Roger Moore

All these petty crimes against originality wouldn’t matter a whit if Snyder & Co. mashed it all up into something fun or at least more distracting.

It’s a horror picture that can’t quite find the laughs it is going for and never, for more than a moment or two, provides frights.

The diplomatic thing to do would be to say the new film of Harold and the Purple Crayon is misguided, dull and mostly humorless and leave it at that.

A lot of the issues stem from the film’s short running time and flat storytelling and pacing.

It manages a moment, here and there and just a hint of who screenwriter/genuine “character” Diablo Cody (“Juno,” “Young Adult,””Jennifer’s Body”) once was.

None of the current generation of wrestler-actors seem to have the charisma or comic gifts of a Hulk Hogan or Dwayne Johnson.

Comedy is quick and The Zombie Wedding lumbers, staggers and stumbles up to the wedding, and flails like a tortoise sinking in quicksand after the “I do’s.”

The action beats have a nonsensical excitement to them. The chases are competently shot and edited and the fight scenes still play. But it’s all so weary and overfamiliar, giving one the sense that many involved stopped trying on the first take or third rewrite. It’s just gassed.

What emerges is more a “feeling” than a narrative, more a sensation (irritation, in my case) than cinema, and more BS than your average performative, bubbly and empty TED talk held in a stockyard.

Heist pictures don’t come much dumber than 7 Minutes.

The Ledge has a simple set-up, a naturally perilous setting, a convincing heroine and a whole lot of hanging around, waiting for the next “That could never happen” narrow escape.

The humorless, generic, and chatty Frankenstein served up here makes you wonder if the good doctor, in all his patching-together of parts, didn’t forget the brains.

Raba is a hoot, and even if Csokas isn’t in the bloom of brawling, villainous youth, he gives fair value and he and Brie and Raba and even Cena show commitment to their parts in all this far beyond what this nonsense deserved.

It doesn’t hang together very well pretty much from the start. But by the third act, this messy mayhem goes right off the rails, as if there were rails it was following in the first place.

The script is a cut-and-pasting of random thriller cliches and hoary thriller one-liners.

Part II is every bit as cheap and far more generic, nothing more than a run of the mill ghost story masquerading as The Devil Made Her Do It.

The morality tale element is a joke, the love story is feeble and there’s no tension to what’s about to happen or what then begins happening. The script gives away its mysteries.

If Grillo can’t make the guy interesting to watch, and writer-director Bobby Moresco (he shared the screenwriting Oscar for “Crash”) can’t fudge Ferruccio’s life story into something more involving than this, I dare say that some suit at Lionsgate sat in a screening room at some point and wondered aloud, “Well, what was the point of THAT?”

We know the drill. Every move, every twist, every quest, every moment of filler pointing us to a finale we see coming an hour off.

Whatever virtues there are in the fights and chases here, and there aren’t many, the fact that there’s maybe one laugh in this sequel should be telling.

If you’re over the age of five, and you’re not taking someone UNDER the age of five to see My Little Pony: The Movie, you’re in the wrong theater.

Snoop shows up and we almost get a laugh. But that’s far too little and entirely too late to give Bromates a chance.

The picture is inert. And there are all these inserts, Wolf in close-up in pretty bad makeup telling “the story” of that night to unseen interrogators. Every film has a whiff of “vanity project” about it. Sometimes, that “vanity” makes you wince.

The players give it their best, as tedious exercises like this are rarely the fault of the cast. The fight choreography rises to “adequate.” The effects are OK — mostly — a planet overrun with “pilots,” another filled with semi-visible alien versions called “shadow creatures.

A caper comedy that neither capers nor gives birth to many laughs.

This promise is at long last fulfilled in the third act, and that chase is pretty impressive. But the movie that gets us there is dumb, talky and pokey in the extreme.

The Untold Story feels threadbare, a comedy creaking along on a walker. It’s not the cast that’s “old,” it’s the screenplay’s paucity of new ideas, new observations about life, fresh gags or situations that seem “ready for the home.”

Director Lucky McKee is here for the violence — mostly in flashbacks. Perhaps Veach talked him into the idea that the “twist” everybody with a pulse sees coming is explanation enough for how maddening this drivel is to listen to.

The Refuge is like an outtake reel, the dullest parts of “Drive” and that Tom Hardy in an SUV drama “Locke” without dialogue or action or much of anything to hold our interest.

This Camping Trip is the oddest blend of “Look what we’ve learned now” showing off and rank filmmaking incompetence I’ve seen in ages.

The screenplay never gets past that “workshop this into something sharper” stage, and the many players never transcend that “promising introduction” that their characters are given.

I’d call the title “Relentless” truth in advertising, althought “Pitiless,” “Endless” and “Senseless” work just as well.

With Suburbicon, George Clooney finally achieves one of his bucket-list goals as director, making a satirical misfire every bit as tone-deaf as the worst works of his movie-making mentors, the Coen Brothers.

The laughs don’t even land with a thud. In The Boss, they almost never land at all.

