90 minutes of ridiculous, silly fun. Of course, it's still a very bad movie.

This new film version, sad to say, is a hollow shell of the original series.

This one has the feel of being penned on rolling papers, with room to spare.

Religious dramas have a track record of prioritizing wholesome values at the cost of production values, and while Left Behind is mostly too preoccupied with being a hoary thriller to preach to the converted, it’s a thoroughly laughable attempt to marry bombast with sermonizing.

There is virtually nothing in which to emotionally invest.

A singularly distasteful campus romp.

In terms of execution this movie is careless and unfocused.

A gimmick in search of a movie: how to get Carvey into as many silly costumes and deliver as many silly voices as possible, plot mechanics be damned.

The comic equivalent of a lump of coal.

Persecuted is a profoundly conservative, Christian ideological take, guised as a classic Seventies paranoid thriller. Certainly unique, this is another targeted release, specifically aimed at groups sharing its beliefs.

Reeks as badly as it sounds.

The movie is nothing more than a perpetual chain of elaborately choreographed (by returning star Robin Shou) fight sequences that mix live-action foregrounds with complexly layered digital effects and are linked together by the most flimsy and laughable of plot elements.

Boasting that your film features "two of the six writers of Scary Movie," as this film's marketing campaign does, is like bragging that you came in second in the annual Bulwer-Lytton Bad Fiction Contest.

By film's end I was fantasizing that Peter Stormare would drop by with his "Fargo" wood-chipper in tow, but it was not to be. Appalling.

The film strives so much to have heart, it comes across as heartless and mean-spirited. Bah, humbug!

SM5 tanked opening weekend, which may toll the knell for this property.

The dialogue is enough to make your hair stand on end.

I was consistently aghast at how unabashedly alpha-male, heartless, and chauvinistic this film is.

Far and away, one of the most tedious, uninspired offerings thus far (and, worst of all, the door is left open for yet another pointless sequel).

Gone is the working-class charm and truly clever, humorous situations evocative of the early 1960s and in their place, all the sophomoric, redundant jokes reminiscent of the Police Academy films. Even stars from the original show -- Nipsey Russell and Al Lewis -- can't save it.

What does startle is how tiresome it all is.

Simply put, Battlefield Earth is the worst film I've seen in over 10 years, and believe me, that's saying a lot.

This is a movie that should have bypassed the theatres and gone straight to DVD. It is offensive on so many levels.

It's just the most inept filmmaking you can catch in theatres right now, or probably all year long.

Unfortunately, Who Is John Galt? substitutes the most knee-jerk Tea Party beliefs for Rand's far more ambitious and complex philosophy.

Hey, guys, when you repurpose a disco hit to poke fun at gay men, not only do you look like assholes, you look like assholes who rip their jokes off of YouTube.

After a string of disappointments culminating in this silly waste of time, it's hard to care if horror's golden boy carries on or not. Forget The Mangler. Go do your laundry instead.

It’s McHattie’s bizarre turn as the beleaguered town’s mayor that steals this show. Taking his cue from another infamous Ontario public servant, he gives a performance that can only be described as bat-shit crazy. Fitting, eh?

While Reality Queen! seeks to parody contemporary culture, the irony here is that it is the very vapid thing it mocks. Ouroboros, eat your heart out (well, I guess it will anyway, endlessly).

Trying to encapsulate the movie's storyline is not possible; it doesn't appear to have one.

As the straight-man virgin, Cregger is almost entirely devoid of personality; as his hyperkinetic sidekick, Moore may have the most unlikable personality in movie history.

Is That a Gun resorts to smutty humor and moralistic speeches to confront the issue of American gun violence in the wake of Newtown, Conn. This movie uses those murdered babies’ name in vain.

Bad writing, shoddy effects work, and Laser’s nonstop shouting of every single line of dialogue do not add up to a transgressive statement about the American for-profit prison system, but instead achieve the dubious honor of being the most annoyingly in-your-face horror flick of the year thus far.

Director Dick Lowry and scenarists Stuart Birnbaum and David Dasheu's idea of a good time is so crude, they probably think Caveman was a comedy of manners.

Uninterested in persuasion or education, this third documentary by Dinesh D’Souza is designed to aggressively reinforce prejudices and hostilities among true believing conservatives as it offers a “history” of the deliberately evil, completely corrupt, America-hating Democrats.

This crude live-action takeoff on the Cabbage Patch phenomenon ought to have had star Anthony Newley humming "Stop the Movie, I Want to Get Off."

This is filmmaking as polemic, and much in the same way as Michael Moore’s (much better) films have a particular agenda to puzzle out various ways in which our country has failed us, this traffics in the same vein.

Despite all its clichéd moralizing and blatant borrowings, the movie does offer a few clever twists on an old formula. "Hoosiers" may have been a better film, but Hackman never had to coach a team to victory after his star player quit to go have a baby.

