Eminently resistible, an unclassifiable cinematic leftover best left untasted.

The damn thing is boring. Dull as dirt. Despite the many fine actors involved, View From the Top is a third-class production through and through and, frankly, I'd rather be pelted in the head with stale, salty peanuts than sit through it again.

Apart from the smutty giggles that derive from the mere mention of the Focker family surname, this third entry in the now 10-year-old comedy franchise falls flat.

Steer clear, Friends of Ol’ Marvel!

Ridiculously overwrought.

97% of the movie will make you need a shower. Possibly two.

With a lazy, cliché, rabid plot and paper-thin character development, Because I Said So might as well have been directed by a trained chimpanzee.

I lodge no complaint against the film’s emphasis on prayer, even if, dramatically, it’s not scintillating stuff to watch.

If A Thousand Words' formula seems familiar, that's because writer Steve Koren has tripped down this quasi-metaphysical path before in "Bruce Almighty" and "Click."

Apart from its dramatic predictability, Temptation is a snooze because of its languid pacing and rudimentary camerawork.

For all its lumpen, awkward narrative and sometimes less-than-dazzling CGI, there's a peculiarly endearing and vibrant heart to Dolittle, and his name is Robert Downey Jr. It may be the closest he's ever come to channeling the surrealist instincts of his father, embracing Downey Sr.'s willingness to swim in the absurd.

It's not a great action dust-up by any means.

With his new film (which he also wrote), Rudolph seems content to slap a flimsy film-noir plot on an unending stream of malapropisms and word games and call it a "screwball noir."

The amazing thing in Ropelewski's film is just how much of this lowest-common-denominator pabulum has been recycled from the foul spillage of the previous two films. Once again, needlessly, we're treated to lengthy scenes of the family singing and clowning about with treacly plasticity, fantasizing, dreaming, whining, mewling... it's all too much, grating on your nerves and leaving you desperately in need of a healthy dose of cinematic sanity. Or, at the very least, genuine humor.

Go back and re-watch Nick Cassavetes’ vastly superior "The Notebook" and steer clear of director Ross Katz’s grindingly dull, Valentine’s Day folly.

Ultimately, this is a movie that’s more about the Ottoman Lieutenant’s Woman than The Ottoman Lieutenant himself – another example of the film’s epic misdirection.

Not one of these new-fangled Christian movies that camouflages its proselytizing with decent storytelling and filmmaking technique. Time Changer is clunky, repetitive, and ham-handed.

Madame Web is a fender bender – nothing calamitous, just a time suck. An annoyance. A waste.

But really, it seems like a movie hatched because someone had access to an amusement park and knew a lot of people in the makeup and lighting department.

A middling film through and through, despite the occasional shocks it tries to earnestly to achieve.

The laugh-out-loud jokery is in short supply, and Reynolds and Reid's kicky charm only goes so far. Bluto Blutarsky, we miss you.

No Good Deed slouches toward its inevitable conclusion much like that rough beast to Bethlehem, falling apart and lacking all conviction.

Shameless E.T. knockoff.

Stone still dazzles the eye, but this wholly unwarranted sequel is so outrageously preposterous (and so very chockablock with quotable examples of the fine art of bad dialogue) that the end result achieves a basement grandeur of near-epic proportions.

Audiences may find this pap brimming with heart and sympathy for the little guy, but as prescriptions go, Patch Adams is pure placebo.

The film is certifiably schizophrenic in tone.

Split Second turns out to be one of those dreaded “so-bad-it's-good” debacles, and a marginal one at that. Ed Wood, where are you when we need you?

When they’re used to tell a story as dreary, unfocused, and exhausting as Tideland, the director’s trademark dreamscapes and disorienting camera angles feel like so much artless window dressing.

This comedy drags its feet, while the sappy sweetness will make you wince.

What is love? Haddaway asks in the omnipresent soundtrack song. Not this time-wasting bilge, that's for sure.