Writer-director Kayci Lacob frames her debut feature with the dullest author’s public book reading ever, and trots through an utterly conventional collection of genre cliches as she tries to make the story of a child-teen-coed obsessed with becoming Steve Jobs interesting. She fails.

For a guy who jumped straight into putting his name before the title of his films, Lee Daniels is still too ham-fisted and clumsy to make these down-market melodramas come off. And he’s got no clue about building suspense and delivering shocks.

The mirror effects are still striking, Theron, Blunt, Hemsworth and Chastain still fairy-tale beautiful. But The Huntsman: Winter’s War, is the very picture of a movie that should have never been made. It never, for one second, gives us a reason to think otherwise.

Rigidly formulaic and strictly low-heat as far as romances go, I’m guessing you can guess every turn the plot takes just by my listing the pertinent plot points.

If you’re not laughing at this, early and often, you’re made of sterner stuff than the players they paid to show up for this, but didn’t.

A confused and confusing thriller.

Paradox is sort of a cinematic flip book companion piece to Young’s “Paradox” album. And it’s mess, son.

But as the truism “If you’ve seen one ‘Godzilla’ movie, you’ve seen them all” still applies, I kind of hope they choke on the cash from this one.

A lifetime of watching this genre has given me an appreciation for the rare films that work and a patience for even the crappy ones, like I Am Vengeance. But as much as I love me some fisticuffs and Limey trash talk — “Where do you and the other traitorous wankers hang out?” — there’s just nothing to this one.

The story’s “twists” don’t merit the use of the word, and the action beats are generic in the extreme — big explosions here and there, shoot-outs, sniping and fist-fighting and pissed-off beat-downs.

Canary Black is an almost wholly unsatisfying thriller that seemingly had enough necessary ingredients to comprise a full meal.

NONE of these vignettes are funny. None. Cryptic and revealing? Nope. I’m giving this one star for the decent indie cinema production values, and out of pity for the actors.

One Fast Move is several scenes of solid if unspectacular motorcycle racing and stunt driving footage in search of a plot.

A sci-fi/ghost story mashup, it’s got nonsensical science, unemotional actors and direction that can’t be called that in any meaningful sense of the word. It’s head-slappingly stupid, a waste of time and scenery and an embarrassment to all concerned.

There’s a phone app that could text a funnier script than this.

The science is gibberish, the dialogue likewise, the characters cardboard with stiff performances to match.

Overrun is 109 minutes of every action pic cliche under the sun, and a heist set in a mausoleum, which I have to admit I’ve never seen before.

Daniel’s Gotta Die is instantly forgettable.

The mystery doesn’t entirely play fair, not that it’s interesting enough to entice one into sticking with this. The acting is pretty bad, and there’s a general unpleasantness to the proceedings that makes the film a video equivalent chastity belt.

It is terrible on a lot of levels, a godawful script that was drably-cast and indifferently-directed and passes before the eyes, deathly-dull scene after leaden scene.

Bad one-liners, performers straining to find a laugh, Awkwafina making one question why stardom ever came her way, and even John Cena is at a loss about what to do to make this abortion of an action comedy show a pulse.

Brightburn is a generally humorless affair, with the only “laughs” given a sadistic edge, with paint-by-numbers frights and cut-and-paste “big emotional moments” that even the formidable Banks cannot make pay off.

The action is stunningly static, the murders something of an afterthought and the logic illogical, starting with the “smores” campfire party being set in broad daylight. And the slaughter, when it finally starts in earnest, is by-the-book and dull and features the fakest looking blood this side of Heinz 57.

Sequels are cynical by nature, but this one, with its casino product placement ad and director Andy Fickman apparently checking his text messages instead of trying to punch the limp gags into shape, is purely a paycheck. James may not deserve better, but the kids they’re pitching this to do.

Stolen Vacation is a stumbling, slow-footed Mexican “vacation” comedy (titled “Viaje Todo Robado” in Spanish) that barely gets out the front door, fails to arrive at its destination and never once gets up to speed.

But a cluster of screenwriters found barely a single laugh in this wayward tale of a “Meh” face emoji in search of reprogramming. Not a one.

Wrongheaded in conception, eye-rolling in execution, Chappie is a childish blend of the cute robot goofiness of “Short Circuit,” and the bloody-minded mayhem of “Robocop.” Neill Blomkamp, the director of “District 9,” has utterly exhausted his supply of South African sci-fi ideas with this disaster, an excruciating two hours of your life you will fear, quite rightly, ever getting back.

It’s just not funny.

As for this long, boring, violent sequel? Life’s too short.

The results are even worse than you feared.

Mills is so clever, he has the cops utterly outfoxed. But he can’t guess where this story is leading as early as the audience does — which is almost instantly.

What [Weitz] doesn’t produce are frights, suspense and the rising sense of dread such a film has to have to work.

The acting provokes eye-rolling pretty much from the opening scene.

The film’s problematic agenda clashes with its clumsy, unrealistic narrative, and like too many “cops shoot an unarmed Black man” tales, it leaves nothing but harm in its wake.

The caper is routine, the twists don’t — twist. “American Crime” just lies there, a corpse awaiting reanimation that never comes.

