Carping on a film clearly targeted to 5-year-olds might seem unjust, but the filmmakers go about their business in such a lazy fashion that the viewer can’t help but feel irritated by the whole ordeal.

There are precious few things for a Zorro fan – or a film fan, for that matter – not to loathe about The Legend of Zorro.

It's not just a bad movie it actually manages to suck the very hope out of the air, leaving behind a cinematic vacuum populated by mobsters, sadists, pedophiliac demon-people, and an overwhelming sense of futility that just makes you want to run in the other direction.

Get out your handkerchiefs. No, scratch that -- get out a pair of windshield wipers and staple them to your brow. Perhaps they'll obscure the screen.

There's no getting away from the cloyingly cute, well-intentioned little monster at the heart of this story. The movie is also notably, and unnecessarily, unkind to doll-playing little girls and grown women who work outside the home. A movie that makes you leave the theatre with thoughts of having yourself, and your neighbors, spayed is not a good thing.

Like Mike is a slight and uninventive movie: Like the exalted Michael Jordan referred to in the title, many can aspire but none can equal. Even "Space Jam" was better than this.

It recycles gags from earlier and better Myers movies and hopes that the audience won't notice because they're too busy staring at Timberlake's bursting Speedo.

In practice, and played as farce, the characters are one-dimensional cutouts kept at a dogged remove. Their miseries are a bore – maybe to Allen, too, who abruptly ends the film, after so much inaction, when it finally catches some dramatic traction.

Instead of building suspense and tension, Suspect Zero devotes its efforts to creating a weird and creepy milieu that will leave fans of police procedurals wanting and avant-garde enthusiasts scratching their heads.

By the time the final act slithers on the screen, Gormican has abandoned any sense of originality and just props the film up on nostalgia-manipulating cameos and clumsy, overused needle drops. Those moments barely cover some astoundingly inept filmmaking, from shot composition to editing, that will make you wish you were watching Anaconda 3: Offspring instead. OK, maybe it’s not that bad, but Anaconda – both this film and the whole franchise – should just slip back into the swamp.

It is truly rare to watch a film implode in the final 20 minutes as completely and gallingly as this retelling by director Floria Sigismondi and screenwriting siblings Chad and Carey Hayes. However, they made an astounding number of errors along the way.

Most unforgivably, this Eye culminates not with the mounting dread and spectacular tragedy of the original film's decidedly downbeat vision, but with the trademark LASIK laziness of Hollywood's stylistically blank remake factory.

Watching Williams as Teddy Roosevelt ogle through binoculars Sacajawea (Mizuo Peck) while she stalks around a glassed-in display like some hippie chick in a buffalo-skin straitjacket after a bad trip at Woodstock ’94 makes me sad and uncomfortable.

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

Lacking purpose or thoughtful complexity, Flowers' film is an overly ambitious mess.

It's a dull, unremarkable comedy.

It just signals a series that's plainly out of gas.

Irritating throughout, Love Me if You Dare turns positively appalling in its last half hour, with the inevitable final showdown producing an image that continues to curdle my stomach days later.

Amid the endless stream of catch-a-rising-star movie clichés that Honey screenwriters Alonzo Brown and Kim Watson throw up and out are a few new ones, notably "skinny girls always win out in the end" and "hootchie bad, faux hootchie good."

Maybe it’s supposed to be the enlightening tale of one bird’s self-redemption from neurotic negativity, but I just wanted to punch this film in the snout.

It isn't all the actors' faults, of course. You can't, ahem, turn straw into gold, and straw – dull, brittle, lousy to taste – is entirely what director Mark Rosman and first-time screenwriter Leigh Dunlap deliver.

The acting's not bad, the skiing is great and the scenery is spectacular. Still, six bucks is a steep price to pay for a travelogue, especially to a place where extreme prejudice has become as threatening as any vertical drop.

Shameless E.T. knockoff.

Tries hard but never makes the leap.

It’s the trippy sequences of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas without the queasy self-loathing. It’s the video to “Smack My Bitch Up” by the Prodigy, complete with POV debauchery, running on repeat 20 times. It’s … boring.

What we have here is a film with no respect for the laws of nature, the laws of man, or the intelligence of the viewer.