Completely miscast with uninspired production, this remodeling of Blithe Spirit is a faint shadow of its Coward roots, a resurrected retired poltergeist without its same purpose or vigor.

Fails to kick start anything other than the urge to giggle.

It's not a total wipeout: Czuchry embodies the Tucker Max(-ims) to a self-obsessed fault, and there are moments of rough comic brilliance scattered throughout, but really, this particular antihero is all anti- and zero hero.

Belongs in the histrionic comedy genre, packed as it is with just plain silly situations that fail to elicit grins, much less guffaws.

Director Chappelle lays on the spook factor heavy in the first 30 minutes or so, but the film quickly devolves into a simplistic slash 'n' bash shoot-'em-up which goes nowhere fast.

Atlas won't be the only one to shrug off this tiresome load.

While the somewhat indefatigable Stone may survive this misfire (she's survived plenty of others), Lumet may not.

At least this excursion into mediocrity is relatively brief, although, as mentioned, a vastly shorter cut would be much preferred.

With Filth and Wisdom, the Material Girl has now spliced the title of film writer and director into her list of accomplishments, but the result is, well, immaterial.

There isn’t even a moment amid the running and gunning as insipidly inspired as the last film’s idea of using grenade-tossing triangulation to save the day.

Innocence certainly has all the right genre conventions to toy with, but the haphazard script by Brougher and Tristine Skyler is a bloody mess.

I'd use the term science fiction to describe Skyline but the movie decidedly lacks both science and fiction.

It’s both too much and not enough, an unsatisfying blood-and-guts B-movie with all the goonish, grindhouse fun eviscerated out of it.

Muddled, sloppy, and obfuscating.

Neither so awful as to be enjoyable nor eerily artful enough to be anything other than a snoozy also-ran in the perpetually poor plotting machine that is the demon-child cinematic subgenre.

Somewhere along the road to becoming teens idols, these actors got confused between being the bomb -- and getting it.

A “thrill ride” movie with all the predictability, brevity, and industrial efficiency that cliché implies.

This is a vastly inferior toy-to-film IP expansion, with duller songs, dumber jokes, and forgettable voice work.

Though not entirely incapable of provoking a smile (or two), The Benchwarmers strikes out. Again and again and again.

Never rings true. It's a dramedy whose blend of melodrama and humor is awkward and incongruous, leaping between the two modes like a fat frog jumping lilypads.

The story is a shambles, incoherent throughout, veined with tirelessly wearying flashbacks, hallucinations, and just plain old lousy storytelling.

It goes without saying that this will be no everyday marriage class, not with a hyperactive Williams setting the curriculum.

Instead of true grit and gutshot black-hatters, director Les Mayfield has crafted what may well be the world's first Tommy Hilfiger Western.

Each of the characters is dull and boorish instead of witty and urbane.

Evidently made with deep pockets but muddled intentions, The Identical is a folly largely unworthy of its hidden idol.

It’s too bad the filmmakers didn’t have a longer view of film history, though; maybe their jokes would have been more interesting if they’d been aimed at, say, "Somebody Up There Likes Me" or "The Pride of the Yankees."

The logic of it all will be Greek to anyone not predisposed to the movie's rude and crude humor.

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.

Filled to the bursting point with witless, sub-Mad magazine movie parodies, pointless cameos by a seemingly endless parade of has-beens, and once-hysterical, now stale jokes lifted straight from "Airplane!" and the original "Naked Gun", Spy Hard is a truly desperate comedy.

The movie aspires to be an inspirational screwball comedy of sorts about the stresses of motherhood, but the situational humor lacks the spontaneity necessary for some crazy fun.

Somewhere between conception and execution the movie turned sour and most of the cuteness was replaced with venom and malice.

If only someone had taken away that disastrous third act we'd have one of the better mainstream films dealing with the impossible societal demands put upon gay parenting yet made. No such luck, though.

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.

How do movies this bad still get made?

The movie simply trudges along, tirelessly making its rounds, just like its holy sister walking impoverished streets with grim purpose.