A few decent frights and a couple of intentional laughs would have gone a long way towards pulling this up to the bottom rung on the horror (or horror comedy) ladder.

The acting isn’t awful, but the writing has degenerated from insipid to eye-rolling.

The chases are nothing special.

When everyone and everything is this low-heat, even a Hallmark level holiday romance faces that dreaded two-word review every actor and filmmaker fears. Who cares?

Jonathan Rhys Meyers plays a man who may or may not be a serial killer in Awake, a thriller that promises to start quickly and find a fresh twist or two by the end, and fails at both.

What balderdash. And not the fun kind, either.

The kids are pretty good actors, but this clumsy, hacked-together story does nobody any credit.

The leads are competent, with a few wincingly-obvious exceptions. But this dull, tin-eared script, a trite story leadenly told, never gives them a chance.

Krasinski and González manage some light mid-brawl banter that hints at “chemistry” that the script doesn’t really provide. Portman soldiers through it, with Gleason at his least inspired and Ritchie helming his uncoolest clunker since his divorce from Madonna.

From Italy with Amore is like pasta your local Olive Garden left standing in water overnight. It’s shapeless, tasteless, inedible goo, and about as Italian as Chico Marx.

Bad acting by pretty people, chilly sex scenes acted out in mail order S&M wear, laughable dialogue and money money everywhere. What is this, “Fifty Shades of Ebony?”

A mud and blood quest fantasy of the “Conan” school, and calling it a B-movie insults a rich tradition of cheap but entertaining Bs.

It isn’t scary, with even the best-engineered “gotchas” landing flat. Kind of a big deal when you’re making a horror film. It’s joyless and humorless to boot.

The acting’s bad, the dialogue a clutter of cliches, banal affirmations, half-hearted jokes and vocalized pauses — those words all of us use while we’re trying to think of what to say. “You know what I’m saying?” Filler like that should never show up in a script, and this script is almost ALL filler.

A dark comedy without much in the way of laughs, Filthy Animals serves up a string of characters, each repellent in this way or several others, no one to root for, no “message” to take to heart and with an ending so unsatisfying as to leave one slack-jawed and muttering one question.

The story sets up a clumsy psycho-sexual dynamic and a faux family, but the film doesn’t develop those.

Nonna’s “price” is marked down and the movie about it is as instantly forgettable as its predecessor.

Plays like an ill-considered vanity project intended for export to Mother Russia. Maybe there, they’ll be willing to ignore the stiff acting, dull directing and story whose ending is guessable almost from the opening credits.

83 minutes of excruciating, nauseating, boundary-pushing “comedy” that never for a second feels like it’s anything but visual evidence of the end of Sacha Baron Cohen’s comic leading-man career.

It’s not totally soulless, even if it is mostly laugh-free. But hundreds of millions in tickets sold or not, the filmmakers never manage anything like a reason that this intellectual property should have been remade.

It’s easily the worst installment in this endlessly awful series, probably the worst movie of the summer.

Goldie Hawn narrates the damned thing, incessantly. Maybe she’s here to speed things along, “Gold-spain” the simpler-than-simplistic script to the target audience and add gravitas. “SPF” is 75 minute movie that grinds its gears, scene after scene after scene.

That lets Diabolical join the burgeoning ranks of half-hearted horror films that most of us don’t get around to watching because there’s not much reward for doing so.

The family intrigues don’t amount to much, and Nick’s “secret” — the thing that has him sneaking sips from bottles all over the island — is even less original.

The anarchy is mild-mannered, the sight gags limp and the human interactions produce no laughs and little in the way of charm, either.

The performances are flat, drained of anything you’d call a spark.

Fans of the comics will certainly get more out of it than newbies like me. All we see is all the other middling YA sagas it resembles, borrows from and fails to match or improve upon.

What a random, almost plotless debacle The Nun II turns out to be.

Wow. This is what comic purgatory looks like. Actors, trapped in a laugh-free road comedy called Father Figures — a paying (gullible) audience, slack-jawed in dismay, trapped there with them for two hours.

This is the sort of bad horror that is best experienced with a crowd of fellow aficionados, maybe over the favorite beverage of Wicked Wanda (Petty). Maybe social distance with a few friends?

At Midnight is the mildest R-rated rom-com on record, a tame and tepid affair pairing up a couple of career supporting players as the leads, with mild-mannered laughs, lukewarm love scenes and conventional wish-fulfillment-fantasy plot points.

There is no worse way for an actor to make his exit from the screen which he lit up for fifty years. Yeah, O’Toole wanted one last check so he took a tiny role in this silly slaughterhouse.

No characters in this are developed enough to invest in them or pin them down as suspects. At about the time Blood Red Raincoat Killer whips out a circular saw, which is as inventive as the murders get, the movie invites us to check out.

Farrelly’s movie, like his comic shock-shtick, gets old in a hurry.

War Blade is of value only to filmmakers with big ideas and no money, or to film schools where it might be shown as an example of what you can manage on a shoestring, a generic script and no one on set who can block, stage, shoot and edit a proper fight to the death.

Nobody here is given enough help by the script for this thing to play as funny or touching and surprising.

