Wesley Morris

The movie might have worked if it winked more - or if it played things completely straight.

The film is like watching Ozzy Osbourne bite the head off a rubber bat -- it's only almost heinous.

Cult shocker has been turned into throwaway megaplex fodder.

Brutally dumb canine comedy.

This is all a long way of saying that the best way to better understand the man who made those and dozens of other movies is simply to see them. There's no case to be made for a mangy shortcut like Hitchcock. It's all surface and formula.

There is still a great horror movie about foreclosure to be made. In the meantime, this movie plays games. (How many rounds of hide-and-seek should an audience tolerate?)

It has no pulse, no apparent breath.

The secret here is that the movie is rather tasteless. It has the high, slightly nauseating stink of perfume on garbage.

Neither (Bullock/Reynolds) brings out anything good in the other, and watching them try hurts the eyes, the tummy, and the libido.

An undernourished exercise in pop critique.

Some bad movies can make you feel awful for the people who made them and worse for the audience that shows up. The actors, the script, the camera: There's nowhere good they can go. For Greater Glory is that kind of bad movie: a total embarrassment.

Rarely is a movie audience asked to put up with so much noise for such a thankless payoff.

The movie is a work of ambivalence. Is English making fun of these women? Or is she making a pilot for Lifetime?

A particularly egregious array of Kodak moments.

The lack of sexual tension is astounding.

You could cast this movie with potato chips and still get cheers when one of the bad guys is cuffed. It doesn't matter that none of it is to be believed.

Even by the standards of mental-institution-movie misogyny, what an accidental but predictable creepshow this is.

I watched at least a quarter of My Soul to Take, the worst horror movie Wes Craven's made perhaps ever, with the glasses off. It was shot - and is available - in a standard format, and, like many conversions, the 3-D gimmick is like watching a movie through an ashtray.

Moore can't help but be rotten. She has no grace and little nuance, which is why she's always best as a hard-ass in movies.

A one-trick action thriller that feels like a poor cousin of an episode of ''24." Call it ''12."

The grime, filth, slop, vomit, and crotch-nibbling pigs double all too easily as a recipe for this movie's failure. It hasn't been made so much as excreted.

When it was over I felt vaguely embarrassed. I wasn't just leaving a movie theater. I was taking a walk of shame.

It's all emotionally counterfeit, and that bogusness infects the comedy.

A horror film with a moral. No matter how nasty a gang of murderers is, the moviemaker calling the shots is ultimately worse.

A terribly self-satisfied lecture about the ubiquity of quantum physics in spiritual life, is dishonest enough to suggest that even its cavalcade of scientists and mystics might not know anything about such topics as reality and the sub-atomic world.

The writers don’t write, the director doesn’t really direct, and the actors don’t exactly act. They wait for the movie’s contraptions to impale them.

It's too cryptic and unfulfilled to serve as a tool for anything beyond its own obfuscation.

Watching the movie made me long for the big , risky ideas and entertainingly fearless filmmaking in David O. Russell's "I Heart Huckabees " and Spike Jonze's "Adaptation ," which Kaufman wrote. Both were similarly conceptual escapades, but they let it all hang out.