Wesley Morris

Stinks from the Earth to the moon.

Regardless, it's sad that Singleton is taking Diesel's sloppy seconds.

Moves from cheekiness to ineptitude, often in a single take.

If Crossing Over is less self-congratulatory than "Crash" about confronting its designated problem, it's just as inept at dramatizing the complex ways that problem unites and divides us. Here every cause is something you can wear around your neck.

Shadyac doesn't film how his change inspires more change, or showing him, say, starting a school for destitute orphans. All we see him give is this movie. It's not much of a contribution.

Like a guy who finally gets what he wants, you just want to go home once it's over.

Little Nicky is but a meek gross-out cousin of "The Waterboy."

By the time I saw poor Tim crushed, head to toe, by a falling sheet of plate glass, I was certain I hadn't signed up for anything this punishing.

For most of the movie, however, Halle sprints, Halle swims (55 laps!), and Halle screams. It's a two-hour fitness video -- a portrait of the Oscar winner as personal trainer.

The Words aspires to depths greater than the sex we never see these two have. There's nothing for the eye to do while the ear fills with the banalities of two streams of narration, one by Dennis Quaid, the other by Jeremy Irons, all of it built around a lie.

The best and worst of old school -- retro but stale. Frankenheimer, along with Ben Affleck, donates what cool there is.

One of those movies that an audience knows is terrible the minute it starts.

The film is nothing to be ashamed of (especially if you're Kingsley). But it's as if everybody involved knows what the deal is.

Directing Annapolis is Justin Lin, whose previous feature was the irresponsible high-school comedy thriller "Better Luck Tomorrow." This second movie is more his speed.

Amid the dumbness and disgust for paying customers, the movie does manage to cough up something I didn't expect: a performance so terrible you can't quite believe it's happening: Bentley's.

Attempts none of the witty, provocative visual and metaphysical set pieces from any of the ''Nightmare'' movies. And it offers none of the real fright of the early ''Friday the 13th'' films. In fact, the movie is deeply, proudly unimaginative.

Barely any of it is funny, and if a minute of it is meant in mockery, few of the darts ever find the board.

Mosteller might be the movie's real discovery. He twists his lisp and slurry speech around the dialogue in a way that exudes far less attitude than the kids.

More than half the reason I went to see this movie is because I miss “Fool’s Gold,” too. But that movie is 11 years old. And the days of low-stakes thingamabobs with some stars and even a little bit of writing are gone. Instead of a caper with Kate Hudson, McConaughey has got a mess written and directed by Steven Knight.

A slow and silly action-comedy romantic-thriller.

His [Director Tony Scott's] pornographic lust for bloodletting, gunplay, and out-of-control camerawork far exceeds his abilities to tell a story.

Only in the last 30 minutes does Evan Almighty put his gifts to decent use. Epically hairy and biblically robed, Carell suggests at that point what a bolder, more psychologically serious treatment of religious conviction would have been like.

Waist Deep is a cynical excuse for the writer and director (and talented actor) Vondie Curtis-Hall to sock some money away for the kids' college tuition. It's as if he watched "Get Rich or Die Tryin' " and thought, "It needs more palm trees."

The movie is terrible partly because it's badly written, directed, and conceived and partly because it lacks the necessarily thematic coherence to accomplish proselytism of any kind.

It has no pulse, no apparent breath.

Miracle at St. Anna is not work of outrage or joy. It's something distressingly new for the filmmaker: a work of obligation. It feels like a movie Lee made in order to say he did it.

The movie is so dependant on its source material that it fails to put Carter, Thompson, Penn, and Christy to better use.

Broad and badly made but sporadically inspired, "Chuck and Larry" is still an amazing improvement over "License to Wed," this month's other wedding comedy.

Silly little thriller.

When Annabel Chong sits in front of Gough Lewis' camera and complains about her need to have one of those normal everyday lives, you want to tell her that having intercourse on camera with more than 200 men is probably not the way to get to normal.

The film turns that stale old Seder into warmed-up dinner theater.

Material this banal needs a madman of David Lynch proportions to incinerate it. Hackford leaves it intact, forcing us to regard a car he doesn't have the guts or skill to crash.

Neither hot nor square, it's as simple and earnest as any after-school special and as cameo-laden as any rap video.

