They've taken a classic and they've battered it senseless and, boy, does it stink. It’s so bad it’s amazing it's being released, and box office-goers might soon end up fleeced. And annoyed and bewildered, perhaps even creeped-out by this cacophonous mess which is awful throughout.

It's dead in the water.

Even Amtrak hasn't seen a derailment this godawful in some time.

Its star, who injected such life into the surprisingly unformulaic "Drumline," is adrift in a sea of cop-movie clichés, and Siega's party-to-go direction hews more closely to his music-video beginnings than to his critically noted "Pretty Persuasion."

Not so much bad as it is witless and predictable.

It's a strictly date-night-rental affair, and if you still get Ryan Reynolds and Dane Cook confused, this will do little to help sort things out.

A well-meaning but ineptly made message movie.

An inoffensive, eminently forgettable bit of fluff.

The Land of Lazy can crown a new king because with Grown Ups 2 Adam Sandler has officially nabbed the throne.

Surely nothing Hollywood did in its darkest, most debauched hour could possibly justify the penance we're paying that allows Harlin to continue directing movies.

Now I realize my confessed appreciation for Kids will thoroughly bugger my credibility in describing Gummo with phrases like “appalling,” “gratuitously cruel,” and “exploitative,” but the unmitigated repulsiveness of this film pretty much rules out all subtler options.

Even with its scant running time, this nightmarish travesty barrels along with all the whipcord speed and nimble comedic grace of a loved one’s funeral.

St. John's script is the underlying bug in the code. Science fiction is at its best when it's a morality tale – especially when dealing with tech, such as brain mapping, that is seemingly within our grasp. Yet there's no moral or emotional weight to anything William does.

Again. Via Red’s experiences as a young man and wildcatter, Jason learns that money cannot buy happiness. What the viewers learn is that money can’t buy a good movie either.

To make a bad movie worse, even Ballistic's fight scenes, which ought to be the film's strong suit, are poorly edited, slice 'n' diced into incomprehensible blurs.

Forget this dreck: Where's that Michael vs. Jason grudge match we've been hearing about for the last decade?

Shoddily plotted and unimaginative, Species II is a slapdash effort at best, creepily unaffecting and minus the T&A this sort of film so desperately hinges on.

Cynical yet mildly amusing Yuletide-season comedy.

Fails chiefly because it's senseless. How it even managed to bypass the straight-to-video route boggles the mind and is a speculative fiction far more engaging than any to be found onscreen.

Valentine succeeds only in boring you to death.

Maybe everyone involved was hoping that no one would see this movie, but Madsen is the only one who should fear anyone seeing his work.

Saving Christmas will hold little interest for anyone not already a believer. It’s too single-minded in its instructional purpose, too averse to multidimensional characters, too youth-pastor-like in its dorky humor.

Jovovich, who's shown sensitivity in her dramatic work, looks spectacularly bored as she power-kicks her way through one bloody pile-up after another. That boredom, like the mystery virus at the center of the film, is contagious.

Deadly dull tripe.

Wretched. And while the dirtiest, low-rottenest part of me wouldn’t mind watching the institution of Ben/Jen get reamed, the heft of the blame should be shouldered by Hollywood vet Martin Brest, who wrote an incoherent, incompetent script and further mangled it with his direction.

Must be counted as a forfeit.

Darby and co-screenwriter Michael Cristofer ("Breaking Up") telegraph every available bit of plot seemingly hours before it's necessary, resulting in a tawdry, boring mish-mash of genre clichés and arched eyebrows.

Next time, Pooh, why not do the work it takes and give your drowsy-eyed meal tickets some of the (as it were) good shit?

No originality, no memorable characters, no comic timing, and no good jokes equal no fun for the audience.

It's the kind of bad movie that gives bad movies a bad name.

This is exactly the sort of film I wasn't expecting from either Gorak or his producers. In many too-obvious ways this is just a formulaic riff on Spielberg's "War of the Worlds."

The plot in Mr. Nanny is flimsy, mostly tenuous excuses for making Hogan kiss a doll or sing a lullaby or dress in purple leotards and pink tutu while whomping on the bad guys. But so many things in the story make so little sense that you have to ask yourself why the people involved in the project weren't asking themselves more questions from the get-go.