MacFadyen has the chewiest role and his performance reflects that, the only one to truly stand out.

It’s a flurry of wild claims, dubious “experts,” Ad hominem attacks on doubt-sewers, aka “fascist demagogues” of “the national security (and media) state,” clip after clip of sci-fi movies mixed in with newsreel footage, cherry-picked “proof” via inter-title quotes from thinkers, scientists and others — read by narrator Jeremy Piven — and endorsements.

There’s suspense in a few stand-off moments, but the plot’s twists grow less unexpected by the minute.

The effects — monsters, demons — are mildly chilling. But Josh Nadler’s script is amateurish in the extreme.

There’s no guesswork to any of it, not in its “viral” climax or its inevitable Mr. Right. But maybe people who’ve never seen a rom-com will get something out of it.

Seymour gives the most interesting performance, and even it comes off like a pulled-punch.

Sacrilege doesn’t defile a horror formula. It just shows us how following the recipe to the letter doesn’t always work.

The awkward moments outnumber the actually amusing ones, and neither is much evident in this script.

Survival of the Dead lacks the wit of "Zombieland," the polish and punch of last winter's "The Crazies," a remake of a Romero zombie picture from the '70s.

Hard Kill is a garbage thriller made because the producers had access to an abandoned factory complex, a lot of tac gear to dress their color-coordinated “terrorist” minions in and Bruce Willis’s name.

The eggshells the screenwriter and director walk on distance the story from the reality it aims to imitate. And that robs this tale of loss, grief and redemption of its punch.

Every script twist throwing them together is as obvious as every character trait/action that points to a doomed marriage. Every line of dialogue is as bad in English as it was in the original Polish.

Covering such well-worn horror territory requires novel touches, fresh sources of fear, committed-to-the-terror performances, but above all a dread that Nightworld never manages.

I think I laughed once.

There’s no edge to any of this. The stakes are low and treated as no big deal.

Horror movies succeed or fail in a lot of ways, but the real Achilles heel of too many of them is in front of the camera. The actors don’t commit, don’t get across terror, panic, paranoia or rage. That’s an issue here.

Lawyer-turned-screenwriter Dylan Schaffer's script is an unhappy combination of genres, tones, too many dead stretches of people in cars and inept dialogue. Rapaport's tiresome patter doesn't allow for the weak laughs to land.

The heists are derivative, un-rehearsed and unexciting, with curious gadgetry and half-assed problem solving.

There are a couple of laughs, generally not from the leads. And the gory mayhem, from “accidental” executions at the end of a torture session to what a grenade does to a human body, is played for giggles, too.

It’s a mediocre mash-up of genres that leaves no cliche unspoken, no horror trope unturned.

At some point, you either throw up your hands at any of these military recruitment films — American, Chinese or Indian — or just go with them, no matter how silly they start to seem, each in its own culturally-distinct silly ways. I just consistently roll my eyes and opt for the former.

Aside from those random moments, this is an utter excrement storm, from start to finish. And as bad as the acting, nonsensical plot and dialogue are, there’s not a laugh in this thing — intentional or unintentional.

Playdate is perfectly awful, glib in its violence, cavalier about “collateral damage” and packed with what regular family movie watchers might call “Hollywood parenting” — kids who curse, bully and have zero respect for sportsmanship and adults, especially parents.

Win a Trip to Browntown! is a “family” comedy about anal sex, an almost-laugh-free lurch along the not-so-fine-line between “insipid” and “insufferable.”

Absolutely nothing about Gringo works. Well, maybe one decent car crash pays off. The performances, situations, dialogue and story beats are just flung at the screen in the vain hope that something sticks...Nothing does.

Roberts and Union pull out the stops trying to find laughs in this script, mostly failing.

Some of the one-liners land, a few scenes play as half-amusing. But the chop-chop-choppy narrative trick of scores of “this is 4 hours after the death” or “two years” before it wrecks the flow of the story, such as it is.

This waking nightmare from the "Nightmare on Elm Street" creator is a puzzle with no solutions, a tale with a twist that isn't a twist at all.

“Old Guard 2” is 20 minutes shorter than the original film, but if you think that means it’s more brisk you’re mistaken.

I’ve always liked Lopez. Like Brown. Have enjoyed Liu’s recent turns and I’ve always been on Team Mark Strong. But this is pretty bad, and can’t have been any fun to film, either.

The performances are perfunctory, with little heart, heat or whimsy. The picture never looks cheap, but the melodramatic flourishes dumb it down at every turn.

Everything we see in the Polish made-for-Netflix thriller Bartkowiak we’ve seen in half a century of boxing movies.

The acting ranges from adequate to laughable, and the direction cannot overcome the atonal screech of the screenwriting.

Whoever is primarily to blame, Son-in-Law starts out confused and stays confusing almost to the can’t-come-soon-enough closing credits.

It’s basically just a random collection of cliches filtered through the movies its veteran documentary producer-director seems to have half-forgotten.

Try as they might — and they never let us forget they’re trying too hard — co-stars Ben Matheny and Matthew Paul Martinez, with Cory Dumesnil as a nerdy-goofy “hostage” in tow, can’t get this clunker across one state line, much less all the way across the country, from BFE, Mississippi to San Clemente, Cali-forny.