Eckhart, who gets more rugged by the picture, certainly works hard to bring the audience along. But he's a nervous wreck for nothing. This movie isn't talking to us, it's talking to other serial killer movies.

Part soap opera and part thriller, and it has the unique characteristic of being both undeveloped and overwritten.

I'd like to make a 911 call myself: Lord, please stop this increasingly fine actor (Smith) from climbing onto another cross.

Too dumb to realize that the senselessness is viral.

It's often a lapsed, under-informed documentary with restagings.

Rebound is about as unmotivated as Coach Roy, doing nothing to distinguish itself from any other movie ever made about winless teams that learn to stop losing.

For what it’s worth, Tooth Fairy is a somehow dimmer cousin of those Tim Allen “Santa Clause’’ movies.

Aeon Flux is the sophomore picture from Karyn Kusama, who's first movie was a modest boxing film called "Girlfight." Here she's in over her head. The movie's sexual and scientific ideas never come through, and the characters would be fun only if they came with a joystick.

The new remake of Arthur is a thin copy of the 1981 original. But it has a few things going for it.

The movie is only sporadically interesting.

It's too long and self-consciously progressive to be entertaining, but it's too well-intentioned to be dismissed altogether.

It plays better as exasperating comedy than genuine horror -- although there is something terrifying about being stuck in a movie whose idea of a bogeyman is a scarecrow with an eating disorder.

Directed by F. Gary Gray and written by Christian Gudegast and Paul T. Scheuring, the movie isn't even worthy of former NFL linebacker turned straight-to-video action figure Brian Bosworth.

Fun here is fleeting.

Their movie is watchable - never more gratuitously so than when Alba is filmed showering and slipping into a tank top. But we've been here before, no?

Perhaps Employee of the Month, which was typed then directed by Greg Coolidge, is unfolding in the key of satire. But you'd have to be a dog to hear it.

This is a disarming and, in its own way, delightful vehicle for its star and executive producer, the comedian and actress Mo'Nique. Who could hate this movie?

Like so many movies with a keypad for a brain, Resident Evil: Apocalypse is another exercise in making us feel the irritation associated with having to stand behind some game hack for our turn to play.

As it is, LaBute has cleverly repurposed his creepy source material. This Wicker Man, which wasn't screened for critics, is a nutty atonement for the gender assaults of his filmmaking and playwriting past, including "In the Company of Men," "Your Friends & Neighbors," and "The Shape of Things."

A slick but dull new shoot- ' em-up from Jamaica, doesn't penetrate the mysteries of high-rolling, high-risk thug life.

Blows to the head are delivered with more subtlety than the message of Diary of a Mad Black Woman.

The movie needs Richard Dreyfuss .

They're still fighting in this sequel. But this is a more visually inspired, muscularly made movie than its predecessor.

Parental Guidance is overly generous with regard to the silliness. However, it's not clueless. Crystal seems determined to give as generously as he gets. When a bully whacks him, Crystal covers the bully in vomit. Good for him.

There is a good chunk of Lady in the Water that is simply too well made and affectingly acted to dismiss as a mere exercise in arrogance.

Manages to fascinate more than it entertains.

Turistas is not a slasher film -- not conventionally. Released by Fox's new teen division, it's the latest aquatic titillation from John Stockwell, the man who also brought us "Blue Crush" and the shockingly good "Into the Blue."

Long-delayed, pitiful excuse for a horror film.

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

Playing Clouseau's exasperated boss, Cleese rams his head into a wall minutes into the action. That's a powerful image, insofar as his headache was mine.

I don't know whether she's (Hudson) drunk, stoned, or simply out of her mind, but if it weren't so sad watching her pick away at this skimpy, overlong romantic lie, she might be entertaining.

Getting to the true root of his evil may necessitate "Saw LX."

At the very least, a movie like this requires coherence to stay afloat. Barring that, it needs a star to distract us.

An infuriatingly indulgent piffle of adolescent wish-fulfillment.

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.

But what can you do with Hayden Christensen? He's as close as we have to an android actor. It's all a chore for him. He never looks sufficiently scared, impressed, or surprised by any of this.

An embarrassing romantic comedy from Rob Reiner.