Kennedy’s humor comes from the broad, brainless, lowest-common-denominator school (in other words, he was born to play a grown man with the intelligence of an boy).

The Devil Inside offers proof, if any were needed, that demons run rampant in Hollywood, possessing otherwise intelligent and creative people to make absolutely shitty "gotcha!" mockumonstrosities like this one.

Packs all the spine-tingling punch of a soggy bag of mulch.

In Movie 43's better-suited afterlife in the home-entertainment market, those sort of quandaries can be hashed out between bong rips and bags of Cheetos.

There are bad movies, and there’s Boat Trip, a puerile comedy so appalling and unfunny, it’s like contracting the Norwalk virus at sea.

It's a mess best left to the nitrate ashes of forgotten film and television history.

You want vampiric satire with actual laughs? Try Mel Brooks' "Dracula: Dead and Loving It," "Love at First Bite," or even Roman Polanski's "The Fearless Vampire Killers." Anything is better than Friedberg and Seltzer's endless, bargain-basement, sub-Cracked magazine un-comedy.

Come to think of it, it's a lot like the departed shade of a better, longer movie, hovering in tatters before us, vanishing when we blink. When you look into this abyss, it yawns back at you.

Definitive modern cinematic eye-candy with all the connotations of empty calories that term implies.

Mother’s Day, the movie, feels as contrived and inauthentic as the holiday itself.

Despite a great 15-second, computer-generated effects scene, Corn II manages to be 90-odd minutes of unrelenting cheese. Like runny Brie with blood all over it, it just makes you want to gag.

Attica! Attica! Everyone involved in the creation of this muddled, joyless, and deadly dull serial killer-meets-forensic psychiatrist snoozefest should be forced to spend – at the very least – 88 minutes behind Attica's bars.

Unlike former porn auteur Gregory Dark's semenal 1985 cumshot opus "New Wave Hookers", this rote exercise in slasher-film tedium holds zero surprises and is about as arousing as Tracy Lords' singing career.

Unforgivably tedious tale.

Mainly offers fodder for tweens who fantasize about glamorous Los Angeles lifestyles where everyone is skinny, rich, and on Prozac. It's a film where gays and minorities not only fit into stereotypes, but embrace them.

Everybody figured producer Joel Silver and Willis couldn't lose and guess what? They all rolled craps.

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

It boggles the mind that The Legend of Chun-Li is as vapid and dull as it is.

A nearly bloodless slasher film with fewer surprises than a broken jack-in-the-box.

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.

Bad sets, bad acting, bad direction, shadows of boom-mikes, inexplicable plot holes, generic effects, fake-looking gore, death by pogo stick (!?), off-kilter Irish brogues... I just can't say enough about this, can I? My head hurts just trying to remember this complete and utter waste of perfectly good Kodak film stock.

It works not at all.

Indisputably awful comedy.

But is it funny? Not really.

I've rarely seen a movie as hostile as this one, both to its audience and to its protagonists, and I don't think I realized before just how mean-spirited comedy can get (and I was raised on the Three Stooges).

There's punishment and then there's prolonged, squirm-inducing psychological torture, which is a more accurate description of All's Faire in Love, a romantic comedy that will only be "romantic" to audience members under the age of 14 and utterly devoid of genuine yuks and the necessary rom-com spark.

The laughs are few and far between.

A sketchy, half-baked, stylistically inconsistent movie that scarcely even pretends to care whether it makes sense or not.

A gruesome whodunit that's missing more than a few brain cells.

Shamelessly dull.

A sorry excuse for a movie, and director Davis (CB4, Guncrazy) and star Sandler should be very embarrassed.

Which brings me to another odd point: for a movie so obviously trapped in the teen-comedy formulaics of the early-to-mid-Eighties, Weekend at Bernie's II has surprisingly few nude blonde women. It is, after all, set in St. Thomas, but even this sure-fire, lowbrow interest-booster is ignored in favor of McCarthy's smarmy mug. Good lord, man, where are Golan and Globus when we need them? I could go on, but why bother? Let's just hope that this projected series of films (and I use the term loosely) dies a quiet, unremarked-upon death unlike that of its title character.

