Barely even worthy of a straight-to-video release, as simplistic and silly as it is.

Spottily directed and lacking the dubious merits of even the Friday the 13th franchise, this is one slasher film that should die a quick and lonely box-office death.

So much is going on, and so many bizarre and seemingly random subplots collide in Dreamcatcher, that the film feels like some crazy patchwork quilt sewn by a schizophrenic seamstress. It’s not only confusing, but dull, as well.

As forgettable as a puff off a generic-brand butt: filtered, flavored, and ultimately unsatisfying.

What the movie ultimately demonstrates is that the sum total is less than the individual parts when you add together Rocky, the Terminator, Indiana Jones, Mad Max, Blade, Zorro, Hercules, and the Transporter.

For me, that low-tech, Fifties, camp charm wore a mite thin by the second half-hour, but then, I'm not the target audience, am I?

Bizarre, trenchant, and unexpectedly hilarious, this is one regular guy's foray into the lonely world of love. Were that all budding relationships came out this well.

Spotlessly dull.

At its core the film is as standardized as the exam it seeks to debunk, and nearly as tedious.

Corny and harmless, Conversations With God is a humanistic little movie with a real belief in the power of redemption and a positive enough message: “Love is the answer.” Or: “Go to your Godspace.” Whichever speaks more clearly to you.

The film, however, is short on genuine scares and ingenuity.

Sharp-eyed viewers will spot director Corman, Martin Scorsese, Sylvester Stallone, Joe Dante, and Paul Bartel in bit parts while Mary Woronov takes an incredibly long time to maneuver her van through a multi-car pileup. Sure, it's a ripoff. Sure it's brainless. Cannonball is still a definitive drive-in car chase flick that's gonna make you want to tromp the gas pedal and burn rubber on the way home.

What goes most wrong is the casting. Every facet of Faris' performance feels off.

An effective sound design enhances several of the film's sudden frights, and Sutherland, who appears in almost every scene, is a predictably solid presence.

To be sure, Hitman is a lousy film, but like the video game that inspired it, it's also great fun, drawing as it does on everything from James Bondian Eurotrash panache to Vin Diesel's moribund XXX character.

The audience is required to invest their emotional energy in seven people who consistently make terrible decisions and give even worse advice, and it's not worth the return.

A studied but silly misfire from the director of the abysmal London Has Fallen that attempts to walk the walk without ever actually being a movie genre fans, or much of anyone else for that matter, would want to see.

It's a nice, friendly kind of love, but hardly an inspiring one.

Neither as good as its direct ancestor (Michael Schultz's great 1976 hood masterpiece Car Wash) nor as clever as the original Friday, this is, to put it bluntly, all seeds and stems.

Has all the sugar-injected horsepower of a 6-year-old on a Big Wheel.

Unbearable.

Don't trust the impression created by Sphere's intriguing trailers that it has much to do with the awe and terror of direct contact with an advanced alien intelligence.

David Hunt’s exhausting film runs over two hours and adheres to a kitchen-sink ethos of sports tropes and spiritual asides.

Still, once you accept Paul W.S. Anderson's entirely unnecessary adaptation on its own terms (nonsensical, underachieving), it has its limited charms, which include a snigger-inducing alphabet soup of accents, a standout rooftop swordfight, and British comedian James Corden as the Musketeers' put-upon manservant.

There is a new definition of the term, "critic-proof movie," and it goes by the name Pokémon: The First Movie.

Just plain dismal, an inexplicable mining of old, mid-level programming that has all the raging excitement of continental drift.

The film is so flat and tired it really doesn’t deserve the vehemence of this review. It’s like chastising a completely airless tire for not rolling.

This movie is a mess: It keeps doubling back on itself – a twisting pretzel of a plot that doesn’t really make sense.

Home Alone meets Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure and then visits Working Girl – none of it works.

Ultimately, it is as though this is a Disney film – The Princess and the Doctor – not a real life biopic.

Who would have thought mass murder and cannibalism could be so dull?

The film is fun to watch, but you never emotionally buy into the story or its world, and when you leave the theatre, they're gone. There's a lot to this speedy little complex science fiction adventure but what's missing is imagination.

Just as you begin settling into these science-fiction parameters and start pondering the wisdom of humanity’s vain quest for immortality, Self/less switches gears, much to its detriment, and becomes a frenzied chase thriller and shoot-‘em-up.