The average Bollywood routine is passionately cheesy. This movie seems cursed with a lactose intolerance.

A film where suspense and exhilaration are incompatible, and a receding plot line is merely the platform for cars to fly through panes of glass.

It's a movie so late in noticing a shift in American male grooming that for a documentary on the subject to work, Spurlock would either have to pitch it to our grandparents (or be a grandparent) or trace the arc of the shift and unpack it.

So light it should wind up on the ''diet" shelf of the video store.

Deal doesn't really care about the characters as much as it does the World Poker Championships, where Tommy and Alex end up. Once we get there the movie becomes interesting because Cates understands the game and its dramas a lot better than he understands people and theirs.

About a moron - oxy and otherwise.

The only thing I want less than a thriller about a school shooting is a thriller whose other main character is the main character’s iPhone.

Comes tantalizingly close to being interesting.

It's that awkward, tedious monster mash of "chick flick'' and romantic comedy.

An arthritic failure, genuine only when the two outcast lovers' eyes dart toward each other, then retreat.

Loaded with priceless encounters that would seem incongruous in any other movie but play here as low-comedy facts of some parts of black life.

The film is obviously a long-form episode of a show better digested in 22-minute segments.

The sex bits are flat, the racial innuendo is flatter, and somewhere, Cosby is having a Pudding Pop and shaking his head in disbelief.

For better and worse, the movie is more attractive and competently assembled than its schlock peers. That's refreshing, but it hardly excuses the appalling lack of suspense, intermittent tastelessness, or shockingly low camp quotient.

It's an experience as frustrating as watching Jeff Gordon drive a stock car through a bowl of oatmeal.

Lopez smiles, whines, and blinks her way through this movie. She seems more relaxed than she ever has. And yet it seems like she’s hiding in romantic comedies, lest we discover that she doesn’t have a “Monster’s Ball’’ or even a “Blind Side’’ in her.

The laughless outtakes for ''Armed and Fabulous" helpfully remind us that it could have been worse.

Finding Home is well meant and earnest but is stretched to almost twice what would have been a comfortable length.

The problem with the new movie is the same as with the previous one. Vardalos has this idea that she's a marm. And while it's true that she personifies her movies, I don't quite buy her librarian mode.

Like a lot of action-movie directors, Gray lacks the imagination to view the art of cat-and-mouse as more than a chance to play with state-of-the-art war technology.

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

Thurman is bespectacled again for Motherhood, and it saddens me to report that neither she nor this comedy turns into more than an argument against procreation.

The 6-year-old I went with had the villain pegged in the first 15 minutes. Needless to say, she completely ruined the movie for me. Meddling kid.

Dreary-looking and painfully slow, but it's not terrible.

The Fourth Kind doesn’t build, instill, or maintain an audience’s fear. It just spends 98 minutes trying to prove that what you’re watching actually happened.

Another gay movie that luxuriates in emotional implausibility.

It also goes out of its way to give you a schlocky B-movie vibe by wrangling bait in the form of a bunch of Big-Gulp stupid stock characters - that's a whopping 44 oz. more stupid than you probably were bargaining for.

It’s like Bob Fosse night at the martial-arts studio. Most of the killing here is done with bladed throwing stars that, like the ninjas themselves, arrive from nowhere. They appear to have been used to edit the film as well.

This new movie is a more credible, less grisly act of filmmaking , but it's a less compelling exercise. It doesn't have the ruthless moral reasoning of the first two "Saw" pictures, however grotesque and specious that reasoning was. But it does have a plot that revolves around a ventriloquist and her demon doll.

This is many lousy movies for the price of one.

Feels like an interminable pilot for a show to fill that deadly 8:30 slot between "Friends" and "Will and Grace."

Not so much a documentary as it is a bald-faced party movie.

The movie's not bad enough to be world-ending, merely clumsy.

As she sashays, mirthlessly, from one thankless confrontation to the next, it's unclear why anyone would find Garner any more deserving of stardom than certain mannequins.

There's a cheap thrill in watching Hudson defuse Cook's pig antics with some foulness of her own.

The only thing sadder than Jonah Hex is what appears to have happened to his movie.

The movie's enthusiasm is as indelible and shiny as the lip gloss its star wears to bed.

