Stephen Hunter

Perhaps as a publishing phenomenon the concept works, but on-screen it's pretty dull, with good actors in bad roles and bad special effects.

So tame and limp, it may actually give mothers-in-law a good name.

Vaughn's con-man jive doesn't get much play in this one; he spends most of his time as a bitter creep, and the writing (by Dan Fogelman) isn't sharp enough to make the hipster-at-the-North-Pole theme pay off in any meaningful way.

Directed by Vincent ("A Map of the Human Heart") Ward, who is either a genius or a crackpot, and derived from a long-ago novel by Richard Matheson, the film is overproduced and underpopulated, with either characters or ideas.

The movie is so disturbing that it seems nearly blasphemous. I wouldn't wish it on an anthrax spore. After all, anthrax has feelings, too.

You can't make an epic about a mouse.

Where is the suspense part? There is no suspense part. Suspense demands clarity of motive and action, and this screenplay never provides it.

the movie comes on as a novelty item, meaning it's so full of disparate parts and so unable to approach coherence, it just sits there and burns out.

It's too bloody to be funny and too silly to be dramatic and too self-indulgent to be anything other than what it is, one more bad movie.

The movie, as its title suggests, means to be one of those Tarantino-esque in-your-face jobs, amusing on the audacity of its outrageousness. Here's how "outrageous" it is: Zzzzzz-zzzz.

It's part travelogue in Hell, part ineffectual weepie.

The new Dutch film Black Book manages to turn World War II into a large piece of cheese. A lurid, pulpy, slightly perverse potboiler, the movie suffers mainly from its utter lack of seriousness.

I'll tell you what's gone in 60 seconds, all right: my attention.

There's nothing wrong with Uptown Girls that not seeing it won't fix.

The first and possibly the last Will Ferrell star vehicle. It's a clumsy, tedious ride that wears out its welcome as it wears out the seat of your pants and the circulation in your lower limbs.

In the end, Gerry is beyond the simple question of pleasure. Seeing it may be no fun at all, but then discomfort is part of the price one pays in learning.

Instead of gold-medal-winning, last-minute heroics, the movie weirdly becomes about the scandal of arbitrary gymnastics judges. Is it a movie or an episode of "Real Sports"? It veers into fresh territory but not dramatically satisfying territory.

As long as it stayed mainstream dirty it was okay, but when it got into perversions the American Psychiatric Society hasn't even named yet, it left me behind.

Friends, Washingtonians, countrymen, I come not to praise Gladiator but to bury it.

I literally did not count a single laugh in the whole aimless schlep, except for the hucksters who made it, on their way to the bank.

It seems such a waste to go onto the actual streets of Lower Manhattan and shoot a movie this stupid. Think of the money, the logistics, the interruptions in the city's life -- all that trouble for what? For this? For shame.

Just another thriller, utterly disposable.

It's like a summer stock "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf," with the proviso that occasionally a giant snaggle-tooth monster slobbers onstage and eats George or Martha.

It continually crashes and burns on its own banality.

It's not really a movie. I suppose it's what could be called a recorded behavior.

Between bad hair and tonal irregularity, the movie doesn't give you much to like.

You are likely to encounter more surprises on the way to the bathroom each morning than you do in this film.

For the most part, Daredevil doesn't take a single dare; it travels the road much trod, even if it's through the midtown air.

All in all, it's like a bachelor's apartment: a complete mess.

Now and then sputters to comic life but more usually wheezes along.

A vicious anti-Catholic diatribe disguised as an audition tape for MTV.

Illustrates the law of returning diminishments.

It orders you to love it. It demands love, which is the best way not to get it.

The movie, directed (and written) by Zach Helm in grotesquely bright colors, means to approach the creepy wonder of Roald Dahl but gets only the creepy part right.

The comedy is strained to the point of lameness, most of it exaggerated clumsiness, stupidity or inappropriateness.

Let's blame it on poor Robin Williams, who tries so desperately to be likable, whimsical, lovable, smart and funny all at once that he just wears you out. Blame it also on the behind-the-scenes engineers at Disney who think that effects are more important than story and character.

The movie falls from grace to clunkiness and continues its herky-jerky, way-unfunny trek around the amusement park. Who needs it?

Not merely Pacino's over-mannered, near-histrionic performance, but the movie itself could be characterized as busy, busy, busy. It's so full of plot twists and revelations and exploding sports cars that its very perkiness comes to seem comic.

It never makes much sense.