I loved this movie. Or perhaps I should say the 15-year-old boy in me -- the dreamy, disaffected misfit with his head in the stars and a stack of Bantam sci-fi paperbacks as his sole defense against small-town boredom -- loved it.

It is truly one of the year's dumbest movies.

De Palma's film is a mess from its anxious start all the way through to its new-agey end, relying heavily on cribs from Kubrick and Cameron and even the recent "Apollo 13."

This isn’t Nicole Kidman’s first dalliance with witchcraft, and it is one of Bewitched’s unfortunate achievements that it actually makes one pine for Kidman’s 1998 dud, "Practical Magic." That witch at least had some sass; this cardigan-clad witch, alas, is an altogether more benign being, and by "benign" I mean boring.

Part unfunny sitcom, part post-"Gigli" career resurrection strategy, and all bad.

It’s meant to be thrilling fun, but it never takes off in the way imagined.

The cast, particularly Liotta, walk around with befuddled expressions on their faces, perhaps wondering what on earth they’re doing in this movie and how they can find a new agent ASAP.

This spook story is a surprisingly mediocre Hollywood debut for Hong Kong's Pang brothers.

The snap of a twig, the rustle of a branch – that’s about as scary as it gets in The Forest, a supernatural horror movie afraid of its own shadow.

It’s a history lesson wrapped up in a romance, gallows grim but far too often unnecessarily heavy-handed in a way that drives home the factual historical horrors it portrays while somehow managing to feel like a sizably budgeted but no less maladroit television movie of the week.

Ghosts indeed: This romantic comedy by name alone attempts to make funny – not to mention culturally relevant – the kind of swinging-dick misogyny that went out of fashion years ago.

Without better material, Bullock’s talents will remain undercover.

Instantly forgettable.

All ends happily for everyone in the movie, but for those in the audience, the experience is so hackneyed that they'll come out feeling like they're wearing shirts that say, "I went to the Acropolis, but all I got was this lousy T-shirt."

The Happening is both too incoherenly weird and too narratively ambitious for its own good.

Aloft’s characters exude a certain impregnability, and the story’s structure only further distances us from them.

Blame screenwriters Akiva Goldsman, Jeff Pinkner, Anders Thomas Jensen, and Nikolaj Arcel (who also directed) for trying too hard to cram so much of King’s original into a film format.

Director Eisner helmed the excellent remake of George R. Romero’s The Crazies back in 2010, but this film shows none of the lunatic flair for the ghastly that the previous film so easily served up.

Sleepless is a passable thriller, but it won’t keep you up for nights.

The ho-hum practical jokes the two inflict upon the other can be described as Home Alone lite: No concussion-inducing swinging paint cans or burn-inducing doorknobs inspired by Looney Tunes violence here. Which, of course, takes all the fun out of it.

Herzfeld also wrote the screenplay, and so its leaden and obvious tone and the resulting dearth of delicacy rests squarely on him.

Learn from the Evers family: The Haunted Mansion is not worth the detour.

What there is here is Damon Wayans ripping up the screen -- which is entertaining but doesn't go far enough -- but this film really isn't about anything else. My 4 1/2 year old cracked up at the butt jokes but doesn't know what “turd” means so he missed much of the verbal humor.

It's hard to give a damn one way or the other about Street Fighter -- it's so thin that an errant sneeze might topple this glossy house of cards.

Beyond a leper’s handful of jokes that actually connect, this might as well be Ferrell’s most abysmal piece of work since the disastrous "Land of the Lost."

With token computer graphics thrown in to pad an already overlong script, Ghost In the Machine gamely tries to hop aboard the Virtual Reality bandwagon and only succeeds in crashing the Net.

Law Abiding Citizen, ultimately and inappropriately, tips the scales in favor of the Man over mankind. Somebody call Charles Bronson.

The script is fueled by genuine wit, everyone turns in fine performances and, beginning to end, the film actually shows some thought, if little originality.

The only thing that surprises me here is that Roger Clinton isn't signed up for a cameo.

But bad, this film's so bad! To flub the fans' most beloved butcher boy.

Scenes rarely exploit their full potential and, frequently, it's clear that the slightest bit of effort might have made the shots work more smoothly. Movies like this could start giving sports a bad name.

All of this culminates in a film that is equal parts silly and nationalist. If you find yourself nostalgic for the bloodless mode of America vs. The World action movies that populated the 1990s, then Vanguard is for you. And if you’re a Jackie Chan completist, the mediocre nature of the film is at least partially offset by his heartfelt rendition of the theme song and an A+ collection of outtakes that play over the end credits.