The most popular facial expression for victims in The Grudge 2 is something I'd like to call "deep befuddlement." This time "deep befuddlement" goes double for paying customers.

Just as you're ready to give up on Chasing Papi, Paul Rodriguez shows up, and the movie goes from plotless to wildly overwritten in just one scene.

The appeal of Bedtime Stories belongs entirely to Sandler. As a comedian, he doesn't have to stoop to a kid's level. He's usually already there.

House of D, is like the kind of sticky greeting card you'd find on CBS some Sunday nights.

There's more gymnastic yammering in Loving Jezebel than in a season of "Dawson's Creek."

This is a manic hour and a half. It's full of pushy, grabby, assertive, borderline obnoxious characters, not all of whom went to Harvard.

A migraine inducement that you'd think Jack Black had gotten out of his system years ago. Yet he still finds an excuse to wear a blazer and shorts and fling his bodily orb like Angus Young on Guitar Hero night at the neighborhood bar.

The movie tries going for a laugh or two. It even makes stabs at irony. But since none of the story is suspenseful, remotely believable, or, at the very least, cheaply entertaining, who cares?

A more convincing star could make this a degree more tolerable, although in Cyrus’s defense not much more.

The latest cannibalization of a popular older horror film.

Neither epochal nor epic in its ludicrousness. It's just run-of-the-mill trash.

It's hard to have sympathy for a movie that tosses in the old shower sneak-up sequence or allows its characters to speak as obviously as possible while standing in a pool of red liquid.

Seeing her (Kidman) in junk like this is a bit like watching the Queen of England eat a Taco Bell chalupa.

Too screwy to be really funny.

Tom Six's movie has the freakiness and sadism of its genre, but it's so heavy with self-appreciation -- Dude, we had the craziest premise for a movie! -- that it can't lift off into the perverse ecstasy of decent exploitation. That was also the problem with "Snakes on a Plane.''

It's another standard-issue bad star-vehicle action-comedy, this time for Cedric.

You don't have to hand the folks behind Dragon Wars much (the acting, directing, costumes, editing, props, music, etc: They're all off). But when they decide to sic that giant snake and those prehistoric dino-birds on downtown Los Angeles, the movie turns shockingly watchable.

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?)

A high-spirited, big-bottomed Polaroid of the comedian in a fat suit.

A cheap, greasy time at the multiplex. You leave annoyed at having been hungry enough to have ever wanted it in the first place.

Frill-less almost to the point of minimalist, teary without being lachrymose, hers is a performance you'd think was great were the movie in a language you didn't understand.

When it's funny it's uproarious. Otherwise, you're crestfallen to discover that the movie is a relentless sucker punch to black entrepreneurship.

As an up-to-the-minute representation of the specifics of the teen universe, Sleepover lacks authenticity.

Every ounce of the film feels artificially upbeat.

The movie's no good: It's written, directed, performed, photographed, edited, and marketed on a fifth-grade reading level; despite that and its twin stars' saucer eyes and ropy limbs, it's no Muppet movie either.

It’s unclear what Amy Adams did to deserve Leap Year, but all that’s missing from the movie is a set of jailhouse bars over her scenes.

The movie is as grim and grave as the comic book. But it lacks atmosphere. It's often illogical and drubs you numb with its single dimension: noisy retribution.

Messing should know this is precisely the kind of movie Grace would ridicule Will for dragging her to see.

This movie is to sweet as a dog is to a hydrant. But it's little things like that that keep someone like Diaz laughing all the way to the urinal.

The director, Martin Weisz , doesn't lean on a lot of noise and editing tricks. He can relax, since all the scares are built into the Cravens' script, which invokes both "Goonies" and last year's instant-classic, chicks-versus-cave-dwelling-vampires flick "The Descent."

Feels conceived and shot on the fly -- like between lunch breaks for Shearer's radio show and his ''Simpson'' voice-overs.

Cosmic slop.

The lack of sexual tension is astounding.

As perfectly bad horror movies go, Wrong Turn is something new: a gore-splattered workout flick.

You want to make lemonade from this, but even the lemons stink.

Overlong, naggingly pretentious, more absurd than absurdist and a cruel, cruel bore.