This is another unhelpful screed, uncontaminated by sense or perspective, that preaches loudly to the choir.

He still sees dead people, only now they're the best thing in the movie.

A few minutes of inspired lunacy aside, The Yes Men is largely a case of the same old preachers preaching to the same old choir.

Give Woody Allen credit for ambition. Failing at one movie wasn't enough. Nearly anyone can do that; it happens all the time. He's chosen to fail at two simultaneously.

It's such a great story, you have to ask two questions: Why didn't they make this movie before? And why did they make it this way?

Big, dull and empty -- nobody associated with this production appears to have thought hard about storytelling.

Meant to be a sleek, dark, disturbing David Cronenberg-style thriller, Olivier Assayas's film is just an annoying concoction.

There's not enough story in it to fill a shoebox.

It's pretty appalling, and it's boring.

It grinds on and on without mercy. You're in the cross hairs. There is no escape. Where is that Secret Service when you need it?

It never makes you laugh that hard. Not even close. And so the thing becomes a bloody assault on the senses that commingles atrocity with tedium.

Big Fish stinks from the head.

The problem is that director Peter Berg, aided and abetted by Smith and Theron and third banana Jason Bateman, seem to have made it literally, not realizing its out-of-whack tonalities and grotesque plot twists were meant to be played for laughs.

Utterly shatters the illusion with a trite plot, banal dialogue, clunky sentimentality and, worst of all, a sort of narrative arbitrariness.

Never manages to make its characters anything other than cartoons.

This feels like a cramped, TV-style retelling, with small groups of people, no special effects, in some ways almost cheesy.

A whodunit so bafflingly constructed that you can't even figure out what it is, so the whodun part is superfluous.

Like every other second of more than 10,000 seconds in Alexander, it doesn't engage in the least.

The movie is loud, dark, bumpy and not even a little fun. You emerge into daylight bruised and battered, suffering a case of movie abuse.

The story the film tells ruins the movie.

Ultimately undone by its sheer busyness. The screenwriters never get the story to settle down, and it becomes a case of one damn thing after another.

Duvall is a great actor in the homestretch of a great career; it's hard to hold this trifle against him, and certainly nobody will.

Everything in it is a cliche including the end.

Of the many comic book superhero movies, this is by far the lamest, the loudest, the longest. Good Lord, what an epic sit. My rear end deserves a medal...I wish I could say it wasn't so, but for most of us, this "X" marks a splat.

The baseball half of the story just slightly works. ... Nothing in [the other] half of the film works.

There are many ways to define the shrieking awfulness of The Family Stone, from the general lack of wit to the cheap exploitation of cancer to its casual cruelty, but it's writer-director Thomas Bezucha's casting that really goes awry.

A nasty bit of counter-programming, Wolf Creek is for people sickened by the sentimental excesses of the day and the holiday season and want to hide from them in mayhem, slaughter, torture and degradation.

The film has no discipline, but that's okay because it has no suspense, either.

This gives nobody, least of all me, any pleasure, but a truth must be faced: Scoop is the worst movie Woody Allen has ever made.

Like so many technological marvels, at the human level it's not only merely dead, it's really most sincerely dead.

The movie, alas, is shackled somewhat by Waugh's original, pedestrian plot, which is too full of discrete incidents and slow to form an overarching story.

The movie's fundamental problem is that Cusack's character isn't very interesting.

What Kalin fails to provide in the slightest degree is energy. The movie just sloshes along in a heavy, slightly overdone way.

It just never began to work for me, and the sub story behind the ghost story is far more interesting than the ghost story in front of the sub story.

The movie has the sense of being embalmed, or pickled. With its stilted dialogue not quite kitschy enough to be funny and not quite authentic enough to be realistic, the whole movie feels as if it's taking place in formaldehyde.

Mad Max just sails off into nonsense.

The movie never transcended its elaborate production work to achieve an independent reality.

It's just silly, loud and goofy. The dragon needed a bigger part and the two stars smaller ones.

Hanks is great; the movie isn't.

Each plot twist trumps its predecessor into ludicrousness.

They made a movie without one basic ingredient: the story.

Fast and furious, shallow, empty, casually racist, merry, jaunty, silly and utterly weightless.

It's like a music video of Helen Reddy's "I Am Woman" filmed in the Chevy Chase Pottery Barn.

It's kind of a ghastly hoot, and while I suppose it does no harm, it also contributes nothing. It's a guilty unpleasantness.