This time out, the action is in 3-D, which amounts to a few shots of flaming motorcycle parts comin' at ya, but little else.

The only people who should be peeved enough to raise hell about Year One are the viewers who had to pay to sit through it.

There are some moments of blessed levity to the otherwise mordant melodramatics...That's not enough to sustain interest in the Taylors and their toxic emotional foibles, however.

This is not a family movie; the kids will be bored by it. This is a guilty pleasure for thirtysomething stoners with ironic dispositions and large nacho platters.

Go for the gore (there's lots of it), but stay for the immortal line: "Now let's go find the body this arm belongs to."

Seriously, audiences do not need another constant reminder that their lives are slipping away. Just watching Mercy will have them reconsidering their priorities.

Does the world need another movie about a bunch of miniature, blue-skinned humanoids with bulbous noses and perky bobtails; gnomelike creatures who wear floppy caps, live in mushrooms, and use the word “smurf” in every other sentence? Someone apparently thinks so.

This return to Wonderland is a dull outing, about which it can be said that Alice doesn’t live here anymore.

Unfunny and worse, unpleasant, Jingle All the Way is holiday cheer from the warped psyche of a Scrooge. Even the Grinch wouldn't like this one.

A frustrating exercise in diverted expectations.

This is a strange movie (it feels like a lost episode of the old Leonard Nimoy chestnut In Search of …) about strange people doing strange things.

Although there’s a strong likability quotient for everyone onscreen here, which ought to keep the movie minimally afloat among its target audience of black viewers starved for a new Tyler Perry offering, Baggage Claim should be left behind at the carousel.

We're treated to such a broad panoply of godawful dialogue, righteously shoddy acting, and, worst of all for an action blockbuster of this sort, subpar effects work, that's it's all you can do not to giggle helplessly.

Despite the movie’s lack of anything resembling a narrative center, Testosterone isn't an entire waste of film stock – Sutcliffe, Sabato Jr., and especially the great Braga all act up a storm.

It's the snobs versus the slobs! And this holiday's no picnic!

A smallish cast peppered with a pair of bullish performances by both Platt and the lesser-known Gleeson. The two spark some chemistry between them, which is more than can be said for Pullman and Fonda's moribund performances.

It's so unreal it hurts.

Still, you find yourself rooting for these women, even if their adventures aren’t always up to snuff.

The further director Vicente Amorim pulls out, the more exciting the film becomes; but he never really takes advantage of the supernatural overtones that swim around the edges, or the unique cultural background of Brazil's massive Japanese diaspora.

Although a slow-burn approach to this sort of creepfest is generally a smart move, Devil’s Due peters out of outright suspense midway through and never fully recovers, despite (or possibly because of) a final reel that may shock some viewers but will leave die-hard genre fans gnashing their teeth and rending their clothes in dismay.

An ideal diversion for one of those evenings when low expectations feel more like a state of grace than a surrender to vice.

It begins in a muddle and ends in confusion.

Kings is a confusing and far-fetched story in which good intentions outweigh good storytelling.

As with so many recent films, this innocuous little romantic comedy suffers far more from the effects of art-by-committee than the ruinous domination of any one person.

Wan does manage to infuse his film with some of the subtle unsubtleties of classic Euro-horror outings, chief among them the palpable, dreamlike sense of dislocation and the abiding severance from reality that tends to make nongenre fans wonder if someone spiked their popcorn with LSD.

It's a shame to once again witness Martin Lawrence squander his considerable comic talents under a fat suit and fake breasts in this shoddy sequel.

It's all one big blur: sound, fury, and Martin Sheen devouring scenery as if it were going out of style (and in Spawn, it's definitely not).

The only evolution in question here is that of Emmerich's skills as a director of motion pictures.

The movie is as lifeless as a mannequin until Ferrell appears near the end as the absurdly coiffed villain Jacobim Mugatu.

Aggressively unfunny and unromantic, Valentine’s Day’s chief concern appears to have been the corralling of its cast of a thousand stars; it seems far less attention was paid to what to do with that cast once assembled.

Plot and character development are scarce; the film is more an abstraction than an absorption.

The unnecessary nastiness, even sadism, of much of the violence also bears mentioning if you're expecting more of the benignly cartoonish silliness of Cube's lone directing effort, "The Players Club."

Lucas and Moore aren’t savvy enough, or brave enough, to truly plumb the gallows humor embedded in their premise.