Whitney's body of work doesn't suggest a filmmaker so much as an opportunist with a video camera. He makes a very specific sort of reality movie. It's called porn.

The movie wants us to find this frightening, but there's no suspense, no terrifying images.

There is a mild pleasure in the sight of Jude Law pirouetting with a hacksaw through gangs of extras, but the amusement is notional. I actually don’t find him terribly interesting as a kinetic object.

A horror film whose only scare is that it was made at all... As with so many stupid horror movies in these post-''Scream" times, this one is at such a creative loss that all it can do is make its audience feel duped for having purchased a ticket.

Fired Up feels like everybody's first time doing anything - writing, acting, directing, cheerleading.

This is not a movie that has great passion for pleasures of the flesh. Its sexiest scenes involve bullets cutting through the air in the slowest motion possible.

Tens of millions of dollars were spent to tell us what we should have known going in: that the makers of the movie you're slogging through will spare no expense to demonstrate how much they hate us. Do us a favor. Tell them the feeling is mutual.

It's not as bad as the average Hollywood movie, it's stupendously worse.

An unsteady stab at noir.

Marks a return to a not-so-distant time when horror movies weren't soul-rotting atrocities but just enjoyably bad.

At some point, I just tired of looking at all the nicely composed shots unworthy of the stock they're printed on. Lives are at stake here, and I don't mean Julia's and her annoying pals'. I mean the lives of you and me, the only pronouns that really matter here.

It's got both a soap opera plotline and a Chuck Norris-load of taxpayer-financed gadgets and gear. It also has Reese Witherspoon in another terrible part.

Works purely as a series of complex snapshots of the conflict in Iraq.

One of those truly biodegradable experiences.

By Hollywood standards, a movie carried with such gusto by a 67-year-old woman has to be considered a miracle. And I'm not sorry to say I enjoyed watching her do it.

Just bland behavioral propaganda, and Holmes makes such a guileless and robotic spokeswoman, it wouldn't be nuts to think the White House was just another mansion in Stepford.

The movie actually does feel like an Americanized work of Hong Kong moviemaking. But the desperate, derivative style, the nonsense plotting, and leggy, horny women are applied like too much MSG.

Painfully unfunny.

The film is profane. But who knew police brutality could play as a laughing matter?

All the makers of Texas Chainsaw 3D cared about was getting your $16.

Cop Out seems aptly named. It’s not personal. It’s barely even a movie. It’s a fire hydrant that the director and his stars use for exterior shots.

This is a terrible little movie even by the standards of the genre.

Positively reeks of self-importance -- the jokey, ham-fisted, pseudo-socially relevant, punch-pulling kind. It reeks worse of acting -- the Jack-Lemmon-in-a-coma Kevin Spacey kind.

It's ultimately just a rigorous personal training film made by people who don't seem to like movies or the people who go to them.

Nothing works. Or some of it works, but that doesn't matter because what's working is so deeply, painfully boring.

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.

Who knew that the franchise’s creators would eventually find a plot twist that made sense?

Over Her Dead Body is to romantic comedy what Spam is to meat. But at least with Spam, you get cool packaging.

Wesley Snipes runs around a lot shooting people in plotless film.

A moronic exercise in supernatural claptrap.

An undernourished exercise in pop critique.

This prequel has something to appall everybody.

We’ve just been treated like a fire hydrant.

In Sandler's movies, men don't cry; they urinate. So the scene in which the stars empty their bladders and change the color of a swimming pool's water might be the weepiest of the year.

The Unborn joins a growing glut of Holocaust- and Nazi-themed material -- "Valkyrie," "Defiance" - that are long on posturing, suppositions, and righteousness, yet short on moral complexity. Nazism and its crimes have lately inspired theme parks more than actual movies. Too many rides on that roller coaster and I feel sick.

What Grind lacks in cinematic skill, it makes up for in heart, which is what most dudes-in-arms flicks are missing. Given the option of spending eternity with these gentlemen or the boys of ''American Pie,'' I'd choose the lads of Grind.

The jokes are as fresh as rotten eggs and the direction stoops to the occasion.

A particularly egregious array of Kodak moments.

Like two hours of outtakes in search of a studio audience.