The bulk of the documentary observes Pipkin as he traverses the world showing us a score of examples of solutions that are presently working.

Christian filmmaking has entered a new phase in which its creators have discovered how to soft-pedal their message under wraps of a conventional story.

A fine example of advocacy filmmaking.

While the dour pacing and tone rank right up there with watching water freeze in terms of gutpunching suspense, by the time the final, grisly revelation is at hand you're hard-pressed not to sweat.

You have to hand it to Texas writer/director Stephens: He wrings out a barely watchable hundred minutes here using only washed-up actors and a washed-up genre.

This up-from-the-fields slice of Tejano pride is a punchy, melodramatic piece of tried-and-true Americana that mixes cultures (and film genres) with an eye toward knocking down borders both cultural and contemporary.

The film’s historical pageantry is fascinating to observe, even though the story is mostly conjecture. Competently directed, the real pleasure in this high-grossing South Korean film lies in its performances, which lighten the regal solemnity with comic warmth.

In films by the likes of Michael Bay, Paul Verhoeven, and Guillermo del Toro, machines are shown to be the nightmarish enemies of human beings, so it’s refreshing to find the machines in Trash Dance working in harmony with their human operators.

A certain amount of honest, down-home flavor mixes with an excess of melodramatic schmaltz in this Texas-made movie.

Perhaps viewers of the TV show will find more depth in The Snitch Cartel than newcomers to the drama. But without character definition, the film feels like a constant swish pan from one violent event to the next.

The best that can be said for this one is that we’ve seen plenty worse of its kind.

It’s Fukumoto’s wonderfully weathered countenance that makes Ochiai’s film such an elegiac delight. On it, you can see the entire history of samurai cinema, or at least that essential part of it that died often, and beautifully so.

Cinematographer Jeremy Prusso catches some stunning imagery, Robert Allen Elliott’s score is genuinely stirring, and the cast, most of whom are from Monrovia, is uniformly excellent.

The film loses its focus a bit in the third act, but until then Good Day, Ramón is a heartwarming tale punctuated by moments of true concern for the likable but imperiled young hero.

A la Mala coasts on its style and charm, and that may be enough for this kind of romp. Mala’s roommates Kika (Aurora) and Pablo (Arrieta) provide enjoyable interludes as something of a Greek chorus to Mala’s dilemma. Nevertheless, a bit more originality in the script by Issa López and Ari Rosen would be a welcome diversion.

You have the makings of a half-baked thriller that looks pretty good (that second-unit stuff in Mexico City is tight) and performances that aren’t half-bad, but at the end of the day it’s some neo-noir nonsense that makes those post-Tarantino movies from the mid-Nineties look like "Chinatown." No mames.

All told, it’s a likably misfit little movie, even if you can imagine it better suited as a lengthy short film or as a superior installment on one of those midcentury television playhouse series.

Even if some of its history and buckles are askew, the film is still an original take on a Christian redemption story.

Viewed entirely on the exceptional virtues of its CGI animation (flashbacks occur via traditional, hand-drawn animation) and its occasionally raunchy humor, Un Gallo con Mucho Huevos is a small gem of a film. But its trivialization of cockfighting will surely be a rightful stumbling block for many potential audience members.

With this kind of competition doc, a filmmaker has to be incredibly savvy and soothsaying in selecting his subjects early on: They have to be both charismatic enough to hold the camera’s gaze and competitive enough to advance to the final rounds. In both respects, Baijnauth struck gold with his five baristas.

It is an unabashedly good-natured film that doesn’t ram its religious ideology down your throat.

A slick but slight film that unfortunately resurrects everything that was problematically self-indulgent about so many New York rom-com indie films that have come before. This is irrelevant navel-gazing at its most tepid. Nothing (new) to see here, folks.

Much more a comedy than a heist film (think Ocean’s 11 rather than Casino or Rififi), Ladrones moves at a pretty entertaining pace and maintains a good sense of humor about itself.

A quicker overall pace and trimmed dialogue might have lent the film more sparkle and zest, but it still makes it to the finish line with its decency intact.

There might be a glimmer of a theme in the film concerning faith, but it all drowns in too many tangents and dull minutiae. Recommended for die-hard fans only, Australia's Lost Gold is not worth its weight in much of anything.

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.

Writer/director Damien Lay’s screenplay has some head-scratchers in addition to its flat dialogue, but it’s clear that the airplanes rather than the characters are his real passion. Unfortunately, his film never takes flight.

There's a sense of joy, distilled through a juxtaposition of images of celebration and ritual: women in a forest in Belarus, placing floral tributes on water; an elephant illuminated in a street fair; lanterns lifting into the air over Thailand like shooting stars in reverse; a Chinese cormorant fisherman with his bird; masked revelers at Bolivia's Carnaval de Oruro.

Headlining a less-than-mediocre kids’ movie taints one’s brand rather than enhancing it. Just ask Shaq.