When you’ve already put two sequels to this atrocity into the pre-production pipeline… Maybe you should stop. Or maybe the rest of us, the movie-going, sci-fi loving, “Terminator” adoring public have to be the ones to say it. “This ends here.”

It’s a tediously derivative tale.

The cast is game but rather drab — even the villains.

Here’s a charmless little nothing riff on “Sweet Home Alabama” starring nobody you ever heard of and filmed in everybody’s second-favorite Beaufort, the one in South Carolina.

Director Scooter Corkle fails to find the frights in this. And it’s not like Damien Ober’s script sets anybody involved up for success.

Scary Movie 5 comes up short in every way imaginable.

Perhaps this slow and generally dull and opaque picture never should have seen the light of day.

The jokes are treacly, the situations warmed-over from scores of better movies and the whole thing plays kind of 1943.

Every guy in this thing who isn’t in clown makeup is as bad as the ridiculous, obvious and disjointed script they’re trying to play.

This one lands punches but rarely laughs, reaches for pathos where there is none and relies heavily on the sentiment that earned Quan an Oscar.

The most epic miscalculation since the Golden Summer of M. Night Shyamalan. An unerotic unthrilling erotic thriller in the video game mold, Sucker Punch is "Last Airbender" with bustiers.

If Kristen Stewart ever saw Vampires Suck, she'd be scarred for life.

Spade practically cringes through this thing, not a good look when you’re a high-mileage 55. And a little of Lapkus, shrieking profanities at children, lap-dancing at the luau, goes a long way.

Profane, profanely silly and blasphemous to beat the band, Legion begins well before plunging into the abyss of tedium.

The most shocking thing about Paranormal Activity: The Ghost Dimension, is that four hacks fought to have their names listed in the credits under “screenplay.”

Even graded on the kid-movie-curve, Rally Caps comes up short.

It’s just a clumsily written, flatly-acted sermon built on some of the same stereotypes that made Tyler Perry rich.

A movie that goes from bad to exponentially worse by giving itself over to what is passed-off as an all back-story, over-sharing bar-pickup conversation.

At this point, one has to say that Skiba’s shown his cards in genre after genre after genre, and he’s still drawing nothing but deuces and one-eyed jacks, a loser’s hand every time.

Nothing to Lose 2 is one of the most pointless sequels ever, as it recovers too much of the same persecuted and rising above it ground.

The tedium makes us forget the cynicism.

The entire affair looks pricey but cut-rate at the same time, like a Tesla… The Budweiser product placement does nothing to dispel that.

Sensation is so lifeless and pointless as to make one ponder “What is the half-life on a ‘Game of Thrones’ career bounce?”

A flat, lukewarm glass of Spanish sidra without anything to recommend it beyond the lovely San Sebastian scenery and the fact that it is what is alleged to be Allen’s next to last film.

The lifeless script, the aimlessness that drifts from scene to scene and the eye-rolling cliche of a payoff and finale give away a movie that’s running on fumes, not ideas.

Caan, Gossett, Sorvino and the rest get to work, everybody puts some effort in. But man — let’s wish for better things for everybody involved, save for the screenwriter.

The lack of surprises, the contrived nature of the conflicts that turn into love connections and the cumbersome voiced-over-to-death technique and the abandonment of the whole “tearsmith” metaphor render this potential teen tearjerker nothing to cry over.

What a bust The Dark Tower turns out to be. A thriller with tepid thrills, a horror movie with bland frights, a generic fantasy quest story in which we mope along with joyless, heartless characters in an out-of-date celebration of Old West gunplay, this never should have left pre-production.

Think “American Graffiti” and “High Fidelity” in terms of themes and genre, without the wit, budget, or cast to pull that off.

There are messy movies and shambolic comedies, and then there’s whatever the hell Last Call is supposed to be. It’s a “back to the old neighborhood” comedy almost guaranteed to give you a hangover. I’m on my third aspirin already, and I haven’t had a drop.

Dreyfuss lends a little sparkle to what is otherwise a dully predicatable affair. Even the performances pitched to be appropriate reactions to shark terror, losing loved ones or friends, feel low energy.

If there’s one thing that Hollywood thrillers and the legions of actors who march through them teach us, it’s that faking shock and breath-gulping panic isn’t easy. And hiding boredom, for some actors, is damned near impossible.

Gervais fakes caring about character, jokes or doing the work to make Special Correspondents come off. He’s never made a worse film. And topping that, he’s never made a lazier one.

I swear I never thought I’d see Oscar winner Laura Dern in a movie as empty and pointless as Lonely Planet.

It doesn’t work. It should have, but it doesn’t, despite Hart’s best efforts.

Love the scenery (not enough of it), hated most everything else about Under the Eiffel Tower.

Director Carnevale and screenwriters Fernando Balmayor and Nicolás Giacobone (“Birdman”) completely and utterly lose the thread in the “message” and “moral of the story” department. And most annoying of all, their puzzlingly, infuriatingly vapid movie takes two hours doing it.