No Manches Frida tries wildly to delight, but goes nowhere. It is the cinematic equivalent to the cringeworthy class clown at the back of the room that everyone ignores. It's just embarrassing.

The Disappointments Room lives (and dies) up to its name.

It all feels like a poorly constructed and overwrought Lifetime drama from a decade ago, albeit one featuring a shaggy dog dubbed “Fuckface.”

Bottomless sermonizing would have played better in Sunday school than on the big screen.

Dickerson's newest film is an embarrassment of near epic proportions.

The overall emotion the film generates is one of moist, enervated ennui. Who cares if the apartment is haunted when the best the ghost can do is get things a bit damp and run laps on the floor above?

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.

This Red Riding Hood loses sight of the forest for the trees on its way to Grandma's house.

When the Bough Breaks could have offered some cheap thrills, but it ends up a neutered, paint-by-numbers snoozefest, not even worthy for cable syndication.

Another unthrilling Renny Harlin thriller.

The characters all feel like concoctions, like synthetic movie people forged in a crucible of Red Bull during late-night meetings at the studio compound.

The movie's bright touches belong primarily to Brooke Smith.

With way too many tonal shifts and a narrative that trades cohesion for caprice, the film feels like riding shotgun with a toddler attempting to drive a manual transmission.

Where Over Her Dead Body should soar with blistering verbal gymnastics, it limps with empty sass about weight gain and skin blemishes; where it should race with inventive comic set-pieces, it slogs with extended flatulence sequences and gags about lifting overweight dogs.

Genre fans and newcomers alike should skip this monstrosity and go rent "Ginger Snaps" instead.

Even the requisite gore is sub-par, so it's not even neat when some poor sap explodes and his entrails whiz by. Perhaps Gordon should go back to mining H.P. Lovecraft's territory.

Proof positive that heavy underground buzz doesn't necessarily imply merit or even intrinsic interest.

Few characters are well-drawn, rivalries substitute for real group dynamics, and the dancing is chaotic, showy, and confusing.

Not just narratively crude but aesthetically ugly, Men, Women & Children’s framing occasionally cuts characters off at the forehead, in effect lobotomizing them. I couldn’t think of a better metaphor for this brainless splotch of self-important scaremongering.

After his disastrous outing in 200X with "The Adventures of Pluto Nash," there was no direction for Murphy to head but up in terms of another space alien movie. Indeed, Meet Dave is a step up, but that's only in relation to Pluto Nash.

Grown Ups is exactly, beat for beat, what the previews would have you believe: a depressingly predictable, two-chuckle deconstruction of what Sandler sees as the modern American male.

9 Bullets just constantly misfires, and never gets better than the inadvertent comedy of Worthington pulling a gun on a dog as a negotiating tactic.

Misbegotten is the only way to describe this remake of the 1975 film based on Ira Levin's cultural-zeitgeist novel.

What a clunker.

Tired and formulaic.

All icing, with a few crumbs devoted to the notion that it is futile to resist the heart's desires.

This movie is what might happen if "Grey’s Anatomy" crossed frequencies with "What Lies Beneath," but that actually sounds like it might be good, and this is not.

This hunk-of-junk piece of IP commodification truly can’t be regarded with any further value other than that: a transactional piece of content.

Highlander 3 has an edge over its prequels in that it's so shoddily directed that it's probably a great deal of fun to watch after a couple of six-packs. Actually, that's probably the only time it might be fun to watch, and I'm not going to be the guy to put that theory to the test for you.

The improbabilities pile up on top of each other in Mrs. Winterbourne, an anxious-to-please romantic comedy about mistaken identity that sounds vaguely familiar.

If A Goofy Movie was one-fifth as demented as Tiny Toons, it might have been worth watching. Instead it is bland, a barely television-length cartoon stretched out to fill a feature, and not much fun.

Do yourself a favor: Go rent Hardy's original film, watch it, and then try and get it out of your head. You never, ever will.

Despite the game cast and some marvelously atmospheric cinematography from Oscar-winning DP Dion Beebe, The Snowman is a slog.

It comes across as yet another in a long line of poorly produced horror/paranoia bloodbaths, short on everything except cheesy effects.

The laughs are few and far between.

Dream House is neither haunting (as the marketing appears to promise) nor all that original. But it does, thank goodness for small favors, have Elias Koteas.