A belligerent little sex farce roiling inside an otherwise inconsequential lampoon of corporate America, the movie is rude and ridiculous, fearless up to a point, and breathtakingly hungry to provoke.

It's a movie only a psychic could love, since a psychic would know to stay home or see "Zodiac" instead.

Boring, mediocre movie.

Another helping of egregious slicing and slashing.

Mildly satisfying.

The trouble with the movie is basically everything. It's long, sloppy, and -- to both the quantum-physics ignorant and informed -- steadily implausible, never exciting in either its skill or its ludicrousness.

The single worst movie David Lynch never made.

It doesn't belong at a megaplex. It should be playing on a Clear Channel station.

None of what we see is at all credible.

There are episodes of "Rugrats" with stronger sexual suspense.

Urban and Bloodgood make the most of their parts, locking eyes and arms, and occasionally using American English as if the snowy 10th century were another way of saying, "Where the après ski?"

Too confused to provide any thrills, even indecent ones.

A pure Frankenstein flick -- ugly, profane, terror-inducing, clumsy, nasty, desperate, stupid, contemptible, horny and brought to life by schlocky, shoddy science and an electric wish to prove that its makers still matter.

A tedious adventure-romance.

This mangy comedy only demonstrates that Lohan's star power is too bright for falling into mounds of mud, rooting around in cat litter for a contact lens, and getting punched out by a roughneck jailbird, as she does here.

If Pulse is unsurprising as a horror movie (come on: chalky, soul-sucking freaks again?), as a campaign against the Internet, digital piracy, cellphones, and anything that computes anything (like laptops or brains), it's a riot.

A fine afternoon at the megaplex. And it will make a welcome addition your home library when it's released on video.

This is another miserable movie about women at war over nonsense.

Timely in that it joins an already mammoth list of bad movies about post-hippie static, including the recent "Steal This Movie."

If Bunraku were serious about subverting or reinventing the genres it's cobbled together, Moore would play the gunslinger or the samurai or the crime boss. But no. All she gets are a couple of scenes that demonstrate that she still looks great soaking wet.

Guy Ritchie made a name for himself with scuzz, but even his shtick has exceeded its sell-by date. Nobel Son goes further, crossing the contortions of "The Usual Suspects" with the shallowness of certain intellectual family melodramas.

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.

The finale of this tedious piece of Asian-ish action-schlock based on a popular anime series implies an intention to make more. One was plenty for me.

The explicit encounters and dirty talk in Eating Out suggest a new genre -- call it porncom -- that seeks to amuse and arouse at the same time.

It's doom that we're meant to feel here. And repulsion. I hate to say, but I shrugged.

It should be renamed "Drop Dead Ghetto" and hauled off to the "Jerry Springer" hall of shame.

Of course, there's little else of interest about Pokemon beyond the consumption factor. Buy more.

If your name's on the marquee, chances are your agent's already dead.

After a while, the movie tires of the witch business and trots out a plot twist that permits the effects department to spend money. Some moviegoers might find the bait-and-switch funny.

The movie has embarrassingly limited ideas about both the sexes and sex. Like Sandra Bullock’s career woman in “The Proposal,’’ Abby appears to have never heard of intercourse, much less experienced it.

To be endured rather than enjoyed.

Delgo demonstrates how hard it is to create a memorable, credible-looking piece of animated entertainment.

A depressing show of how truly, madly, deeply outmoded Hollywood can be.

This gnarly and illogical little sitcom is bound to make any adult reconsider that next outing with the kids.

Grant and Parker stand around as if they're waiting for someone to yell, "Cut.'' He's in one movie. She's in another. Neither is any good.

Watching [Berry] run around in that getup I felt embarrassed, the way I do for people who put on makeup before climbing a StairMaster -- it's too much.

Doesn't have what it takes to be truly terrible.

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

Even by the lowest standards, this is a frightless, cynically made movie.

This isn't a genre-less character study, it's myopic romantic comedy, and watching a woman of Catherine Zeta-Jones's easy carnality and fathomless beauty compete for the attention of Gerard Butler, who's pining for Jessica Biel, is dismaying, like spotting Anna Wintour in line at a soup kitchen.

Too much of Taxi is just tired.

It's the film we leave most movie theaters wishing we'd seen instead.

The only recommendable thing about Norbit is that he's not as bad as every other person in this movie.