Simply a lousy film from start to finish.

The humor in this movie is basically anthropological notes on doper culture and behavior: junk-food frenzies, smoking rituals and hardware, non sequitur conversation, and short-term memory loss. In other words, stuff that passed into the realm of cliché back in the time of the Johnson administration.

A knockoff in everything from style to story, it also suffers from 3-D effects that are dim and underwhelming, a maddeningly obtuse storyline, and performances that could have used some serious Herbert West-style reanimation.

Would have made a hell of a short -- but falls flat on its hyperstylized face as a feature.

Any just God would likely recoil from the ham-fisted and spurious defense put forth in this film.

Would have been smart to fold before it let its hand go this far.

And the rest of the movie? Same screaming, same endless chases, same breasts, same blood, same axe, same lack of explanation, same ending primed for another sequel. Is there a pattern emerging here? In short: same as it ever was, same as it ever was.

Beverly Hills Cop III is made with so little spark, humor, and internal logic that it makes me better appreciate these other recent Murphy movies where the actor/comedian at least stretched his persona and attempted something apart from the action comedy mold.

From "Hands on a Hard Body" to an 89-minute ogling of another hard body: It boggles the mind that 11 years after his engrossing documentary about an endurance competition to win a truck in Longview, Texas, filmmaker Bindler has channeled his talents into this regrettable comedy.

Indeed, the largely computer-generated Jack acts the pants off his co-stars, which can and should be taken with a whole trough full of salt.

File this one under What Were They Thinking?

Everything else here – from the gross caricatures to the so-called comic mayhem – is sour to taste.

Director David Zucker once upon a time made a very funny movie called Airplane!. Twenty years later, he’s made a movie only a 13-year-old horndog could appreciate, and for all the wrong reasons.

Who among us can explain the enigma wrapped in a riddle surrounded by fierce, ravening, razor-toothed conundrums that is German director Uwe Boll?

Eurotrash for the new millennium.

Guaranteed to inspire many more belly laughs than it does actual shivers. Boo, scary? I think not.

It’s a lot like hearing the play-by-play account of a heated game of bridge. Only not half as gripping.

There's no nice way to say this, so I'll just say it: Writer/directors Friedberg and Seltzer are a scourge.

College, a film so persistently loud and annoying that it single-handedly makes the case for drugging yourself with a roofie.

It’s cheese of the purest stripe, bafflingly bad to the point of being oddly charming in its brain dead naïveté.

Nothing about the movie makes much sense.

In its own peculiar way, What Love Is is a testament to the redemptive power of words. Thankfully, Callahan knows to keep it short and sweet, lest his audience go mad from the noise.

But though there's half a cashew of Steve Martin's amazing physical comedy, a couple of pecans of Sven Nyqvist's beautiful cinematography and a few eye-catching filberts of very Venice-y set decoration, it's not nearly enough to satisfy. Be forewarned: Open this can of Mixed Nuts and you'll find nothing but a bunch of goobers.

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

Bad and baffling from the get-go, probably the only good thing to come out of this Rollerball is the boon it gives the porn industry in terms of another ready-made title to spoof.

Where the hell are those Hollywood Ninja Assassins when you really need 'em?

I'll maim, chop, slash, and I'll kill, Just as I please.

This dragon, sadly, is DOA.

Assure Patient, who has paranoid delusions about Jennifer Lopez being molded into the new M______ C_____, to rest easy because Lopez has never made a film as bad as Glitter.

The In Crowd is nothing but a deadly dull business.

Despite cute kids, tough dads, and problems controlling bed-wetting and farts, Daddy Day Camp should just limp off to the nurse's tent and call it quits.

Very slick and extremely silly, not to mention aptly titled, Fair Game is just that - a noisy actioner so inanely scripted, acted, and directed that it practically begs you to make fun of it.

Green, who looks like a chinless, hollow-eyed pederast at the best of times, is simply out of his league here, and the fact that the film drags interminably when it's actually a very average 90 minutes long betrays its essential emptiness.

What’s most dispiriting about this garbage burger is its nonsensical characterization of Blart himself.