Thankfully, after its terrific start, Don't Say a Word transmogrifies so totally into Hollywood hooey that it's actually a relief. I'd hate to see a disturbance in the karmic perfection of Douglas's pitch-pure mediocrity.

An ordeal for all save the most ardent Treksters.

Palmetto, directed by the German genius Schlondorff, who memorably brought "The Tin Drum" to the screen, somehow never quite finds the right line through the materials.

Hoodwinked makes a little sense. Too bad, then, it's so crummy.

Tries so hard to be cool that it forgets to be alive.

What a waste of talent, time and money. And guess what else? Not only is The Legend of Zorro stupid and boring but -- ta-da! -- it's also really long!

In the end, Unfaithful leaves you dispirited and grumpy: All that money spent, all that talent wasted, all that time gone forever, and for what? It's an ill movie that bloweth no man to good.

Relentlessly beautiful and wholly annoying.

Stuck in that no man's land between comedy and banal movie mob action, and it delivers on neither of these impulses with any force.

The movie's signal flaw -- that is, other than its degeneracy, its sloppiness, its love of dark things and pretty stains and arterial spray patterns -- is Moseley as the demonic Otis.

Wes Craven, who started the "Nightmare on Elm Street" series, should know a lot better.

The film is a soggy mess, essentially a loud, wild 100-minute battle movie bookended by an incomprehensible beginning and a laughable ending.

Michael Winterbottom's Code 46 commits a Code 1 violation: It's boring.

I found it a rough night at the flickers.

Del Toro will probably get an Oscar nod for his Jerry, because the film is so full of Oscar moments, including a cold-turkey detox bit. He rumbles and shivers and screeches and bangs his head on the wall and takes a shower in his clothes. I never believed a second of it.

Crazy? Crazy is too mild a word by far to describe the twisted worm at play inside the skull of the Canadian director David Cronenberg -- And that craziness is given full vent in the vomitorium called eXistenZ.

So programmatic, so dogged in hitting the right steps at the right time that it completely lacks spontaneity.

Manages to make sex look like no fun at all.

None of it appears to be well thought out, or thought through, and it's consequently never remotely believable.

It's zany. Actually, it's so zany it's almost creepy.

The movie's chief crime against the planet, other than the sheer wastage of time, is the trivializing of the great Freeman. This actor has such dignity and depth and humanity, he almost makes the film watchable.

The movie itself may be a species of Montezuma's revenge.

It's just a loud, derivative grade-Z horror film of no particular distinction.

More in the dumb and dumber tradition of "Halloween" and "Friday the 13th" sequels.

A karate movie so devoid of inner substance that it threatens to suck all known life on planet Earth into the void at its center. [20 Mar 1991]

If ever a project seemed utterly unguided by a compass, it's "North," the dreary new film from Rob Reiner. [22 Jul 1994]

After a fast, smart start, White Sands implodes like a black hole, sucking all goodwill from the atmosphere of the theater, turning those of us who started to love it into embittered cuckolds.

Super Mario Bros. ain't no game, but it ain't no movie, either. The huge, busy, empty, uninvolving mess is marooned halfway between narrative and spectacle, neither fully one nor the other. [28 May 1993]

A veritable clinic in irritation. Just thinking about it irritates me deeply.

The two guys are potentially amusing but the screenplay is so naked in its manipulation of emotion that it feels infantile.

There's not a moment in Boiling Point that could be said to achieve a narrative temperature of 212 degrees Fahrenheit. Boil? This limpid pool of cliche and predictability never even bubbles.

Derived from the folksy, avuncular works of Jean Shepherd, it's a movie in search of a story, characters and a reason to exist. In this quest, it goes 0 for 3. It's like watching Jell-O harden, then melt, only not quite so much fun. [23 Sep 1994]

A strictly by-the-numbers job that, sans Freeman, would be beneath contempt. So congratulations, Morgan Freeman: Your contribution to Chain Reaction is to make it worthy of contempt. [2 Aug 1996]

The most satisfying escape of the day was mine, from the theater, at movie's end.

But if the idea of tiny, little Sally Field in the Charles Bronson part strikes you as a bit silly, that's only the beginning of the idiocies. [12 Jan 1996]

Weekend at Bernie's II only proves what critics have known for years: that on the planet of the bad movies, there's no life after death.

Folks, I really feel that seeing this one for you is the movie critic's equivalent of jumping on the grenade to save your lives. Send me medals.