I laughed at the Wayanses' movie, and I don't even hate myself for it.

A sloppily made bowl of reheated chick-flick cliches.

Highfalutin swill determined to pass itself off as a jazzy caper.

For some, Atlas Shrugged Part II is a ridiculous movie. For others, it's scripture.

The Strauses don't care about how to keep an audience. Their movie has no sense of suspense or dread - Skyline is an apocalypse movie that plods like one of Romero's zombies.

This version is a well-meant but corny distillation -- a whole lot of bombast and phony exaltation in the name of entertaining enrichment.

Any movie that opens with a Goo Goo Dolls song and ends with a line like "I'm going to live -- just not as long as you" is bound to leave somebody reaching for a Kleenex.

It's a self-amused, self-conscious, seriously limp throwback to motorcycle westerns of the 1970s.

If unused spit takes, flubbed dialogue, and extra improvisation are so uproarious, why not give us 90 minutes of that? License to Wed is tolerable for about five.

This plot leaves ample room for viewers to sweat the small stuff, like whether Trevor Nunn's score is more Marines ad or deodorant commercial.

There are enough mullets to win this movie a Stanley Cup.

As dumb spoofs go, The Comebacks isn't bad. It takes almost every sports movie of the last five years ("Field of Dreams," too) and blends them into a single slapdash comedy.

Had Stealing Harvard merely been a stupid movie about people stuck in a string of silly moments, it could have gotten by on charm. As written by Peter Tolan and directed by Bruce McCulloch (''Kids in the Hall'') it's a stupid movie about stupid people.

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.

The only chills to be found are courtesy of your theater's central air, and the suspense will come from the wait to see which disappointed kid in a hockey mask will be the first to slash the screen.

The latest Guy Ritchie shoot-em-up, is a joke. You laugh with it but mostly at it.

Fails to be the histrionic bubble bath that you want to carry you away.

The movie fails to conjure the wonder of the Ray Bradbury short story that inspired it.

Bangkok Dangerous is bad without lifting a finger toward interesting. The trouble with it is that the people who've made it don't appear to understand life enough to allow any of it into their movie. This is an airless affair.

Not as desperate, unfunny, and nonsensical as its title. It's worse. Worse than you can imagine. Unless, of course, you've imagined 90-something minutes of bloopers and outtakes that congeal into a story -- much the way a scab is formed.

Brainless thriller.

The Strip makes you appreciate what hard work effortless comedy is.

Armed with a dinner theater accent and hair that looks like an LP melted on his head, Turturro pockets the picture. As a demonstration of his newly accessed maturity and benevolence, Sandler helps him do it.

One Missed Call was originally a so-so Takashi Miike freak-out. Now it's a worse-worse American eyesore.

Brutally dumb canine comedy.

Godsend makes swill of religion, science, family, and morality. It has the sensitivity of a cactus, the ingenuity of a square wheel, and the integrity of a CEO.

The dismemberment and torture are now shtick. The filmmakers - "Saw" veterans - struggle to imbue this movie with the usual righteousness.

This is the first time we've seen Myers in the flesh since he committed assault and battery on Dr. Seuss, and I wish the cat had stayed in the hat.

Just watch Austin on "WrestleMania" instead, avoiding the shower this movie leaves you wanting.

It's the latest in the blank-from-hell genre, in which misogyny and entertainment are made to seem indistinguishable while the blank makes life hell for someone who then is cornered into striking back.

Brilliantly named Half Past Dead -- or for Seagal pessimists: ''Totally Past His Prime.''

What's special about the movie is how totally it believes in itself as a musical. The tunes, co-written by Sandler and a bunch of his pals, take on rock opera and traditional Jewish folk music with boyish exuberance.

There's gangsta rap with funnier insights into the opposite sex.

The Bounty Hunter does give Christine Baranski, as an Atlantic City entertainer and Mama Aniston, another opportunity to enthrall us with her drag-queenliness.

As movies about relic sex machines go, this one lacks mojo.

The movie can barely muster the bravery to be even "Dude, Where's My Car" stoopid.

New Year's Eve is fun in the way that eating at a buffet is fun. It's two hours of foods that have nothing to do with each other piled high on a plate because it was too cheap to resist.