The action beats are barely passable — glitchy, pixelated jerks in the digitally-augmented jumps, punches, etc. The production design — dark on dark, all the better to hide the bored actors.

The mission debrief on “The Prey” is that it’s not remotely exciting or scary enough to be worth a look, and not nearly goofy enough to be “so bad it’s fun.”

There’s nothing interesting going on here.

The script ranges from bad to worse, with generic character melt-downs and amateurish plot lapses.

This is a two hour waste of a lot of fine vintage motorcycles.

Every coarse and crude moment feels like a punch that Stasko pulled or that his cast didn’t have the stomach to deliver.

Perry has made better movies, and perhaps worse ones. But never one as dull as this.

“Innocuous, predictable and well-cast” is about all the praise “Mother of the Bride” warrants, unless you consider another movie featuring the lovely scenery of Phuket, Thailand a deal-maker.

“Grizzly II” never comes close to “so bad its good,” although there are laughs at how bad it actually is, here and there.

Every single thing about this, every scene, has the pace of pandesol (Filipino bread) batter slowly dripping out of the mixing bowl. Mom’s activities have a bland, predictable righteousness. Brix’s reactions to each revelation and meeting each person who knew his mother are stunningly unemotional and insipidly scripted.

Judging from the inane script, the unhurried direction by stuntman-turned-director Jesse V. Johnson, and by the destruction wrought when machine guns tear up cars, houses and people (nothing graphic enough to be “honest), it’s obvious that the budget here went to actors and ordinance.

Broome (of TV’s “The Buccaneers”) carries himself like a convincing insolent rich lout. And the car chases and brawls pass muster, even if the plot turns too-predictable-to-tolerate early on.

A timid thriller that manages a couple of mild jolts and a couple of creepy-cringe-worthy moments in its Variations on a "Single White Female" theme.

The pace never picks up from that slow-walk pedestrian opening, making “Velvet Jesus” a half hour movie stretched to 102 tedious, uninvolving minutes.

What a tin-eared foot-fault of a comedy 40-Love is.

There’s barely a laugh in it. And Haddish does lasting damage to her brand and suggests “time’s up” on her 15 minutes as she mugs, vamps, overplays and over-reaches in a vain attempt to give what she HAD to see what “not funny” a laugh.

Guttenberg is bad, and while not everybody on board is as bad or worse, enough of them are to make you puzzle over how something this crummy, but not crummy enough to be any fun, ever got made.

The attempts at jokes don’t land and cameos are no substitute for story, performances or wit in the script. This super hero spoof is a played out idea excruciatingly executed.

It’s a big ol’swing and a miss of a movie, a thriller whose frantic, crazy-quilt editing can’t hide how static and motionless it often feels, whose laptop-loads of “quotable” words don’t cover the inanity of every sentence.

For 85 rude and raunchy minutes, he does his best to drive a comical stake through the heart of horror's hottest franchise and the "found footage" genre. He doesn't exactly succeed.

From the moment the movie makers blow the “meet cute,” this “The Shop Around the Corner/You’ve Got Mail” ripoff doesn’t tickle, tantalize or titilate, even when the ladies of the shop engage in competitive tire-changing.

Kesy is scary and a bit crazy-eyed, wearing his tats and a grill and carrying himself like a rough customer fresh out of stir. It’s a pity he has to talk so much.

The task of pulling these dispirate, franchise-sized plot elements and this populous cast into a coherent narrative with fun action beats proves too much for director and co-writer Antoni Mykowski, who bites off more than he can chew for his feature film debut.

This “Swan Princess” is animated babysitting for tiny tots, nothing more. And even they will someday look back on what they watched as a pre-schooler and roll their eyes.

Devine? Still an acquired taste that defies acquisition.

It’s not helped along its merry way by clumsy plotting, slack direction and stiff performances, which seem more amateurish the further away from the leads that you get. But you can see the promising seeds that gave birth to it, even if they weren’t nurtured all the way to harvest.

Whatever the virtues of the somewhat colorless cast, the script’s idea of wit and edge leaves them literally “stuck in a loop.”

The movie is like Bill Foster’s mad experiment, a dry technical exercise with a functioning heart, but no soul whatsoever.

Band on the Run is a sweet little nothing of a roadtrip comedy where the “nothing” overwhelms the “sweet.” It has its moments. Just not that many.

We can buy a romance warming up between these two, but not based on what this fiasco delivers.

Any signs of life the series showed in the last installment (Saw VI), a dash of humanity here and there, were premature.

It begins badly and turns progressively worse before rallying, “Terminator” style, in a test of human against machine that will-not-die in a movie that does not want to end.

It’s not so much a “sweet nothing” as a “nothing nothing” of a holiday movie, bearing evidence that it’s been cut and a lot has been left out. And judging from what made this release print, the edits were no great loss.

Every time you think “torture porn” is dead and gone, here comes another blood-and-bludgeoning tale to try and revive it.

Is it a spoiler to refer to the coda of thriller The Boy as the clumsiest cop out in recent horror history?