I like watching snakes eat mice just as much as the next fella, maybe even more, but The Strangers turns the gobble-'em-up into an ordeal. It's a fraud from start to finish.

The film is one of those accursed self-styled "outrageous" comedies that play the horrific for broad laughs, with a comically inflated style of dialogue that's so hip one doubts it could have been conceived before 1997, much less 1847.

In the end the movie goes nowhere a hundred movies haven't already been and tells us nothing we don't already know. It does so with so much violent energy, however, it's like four brutal years at film school crammed into an hour and a half.

Gilliam does two things well: mud and trees.

The movie is fussy and organized rather than moving. It follows a pattern so precisely, it's as if Lahti thought points would be taken off if she colored outside the lines.

Makes "Conan the Barbarian" seem like Dostoyevsky in its complexity.

About halfway through you'll get an incredible hunger to see a movie.

A coarse, witless and stunningly violent black comedy.

How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.

As an example of smash-mouth environmentalism, you'd be hard-pressed to surpass Fire Down Below. As an example of right-thinking American compassion and concern for our precious natural heritage and all the fuzzy fauna and fernyflora of the great outdoors, it's extremely forthright. And as a movie, it's a piece of drivel...Ugh! What a distasteful, silly, egomaniacal movie. [6 Sept 1997, p.D03]

Thr3e needs help with more than spelling.

It's a kind of "Miami Vice" with many more carz and numberz where all the adjectives used 2 go.

The most persistent question asked at When Do We Eat? will probably be "When do we leave?" This abrasive Passover comedy-drama is extremely difficult to sit through, and if its makers weren't all Jewish, it would be considered anti-Semitic.

It's just gunfights strung together, without a whisper of coherence or meaning. The fights are staged so that they all look the same, and the principle is always the same: The gunman's multiple antagonists never hit, and he never misses. John Woo at least had fun with this sort of thing 20 years ago. And Giamatti? What the heck is he doing here?

Here, by its cooperation with the Disney factory, NASCAR says it's also warm 'n' cuddly, and that if you love your magic bug, it'll repay you with victory. Why does it allow itself to be co-opted by a story that diminishes the skills, experience and talent it takes to win?

Overblown, overheated, overdirected, overacted, overlong.

Beginning with an intriguing premise, which it manages to squander in record time, it turns out to be a thinly imagined, thinly acted, silly exercise in car crashes, chases and nasty outbursts of generic violence.

So primitive, it must have been written in lizard blood on animal skin.

Here's a film that so merrily thumbs its nose at propriety in exchange for visceral thrills, and at probability in exchange for the really cool plot twist, that it checks in as the guiltiest pleasure since "The 13th Warrior."

Some stories are eternal. They will not go away. They are told and retold for generations. Take the story of Jesse James --it is not one of them.

This movie, written in crayon by James Kearns, is too dumb to come up with a way of defeating the system by using its own rules.

At least it cares enough to steal from the very best. Unfortunately, that's about all it cares about.

It goes so far -- way too far -- as having a known actor play Grant.

An Upper West Sidey exercise in narcissism and self-congratulation disguised as a tribute.

We're supposed to adore Gibson's sang-froid and his toughness, but everything, a few good lines aside, is so witless and monotonous it becomes numbing.

Baby, when you walk out of a movie thinking, "Say, that Heather Locklear was pretty darn good," the movie's got some problems!

A devastatingly dishonest, tough look at teenage life.

Sahara is a mediocrity wrapped inside a banality, toasted in a nice, fresh cliche.

When a burning rat is the funniest thing in your movie, I think you're in big trouble, even in Miami.

Poor Roberts, pretty and perky as the day is long, hasn't a hoot in hell of bringing Julianne off. She's simply not actress enough, she doesn't have that suppleness that would enable her to sell the complexity of emotion, the jealousy, the irrationality, the meanness and the intelligence.

Nothing is real, but at the same time, nothing is fake. Nothing is, period. You don't believe a second of it for a second, so banal and predictable is it.

Here's the best thing about Stealing Harvard: A dog bites Green in the crotch for a really long time. Priceless.

Hatched by screenwriters watching "The Sixth Sense" on methamphetamines

So loud, so long, so dumb.

The film has about seven minutes of good material, mostly provided by John Cleese.

A rambling wreck from computer tech and a helluva souvenir –- that is, for those interested in artifacts representing the American movie at its worst.

The true crime is the eight bucks the filmmakers want to steal from you. Best advice: Don't let them get away with it.