Heartlessness, stupidity, cynicism, and greed are a demoralizing combination for movie-going. We pay to see a movie that doesn't respect us for being there at all.

A terrifyingly cheap-looking B-movie comedy mocking terrifyingly cheap-looking science-fiction B-movies. As such things go, this one has its moments.

It's a movie so foul even the folks at the NAACP Image Awards would have to look the other way.

Just as I was beginning to hope that she’d (Heigl) find a part that called for intelligence and sophistication and backbone, she plays another uptight naif.

A stupendous bore.

While it may be true that in space no one can hear you scream, groaning should be a perfectly audible way of saying the intergalactic alien-buster Wing Commander sucks.

Despite all the hyperventilating, the movie fails to consider what these crimes mean when, say, the residents of the White House happen to be black. The filmmakers recognize that identity politics are often a trap door. But it's one they're helpless to save themselves from falling through.

Oh, Jigsaw. Here we go again. You kill. I doze off. Someone at the studio goes "ka-ching!"

At its least intolerable, the movie is a fatherhood freak-out.

Clueless and sad.

An archaic rail-ride into the heart of boredom.

This is less an affront to women than it is to comedy.

Yes, I've seen Dumb and Dumberer, so you don't have to. As good deeds go, this is about as significant as getting a cat out of a tree, but believe me, you're better off at home, alphabetizing your old comic books, talking to your parents, or watching paint dry.

Banderas slums through this dollar-bin action flick wearing the same look of wiped-out exasperation that Danny Glover's Sergeant Murtaugh sports in each installment of ''Lethal Weapon.'' And like Murtaugh, Banderas might be too old for this, too.

It's the sort of stupid swill that gets spewed out by a studio committee, slapped together without a brain, a heart, or a good idea about where to put a camera or when to cut a scene.

At least one chapter in the yet-to-be-written book "When Bad Movies Happen to Good People" belongs to the folks of Company Man.

At its best, Swept Away is like a scrapbook of postcards starring two lovebirds with great tans.

As it develops, Who's Your Caddy? just becomes depressing. You want to alert the United Negro College Fund: A mind has terribly gone to waste.

Probably as tolerable as it can be for a comedy with no obvious creative aim. You can imagine the crew cracking up on some outtake reel, which honestly is what this movie feels like.

No one onscreen was actor enough to make us believe we were watching actual people commit or require actual exorcisms.

Even 007 is a big old queen. Yes, Roger Moore's on board as a lusty codger, who, unlike the rest of us, can't get enough of Sanz.

I've seen Pacino over the edge. This is not it. He looks pooped and pickled. Maybe being the only thing standing between a megaplex opening and a trip straight to the $4.99 bin at Target wiped him out.

When Jamie Lee Curtis ran from a killer in 1980's "Prom Night," she was 22 and had a unique gift for belting out fear. She was the Beverly Sills of slasher flicks. That "Prom Night" was dumb, but it wasn't insulting in the way this remake is.

Really, all Six is going for, with the generous application of both hardware supplies to the skin and feces to the camera, is a tired commentary on his shallow talents: They're excremental.

The willful sloppiness and retrograde gags make Epic Movie, which was not shown to critics, an inevitable byproduct of our Internet video era. It seems downloaded and projected onto the screen, a failing online-film-school project paid for and put out by a Hollywood movie studio. That said, very little on YouTube is this unentertaining.

Another "Exorcist" bastard -- one with a chick-flick pedigree.

You're smarter than this, but occasionally it tricks you into thinking it might be up to something you haven't considered, like an above-average, extra-bloody episode of "Scooby Doo."

Having also starred in "Dude, Where's My Car" and "Just Married," Kutcher is becoming a stoopid-comedy specialist.

This is the sort of movie where men stand blankly over dead loved ones, then start digging. Masculine stoicism or emotional botox? You decide.

Cult shocker has been turned into throwaway megaplex fodder.

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.

They have the chemistry of step-siblings, so a movie that has them make out is, as the one of the few girls in the theater exclaimed, "so gross."

I'm afraid this is one of THOSE movies, one where ''plot" is another word for ''gratuitous sex scene."

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

Latest Freddie Prinze Jr. vehicle stalls at on-ramp.