It’s a somewhat dimwitted thriller, sloppily plotted. But the fights are pretty good — and there are a LOT of them.

Sadly, Immigration Tango is like a slow-dance with your sister - perfunctory, awkward and without a hint of heat.

Director Sherry Hormann (“A Regular Woman,” “Desert Flower”) and screenwriter Stephanie Sycholt (“Themba”) get the sex and the scenery right. Its the “mystery,” “intrigue” and “thrills” that are the picture’s undoing.

It’s exactly what the title portrays it to be — “Grandpa” Robert DeNiro, as potty-mouthed, oversexed and politically incorrect as he’s ever been.

It is a comedy as free of laughs as any film that’s landed Ron Perlman in its cast and rented a train for its finale has a right to be.

The performances are on low simmer as the characters turn towards sinister or allegedly desperate, and do nothing to engage us in the proceedings. And the payoff is flat, with even the violence failing to up the heartrate as it supposedly ups the ante.

It has no laughs, no thrills and little that would distract, much less entertain a child.

Hostage House makes the viewer feel like the hostage.

The failures pile up quickly after that promising first act and The Seventh Day doesn’t hold the interest past day two

Director Ash Brannon (“Surf’s Up”) and a slew of credited co-writers could not uncover a laugh in this material. Not a one-liner, not one single sight gag that pays off. The animation is generic, but pretty enough. The music? Sort of a Chinese market research idea of “rock.”

Limp and lifeless, this Next Door neighbor should be evicted to DVD.

The fights are reasonably well-choreographed, the stuntwork not totally obvious. The effects are adequate, there are half-assed “graphic novel” chapter breaks and titles — “The Rabbit,” and the like. The story? Strictly wakkie nunu. At least Cage is here for a few laughs.

Kinds of Kindness is an obscurant, indulgent wank — two hours and forty-five minutes of cryptic cruelty, messianic fervor, cannibalism and perhaps a metaphoric peek at the futility of faith, the limits of dogma and the eagerness of the indoctrinated to be exploited.

As action pictures go, this one isn’t exciting enough to make up for the tedious pacing or the outright silliness of the script and the woodenness of the performers.

There are a couple of effective moments, a chill here and there, a canted camera that captures Grace’s possession by whatever “snake” this cult worships.

The charisma and talent it took to make bad movies watchable just isn’t there.

It’s a slasher star vehicle for “Outer Banks” ingenue Madison Bailey, and she acquits hewrself with honor in a narrative that could not be more generic were it not for her and the whole time traveling thing.

It fails on pretty much every level.

It’s slow-moving and generally unpleasant, unless you want to see the bare bones of fight choreography exposed on screen, “one two three DUCK, one two KICK,” something much more commonplace in the action cinema’s past.

Scenes are clunky and disjointed. The dialogue is bad. Elwes and Patric do their best, but they have trouble hiding their dismay at some of the staging and most of the writing. The performances are adequate in the most tepid sense. Playing caricatures instead of characters is challenging.

Shrug off the low-stakes involved, try not to notice its too-easy-to-guess “twist” and forget any notion of the moral ambiguity that might have been what this picture is about. It’s slick, but just too dumb to get into.

[Segal's] no better than anyone else would be at wringing laughs from this crap script. Yes, he co-wrote it. But if enough people stream this on movie-content-starved Amazon Prime, maybe he’ll get another shot at getting a better movie out of this franchise.

A lump of cinematic coal Perry’s shoving into America’s stockings this holiday season.

Sleepwalking performances, a lack of action and a general ennui behind the camera cripple this bio-terrorism thriller, which takes place in an “Andromeda Strain” lab complex under assault by those who would cover up a genocide, protected by a crusading doctor/researcher and her scientist ex.

The story’s over-familiarity isn’t the best reason to skip Blood and Money. Its messaging is. And whatever butch points Berenger earns for getting the job done in extreme conditions at an age when “don’t slip you’ll break your hip” has to be a concern are squandered on a film that isn’t worth it.

The acting is bad, but the script is “Do you want fries with that?” awful, as that might be where we next encounter this hack Craig Thomas Devlin. Garcia’s direction makes “lackluster” seem aspirational.

“Redville” is a deathly-slow, emotionally empty exericise in “Is this Purgatory?” But even though everything existential and cinematic can’t be “Everything Everywhere All at Once,” I hand it to them for trying.

Watching this head-slappingly stupid movie is an exercise is seeing David Ayer sucked into the drain that Arnold’s been spiraling down ever since his “comeback.”

Just when you give up on the intended comedy ever coming together, it dives into something edgier. But that flip-flop is only a tease for a movie that never was, and probably never was going to be funnier than the one they ended up making, which is as charmless as it is laughless.

This “Corn” sat on the shelf during COVID lockdown, but we can’t say it went stale during the delay. This was cynical in conception and rotten in execution long before the masks came out.

It’s a film built on a foolproof formula, in which the fools foul up the basics.

It is a competently filmed but utterly unsurprising tale.

I hated this clunker long before the third act “twists” that are supposed to make it better, make it make sense and give us hope that this is a future franchise.

The story bores you to tears until it takes its tragic turn.