A piece of pulp claptrap; it has no insights whatsoever into totalitarian psychology and always settles for the cheesiest kinds of demagoguery and harangue as its emblems of evil. They say they want a revolution? Then give us a revolution, one that's believable, frightening, heroic, coherent and not a teenagers' freaky power trip.

It's a simpering, ineffective ersatz-drama, so simple-minded and unrealistic and so full of fussy stupidity, it exiles you.

It's a loose reassembly of plot points from "Rosemary's Baby" and "The Exorcist" that never achieves the emotional intensity of either.

I liked Coyote Ugly better when it was called "Flashdance," although I didn't like it very much then.

As monotonous as Muzak, and when it comes to the plot, both bewildering and trite.

Surely the dullest of Hollywood's many comic-book-derived summer movies, "Silver Surfer" is drearier than corn dying in the Iowa sun, slower than molasses in Antarctica.

Polanski, generally, has fallen farther than Lucifer, and into a more profoundly depressing hell, the hell of utter banality.

Everyone in the film is mean-spirited, manipulative and repulsive, and I'm only talking about the women! The men are much worse, particularly Dan Aykroyd.

If you think it's worth it to sit there for 97 minutes for three or possibly four laughs, then you are beyond help.

A pocket of infection on the skin of the American body cultural.

It's too long, it's too dull, it's too lame.

Represents such a professional nadir for each of its principals that you wish better for them in the new year.

A mousy little nothing of a picture.

What a jolly comedy theme: incest.

The plot feels arbitrary and seems driven to invent new places for its protagonists to go, as if to justify a budget on which Woody Allen could have made six much better films.

This film isn't so much a sequel to the original "American Pie" as a reduction of it.

A lamebrained American remake of the classic, bitter French farce "Les Comperes," Fathers' Day offers sporadic laughs of the lowest kind -- the old outhouse-bites-man thing -- but some conspicuous idiocy as well.

They took the most famous tale in the world and broke it.

Nobody really cares about the plot, least of all the filmmakers.

A crass physical comedy of unrelenting irrelevance with a gag or two amid the many other examples of bad taste, extrapolating toward infinite on the theme of remote control reality.

What saddened me, however, wasn't the silliness but recognizing the great Swedish actress Lena Olin under a lot of "Elvira, Mistress of the Dark" makeup. What a waste.

It's empty of ideas, which is fine, but it's also empty of heat.

Something between an indiscretion and an atrocity.

Crazy, ugly and scary. In fact, a sense of the grotesque runs thought the film; an extended joke about Sandler's black, dead foot (from frostbite as a kid) borders on something you find in John Waters.

All in all, High Crimes isn't worth the crayons it took to write the script.

It is the perfect modern product: loud, banal, empty, frenzied, plasticized, flavorless, drab, violent in a bloodless way and sexy in a sexless way.

Though R-rated, its real target audience is under 18 -- either in years or IQ points.

It's not brazenly bad or heroically bad or stridently bad. It's bad in all the old, dull ways of being bad: poor performances, absurd story, dreary special effects, witless dialogue and the excessive length of someone taking himself far too seriously.

The result isn't merely ludicrous, it's something far worse. It's drab. It's uninteresting. It squanders Chan's uniqueness; it could even be said to squander Jennifer Love Hewitt!

It has no moments of athletic grace amid the chaos, no apparent sense of strategy. It's basically just mayhem set to rock music.

It manages to find an almost pitch-perfect accumulation of ill-matched tones, sheer grotesquerie, near-heroic absurdity and self-canceling folly.

The movie is simply not professional. It's not, even by the lowest standards of Republic B-westerns in the '30s or bad, cheap horror films in the '50s, releasable.

So twitchy, fidgety, skittery and wiggly that the drug it made me yearn for was Dramamine, followed by a chaser of bourbon, 12 years old.

This one's a turkey as big as the Eiffel Tower but it's bad in a particularly American way: It's wildly overdone, it throws in everything in an attempt to appeal to everyone, it's gargantuan and anti-logical, pointlessly ornate and pointlessly violent.

Just what we need least: a warm family comedy about child molestation.That's Georgia Rule, which combines battleship actresses of the "Steel Magnolias" variety, fall-down-go-boom comedy that was obsolete in the '30s, Lindsay Lohan's cleavage and intergenerational fondling just for kicks.

So smug and so proud of itself, and you can tell that everybody involved conceives of it as a civics lesson instead of a story, that they squeeze all the life out of it.