They have some fun playacting at class warriors on the lam – and Seyfriend, it must be said, rocks a killer bob – but it's all just big-budget dress-up in a futurescape that reeks of phoniness.

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.

Instead of putting the high in high school, this film is the kind of drug movie that gives pot smokers a bad name.

If someone had spent half as much time thinking about the characters in Airborne as thinking about what filters to apply to the camera, then there might have been a semi-decent teen action movie here.

Promises thrills galore but delivers only limp non-frights and predictable yawns.

Nothing is very funny in this movie, and everything is predictable.

In the final analysis though, the only real thing being smuggled in National Security is unwitting patrons' admission fees.

In terms of execution this movie is careless and unfocused.

Told in a chaotic fashion, the movie jumps from scene to scene without a lot of continuity.

All of this is fair "can you take it?" territory, but in he end you find yourself wondering where Nineties-era German cinema-transgressor Jörg Buttgereit is, and when he might deign to make "Nekromantik 3." As for Human Centipede 2, well, frankly it kind of sucks ass. And we mean that literally.

It's likely there's going to be some “viewer disturbance” going on after audiences catch a whiff of this routine and thrill-less suspenser.

You watch and wait for this underachieving film to ignite, then grow more and more exasperated as you witness its many misfires.

Why the Pokémon fad hasn't died off yet is one of the great mysteries of the universe, right up there with the Pyramids of Gaza and the white stuff in Twinkies.

The film is a TKO before it even had a chance to get off a decent hook.

There are times when China’s brash marriage of national cinema and onscreen largesse can work for foreign audiences – bless you, The Wandering Earth, you madcap delight – but when the approach misses this badly, the results are excruciating. Consider The Rookies an easy miss for even the most dedicated Chinese action cinema fan.

The very Thai-specific charms that made the original Shutter such an unforeseen, unpredictable delight when I first saw it – and when I screened it again, last night – are almost entirely absent here, eclipsed by the annoying blonde highlights of Taylor, ex-Transformer babe and forever, as the Thai say, farang.

If you've got money to waste and enjoy pain, go ahead and see this movie. Or just play a round of golf. Six of one…

Never really sure what to say about its subject.

Suffocates under its own good intentions and inexorable sense of doom.

October Baby earns points for the originality of its protagonist but it has no chance of preaching to anyone but the choir.

Mitchell's film would be another example of why former SNL cast members should choose their scripts wisely, except that Schneider wrote this one.

Shoddily constructed out of bits and pieces of previous genre triumphs, She's All That is as dull and droning as the fluorescent lighting in your old study hall.

Bill Condon (Dreamgirls, Chicago, Gods and Monsters) takes over the directing reins for these final two parts; his most noteworthy contribution to the series so far is a terrifyingly staged birth scene that should turn the teen fan base off of sex altogether … which is precisely what this whole dumb, punishing series has been gunning for from the start.

It comes off like so much poppycock -– to use the vernacular of the day.

Adults may respond with a laugh every once in a while, but they’re unlikely to find Fifty Shades of Black a nonstop titter fest.

Totally in the distance is the memory of "Swingers," whose hipster goof has been replaced by a stupid goof. This may be what is meant by the “dumbing down of America.”

Basically a rehashing of previous genre films, Hopkins borrows heavily from such superior efforts as Philip Kaufman's The Wanderers (minus that film's gang motif, natch) hoping that no one will notice.

Disappointing flop that is best left off your dance card.

It’s as if Finding You was written by a computer program that studied 2000s rom-coms, taking the worst tropes and clunkily blending them together.

Not stupid enough to qualify as good, dumb fun.

Ugh. The Rules of Attraction is the kind of movie that leaves vague impressions and a nasty aftertaste.

It's like "Jackass," but with a budget and no midgets.

As witless and simpleminded as the irradiated humanoids that serve as the franchise’s bad guys.

This film is a mess. It’s so grim and inept. There are a million plot holes at any given moment, that you must constantly pick up your eyes from rolling on the floor.

Bar a brief boost from his performance as Konstantin Kovar in "Arrow," nothing can save Dolph Lundgren from C-grade hell, digital squibs, and schlocky crime flicks like Acceleration.

Isn't for everyone, obviously; it might not be for anyone, come to think of it.