The tone is jokey enough, a few of the gags land.

There are so few laughs in this thing that it’d have been a shame had somebody gotten hurt making us laugh at their pain.

The trailer to this was frenetic enough that I came in expecting something zippier and wittier. I laughed maybe twice. That could be a “wrong generation to ‘get it'” thing. But I’m putting my money on “This ugly, gross, spittle-spattered and incoherent junk movie just isn’t funny.”

Its 81 drab minutes pass by like a long, labored comic death rattle.

The beasts are revealed too early, the “gotcha” moments are kind of botched.

This abortion of a thriller fails, utterly, and bombed completely. So even though there’s a “Witch Hunter 2” in development, don’t count on it.

A British eOne/Netflix production, packs a bunch of boy-bonding lads off into the wilds of Sweden. No “found footage,” but it’s “The Borgholm Witch Project” in the Swedish “Cabin in the Woods,” “Wicker Man,” the works.

It often seems that “Agent 47” is more concerned with landscape, buildings, offices and subway stations than it is with characters. It’s a lost cause and we lose interest long before we’re shown the exotic architecture of Singapore.

Michael Jai White’s better than this. He should be getting better offers, should be a household name. Hollywood let the man down.

There's nothing thrilling about summarily dispatching everybody who isn't meant to survive to the credits, nothing entertaining about meathook, hatchet and chainsaw murdering that we've seen scores of times.

A rambling, insomnia-curing meditation on music and the musical life that has too little of either to make any sense at all.

Its star, Brandon Routh, is just as miscast as a droll, world-weary "investigator of the undead" as he was as a boy-Man of Steel back in 2006.

Non-linear in its storytelling, stingy with its facts, details and “truth,” it’s a picture that violates a lot of the basic covenants between filmmaker and audience.

It’s badly-written and amateurishly-acted, so amateurishly that one feels sorry for much of the cast.

There’s precious little action, and beavers with Italian accents, weasels with German and French ones (“Vive l’resistence!”) and zero laughs spread over 92 minutes.

“Best.” is a tepid holiday tale that has little to do with Christmas save for skewering that humbragging tradition, the family “Christmas Letter,” in which we boast about our year and play up the achievements of our kids and try not to sound like we’re over-selling them and us.

None of it’s handled with much pace, humor, suspense or style until our third act journey into the NeverEver. And even that, derivative as it is, misses the mark in terms of real frights.

This could be the laziest screenplay you’ll watch or hear this year, so mark down this title and the date you saw it, not to mention the name under “script by” at the bottom of this review.

Paranormal Prison has a great location — a closed penitentiary in Boise, Idaho. It’s got a time-tested concept, a paranormal Youtube show comes in to “Blair Witch”/reality TV the place one last time before it’s torn down. But half of its paltry 70 minutes of screen time are spent “explaining.”

Pointless scenes are scattered in with those that advance the plot, but even the ones designed to flesh out the characters via cliches — the abused daughter our gang leader lost track of in prison — just set one’s teeth on edge.

That’s what Kingsman: The Golden Circle is like — recycled Bond gags and settings, sophomoric humor, and maybe an hour of dead time scattered throughout a two hour and fifteen minute mess.

There’s nothing here to hold one’s interest more than 30 minutes. By that time, the viewer is as winded as the hapless cast.

Ghosts of Red Ridge is a low-budget Western that tries to be a ghost story. It’s not anything to write home about in either genre.

Ill-timed for an America fighting and losing its endless battle with reality and “facts,” “Moon” is glib, dull and ahistorical. Not a romance, kind of comic and too stupid to be satire, it wastes leads Scarlett Johansson and Channing Tatum.

Comedy is very hard to create out of hate.

Ripped is the sort of comedy that can ill afford to waddle through an interminable 16 minute prologue with two even less funny actors playing even more blitzed versions of Love and Peters as teens.

The characters aren’t sketched in. They’re underscripted outlines for “characters,” which might cut it for a video game, but not for a movie. The multiple deaths and rebirths fatally lower the plot’s stakes, and nobody in the cast makes us feel the terror or the grisly ends that keep happening to them.

The plot’s puzzle isn’t engaging enough to warrant solving. And the performances, save for Sizemore, are perfunctory and seemingly puzzled themselves.

There’s one touching scene — just one. It hints at a movie that might have been, one that didn’t involve strippers and strip clubs. The performances are mostly flat, but let’s not lay this mess at the feet of the actors.

The drunk provides the best one-line review for this mess, one a pretty talented cast should have taken to heart before taking Netflix’s money. “Not all ideas are good ones.”

It’s seriously uninspired, lifeless and lame, “noño.”

The best one can say for Spaceman is that it’s a trippy curiosity. The worst is that it’s a serious swing-and-a-miss for the Sand Man, and a career low for Carey M.

The lazy affluence of this script by writer-director Castille Landon, means no real locations are identified, no scenic spot is appreciated and nobody depicted isn’t beach-body ready to peel off this or that article of clothing for some PG-13 grinding that barely merits an R-rating.

It’s a movie that demands we tune out long before it tries to “explain” away its shortcomings.