Oh, please. Stop and smell the manure.

A meet-cute whimsy set among divorced fifty-somethings in New York, it blunders on toward oblivion, excruciatingly unfunny and pitifully unromantic.

It can't fake sincerity. It tries ever so hard, but it doesn't have a single believable second. Every word in it is a lie.

What a bummer! Certainly the meanest-spirited film ever associated with the Disney hallmark.

In this movie, the sense of charm has been obliterated.

The film turns out to have nothing going for it at all, except a small charge for soul-deep Madonna haters.

In the end, I'm wondering what's so special about a film that has but one guilty pleasure and that's Ben Kingsley spraying saliva-lubricated variants of the F-word into the atmosphere like anti-aircraft fire for 10 solid minutes.

The most lethal weapon of all turns out to be the script.

The story is so ridiculous and the acting so completely amateurish, the fights have no dramatic impact; you don't care whether good Jet or bad Jet wins – not that you can tell them apart anyway.

You could run this film backward, soundtrack included, and it would make no less sense. --It's almost completely uninvolving, as well as being impenetrable.

Equilibrium is like a remake of "1984" by someone who's seen "The Matrix" 25 times while eating Twinkies and doing methamphetamines.

Neither character seems especially insightful, and their intense focus on the self and the terrific delicacy of their feelings comes to feel narcissistic and annoying.

The whole thing is coarse and vulgar, as it hides its low fascinations behind a scrim of Holocaust piety until it becomes pure kitsch.

Isn't juvenile, it isn't even infantile. It's prenatal!

I found myself praying that the film would jam and melt and, well past the halfway point, it did, and I was sprung, 30 minutes early.

The new film by the phenomenally talented Scots-English trio of director Danny Boyle, producer Andrew MacDonald and screenwriter John Hodge -- they did both "Shallow Grave" and "Trainspotting" -- is a failure so absolute and witless it deserves some kind of mention in the Hall of Lame.

A crackpot Looney Tune, pretentious, abysmally slow, amateurishly acted and, above all, wrong.

Godzilla, go home.

It has the overwhelming stench of a film afflicted by star ego -- Michelle Pfeiffer is never wrong, which is exactly what is wrong with The Deep End of the Ocean.

An insufferable piffle.

In the end, I can't think of a movie that matters less than Just My Luck. It's just negligible.

It's about women, but as written and directed by a man, it appears to make no emotional sense at all. It treats women like idiots.

Overblown and idiotic, this new "erotic thriller" is neither erotic nor thrilling; it's long, boring and self-indulgent.

Shamelessly manipulative in a crude, bullying way.

So stupid it makes "xXx: State of the Union" look like it was written by Nietzsche.

Definitely stuck in the fourth grade.

Watching it is like being forced to listen to bad heavy metal music turned up to 11 while fat guys in Bermuda shorts compete in a puking contest in the john.

It's not new. It's not interesting. I wish it would go away.

Tells us nothing we didn't already know, and it tells it over and over and over.

If the movie were merely unfunny, one might dismiss it with an airy wave of the hand in a paragraph or two without breaking a sweat or digging into the old adjective tool box, but "Car 54, Where Are You?" is actively repulsive.

An animated King and I? Now there's torture, especially in this wretched, lurid, absurd concoction which seems to have been conceived to annoy adults and bore children.

There should be a special room in Hell where the makers of films like Patch Adams are sent.

The dialogue is fast but bad, the acting is loud but awful and the morality is chaste but unromantic. As for the food, it looks vulgar.

What you get is the V trifecta: vile, vicious and violent. Oh, and incoherent and stupid. A mess. A mean-spirited completely worthless film that can never give back the two hours it seizes from you.

So predictable it could have been written by a chimp who's watched too much TV, the huge movie is as dumb as it is loud, and it's way too loud.

One thing the makers of Saving Silverman do not have to worry about: Hannibal Lecter will never visit them to eat their brains. That is because they have no brains.

It's sickeningly violent!

Enervated, torpid, slack, dreary and, oh yes, nasty, brutish and long.

Here's what I really like about The Mod Squad: Nobody in it gives a damn.

This is supposed to be funny? It was so depressing I almost started to cry.

The kinetics aren't that good, the twaddle is off the charts and the characters seem written by monkeys on amphetamines with crayons.

Not a second of it is believable; not a tenth of a second of it is refreshing; not a millionth of a second is worthwhile