kidnaps the audience, then tortures it to a slow death

This limp gender-bender-baller from a first-time director and rookie screenwriter steals wholesale from that 1982's "Tootsie," forgetting only to retain a single laugh.

This ain't no movie. It's a very long, very tedious infomercial for Phantom Menace action figures, on sale now at a Target or Toys "R" Us near you.

An ambitious, frustrating drag.

It's a self-satisfied, self-loathing mess that demands you adore and cheer for the very person you come to hate well before its 105 minutes are up. Little Black Book will leave you feeling skuzzy.

Feels like an in-joke, a party where everyone on the screen's having a better time than anyone in the theater, and they all couldn't care less. And that's just no fun at all.

Disappointing only because its best moments are transcendent; its worst moments, sadly, are just so ordinary.

It punishes rather than entertains; it condescends, it offends, it loathes its audience.

If this it supposed to be comedy, why isn't it ever, for one second, funny?

September Tapes, with its torturously high-minded narration and ludicrously low-road shenanigans, uses the terror attacks of 2001 as the setup for an infuriating gotcha finale.

One presumes the only thing worse than making this disaster is actually watching it; wouldn't wish either on anyone.

Bernal can't decide if he's making a Tarantino homage or an Almodovar riff or an Albert Brooks tribute...and the wobbly sensibility finally knocks the movie's legs out from beneath it altogether.

Freedomland manages a seemingly impossible feat: It's both turgid AND overwrought, eliciting the shriek that fades into a yawn without anyone ever noticing. It's a wholly dreary piece of work.

The Punisher would be almost offensive were it not so inconsequential. There's just something terribly off-putting about a movie in which every gruesome death is a punch line, where a villain's homosexuality is used to lure him to his death and dozens of innocents are gunned down just to launch a film franchise.

The X-Men franchise takes a giant leap backward and off a cliff with its fourth offering.

Bearable only because, unlike the recent spate of teen films, it's so breezy it barely even registers.

Really, what women want is what all of us want: a decent movie, something vaguely insightful and occasionally funny. This isn't that movie.

The most offensive movie of the year.

An utter drag, a tepid and sterilized telling of Susann's life.

It wears out its welcome well before its halfway point, by which time you're either so tangled up in plot points you're strangling, or so bored you just wish you were being strangled.