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.

With all the wrong Stealing Harvard has done, it at least bestows one gift upon its audience: the gift of forgettableness.

R.I.P.D. never creates a believable universe, interesting action sequences, or dynamic characters. It’s a paint-by-numbers approach in which the film’s comedy and drama both fall flat.

The film may seem a bit undercooked until it gets to the staging of the ultimate battle, but Obsessed is swinging from the chandeliers by the end.

This film has all the pyschological depth of a wading pool. Anything you've imagined without seeing the movie is likely more interesting than what's here.

This utterly mediocre forget-me-now could've been crafted by any faceless serial director at all. The shame of it is that the man behind the camera is Wes Craven when, by all rights, it should have been Alan Smithee.

It had a little originality, unlike the other sequels, but not much.

Very little here begs to be paid attention to.

Rings is an unfortunate and often incomprehensible mess that kicks off with a neat premise and then never fully explores it.

Like some sort of evil Hollywood hybrid, Encino Man begs, borrows and steals the worst bits from both Iceman and Fast Times at Ridgemont High and ends up being just as vacuous as you think it is.

It’s really just a tortuous series of blackout sketches hung together with the flimsiest of threads.

There’s something earnest and forthright about the movie, despite its misguided execution.

The story is so shabbily built that it can make no valid claim to motives other than the filmmakers' mercenary desires to cash in on the public's prurient interests. And even on this bottom-feeder level, Showgirls fails to deliver the goods.

It’s like watching a cartoon version of American Idol on an endless karaoke loop.

Molina and Weaver, who, most of the time, perform brilliantly, move through Abduction as if on autopilot.

Regardless, the upside is that Shut In is cinematic Sominex for those in need of a 90-minute nap, a thousand yawns, and zero thrills.

The senseless violence of a Jean-Claude Van Dammer, no point to that, but this, this has purpose. This is an ass-kicking a girl can get into. So why do I feel like crying mea culpa?

Avoid it like the plagues.

The real tension of the piece lies in the sound design, with its layering of heavy breaths, inexplicably compromised frequencies, and invasive thwackings of no known origin to the ship hull.

Near-unwatchable romantic melodrama.

In an inspired bit of casting, Lyle Lovett plays the dad of the goofy-looking Diz/Gil. That these two could be related might be the only believable touch in this whole misfired thing.

For the most part, The Loft struggles to engage even on the level of tawdry potboiler, joining the forgettable ranks of 2005’s "Derailed" and 2008’s "Deception" as yet another underwhelming one-night stand.

This mirthless comedy about a manly crew of smokejumpers helplessly babysitting a trio of rescued brats has more dead air in it than a radio broadcast hosted by a narcoleptic disc jockey.

A Sound of Thunder is positively awash in bad hairpieces, leading one to believe that global warming is going to be the least of our problems.

The movie feels mechanical all the way through, leaving Sadek's debut an inauspicious and ill-lubed affair.

I'm beginning to suspect there's some sort of ancient, or at least post-Pearl Harbor, curse in play that stops genre-oriented Asian filmmakers from creating anything of all but the most negligible merit once they hit the California shore.

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.

A self-indulgent, snarky, scattershot mess through and through.

Brings absolutely nothing new to the autopsy table that wasn't previously covered.

An exercise in unintentional farce.

House has a few moments that ring genuinely eerie, but the cluttered, unconvincing dialogue – not to mention Moseley's ongoing penchant for crazed overacting – make it more of a genre curiousity than anything the "Fangoria" gang would likely want to sit through.

Disappointingly, Piranha 3DD, the inevitable sequel to the remake, has none of Dante's wit, Aja's directorial skills, or Greg Nicotero's grotesqueries.

Jawdroppingly bad, this adaptation of Michael Crichton's 1980 novel about a talking ape named Amy and a fabled lost city deep in the jungles of central Africa is as sophisticated in execution as a Jungle Jim movie.