Subpar special effects and a by-the-numbers final act “Yakety Sax” chase send this sad mess back to a mercifully early grave.

Baja is just plain bad.

The person I most connected with for most of Mr. Fish: Cartooning From the Deep End was not the artist, railing against the man, but his wife, Diana Day, sweating their debt, working the job that gets them and their twin daughters health insurance, doing the dirty work that enables him to stand on his principles.

Filmed in luscious black and white, Mustang Island is a millennial comedy of manners that also doubles as a superlative acting showcase for real-life couple Macon Blair and Lee Eddy.

The film’s quiet confidence in an evolved America only tells half the story; as a result, it already feels more like a prologue than a happy ending.

If you watched AMC's "The Terror" and thought to yourself, "What this really needs is ravening hordes of mermen," then Xavier Gens' period monster flick is a must-see.

Without endearing characters to sell this mixture of comedy and dread, Danger One quickly succumbs to its low-budget annoyances.

What makes Ghost Light a true pleasure is that it's a lovely homage to the kind of hybrid supernatural rom-coms that they don't make any more, in the tradition of "Blithe Spirit" and "Topper." What's done is done, and executed with an endearing wittiness.

While rarely feeling heavy-handed, Lez Bomb manages to be both over-the-top funny and yet incredibly realistic, sans the doom and gloom of yesteryear.

The film is an action-packed thriller-Western hybrid, but it takes a dreamy pace in setting up the story (the first 20 minutes or so are rather languid).

FP2 is all stupid surface, held together by Trost’s surly charm. It may be filled with dumb “beat off” puns, but it’s just smart enough to be all heart.

With eight segments, most directed by Fantastic Fest alumni, and a near-two-hour run time, it's a little overpacked, and it's stylistically so diverse, with each section totally independent of the others, that it can become a long trip through the woods. At the same time, its variations are a strength, with a little something for everyone.

When Nothing Stays the Same is best is when it's about what it takes to survive, rather than indulging in handwringing: the flexibility, the raw business savvy melded with artistic vision that makes for great booking, and innovations like early evening residencies.

The film's joy is in its earnest simplicity.

Employing contemporary interviews with those who were there and a wealth of raw footage from the original events, Desolation Center illuminates a short-lived but absolutely momentous time when the Mojave beckoned, free of charge and front-loaded with anarchic artistic overload.

The challenge for the audience is to simply keep up. Jallikattu is such sensory overload – containing so many crowded images and rhythmic cuts – that we almost need a little distance to fully appreciate what the filmmakers have pulled off.

Tokyo Ghoul: S is at its best when it embraces its high weirdness (Shu setting up a cannibalistic threesome is hilarious) but it's never sure what it wants to be.

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.

The film's ostensible support for a woman's right to self-expression is undercut by the notion that it doesn't matter what a woman does, anyway, so long as she has a nice ass. Still, there doesn't seem to be much point in getting hot and bothered about a movie that's so poorly-crafted it's going to have a hard time garnering any kind of audience.

It's hard to say exactly where all the blame lies, but there's something surprisingly ugly at play in the depiction of middle-aged women as "past it and crazy." That may not be the intention of Chong, Essoe, and director Gayne, but that's where this ends up.

Jiang Ziya is a big story, an incredibly complex mythos not unlike Hercules, and unfortunately it never finds its beat. Like many films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, the story of Jiang Ziya is far more concerned with big epic punches rather than complex character weaving, and earned pathos.

A Simple Wedding is never quite as complex as the title suggests. Yet its easy charms and efforts to revise, rather than rewrite, the book of rom-com love make it worth the RSVP.

This is also one of the few recent horror American horror film that makes smart use of an urban setting, and throws in a few true-crime references to boot.

It clings to your psyche, a parasitic creepy-crawl of anxiety that will test the viewer’s own ability to get a good night’s sleep long after the closing credits fade to black.

This gloriously messy celebration of New Orleans’ musical legacy is a savory gumbo of uniquely American ingredients – jazz, blues, soul, rock ‘n’ roll, gospel, funk, hip-hop – generously seasoned with love and respect for the largely African-American artists who forged that heritage over the past three centuries.

While the film may lack the conventional sociopolitical framework needed to locate it in the broader Australian experience, Newell and her subjects are a constant source of empathy and education.

Van Sprang is perfect as the bruiser carrying a lifetime of regrets and debts he can never settle.

It's never a good sign if you're watching a thriller, and your first thought is, "Is this supposed to be funny?" So goes the comically overblown The Vanished.

The larger message of River City Drumbeat isn't just about how important White has been to his community. It's about how important community is.

Brutally honest, startlingly insightful, and poignant when it could have been bizarre, Dead Dicks earns its tragic, purposefully misleading title and reframes it with dire meaning.

Max Reload isn't for everyone, but it's not trying to be. It's a pizza-and-soda Saturday night gamer film for serious gamers - not the kind that just grind through bug releases, but can name a developer other than Hideo Kojima.