V/H/S/2 is for gore hounds exclusively.

The film is certifiably schizophrenic in tone.

The best bit, however, is not even in the movie, but in the film’s end credits: an expletive-filled parody of We Are the World in which a host of has-beens croon about their halcyon days as child stars.

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.

The ultimate indie self-indulgence, I'm Reed Fish is so weighed down in its own angst as to practically deserve its own genre.

Only Palance is worthwhile, as Curly's long-lost brother Duke (there's an inspired cowboy name for ya), and even that role seems dazed and clichéd. Tack on an absolutely deranged, hackneyed final reel, and you've got a movie that'll fade from your memory so quick it'll make your eyes water and your teeth hurt.

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

Bad Kids Go to Hell is the kind of movie its own pampered, careless, coked-up characters would make as a class project at the ass-end of senior year: boys running around with weapons, girls mugging sexy-sassy, narrative continuity be damned.

Screenwriter Dean Georgaris gets a hell of a pass here – the story is canon, and, in terms of emotional wallop, does all the heavy lifting for him – but he still manages to gunk up the works with dialogue that is dull-witted at best and outright howling at its worst.

With the exception of Kroll’s gravelly-intoned Uncle Fester, the voicework is sketchy, with Theron’s Seven-Sisters elocution bordering on sacrilege.

It appears that this franchise has hit a dead end, running on nothing but fumes.

An exercise in pure sadism, The Collection moves at a clip that leaps over plot holes in its race to elicit fright.

It’s all very nice to look at, sure, but pretty colors and molten intercoolers aside, 2 Fast 2 Furious is about as exciting as a Yugo in quicksand.

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

This was already tired stuff when cult fave "Sleepaway Camp" came out in 1983, and it’s downright comatose by now.

The Squeakquel might be appreciated by filmgoers aged 10 or younger.

There is a certain sweetness to this teen romance and Gardner’s naive fascination in the newly discovered wonders of Earth. But there is so much that is dopey, on both a scientific and emotional level, that The Space Between Us strikes with the impact of a crash landing.

There's a bright spot in the form of Amy's publicist (screen veteran Aaron), a salty, whiskey-voiced lesbian; it's a pity the movie isn't about her.

The original was indeed ludicrous, but it exuded warmth, vitality, and belief in itself. The 2.0 update splashes up on shore DOA.

Paul Blart: Mall Cop deserves to be cited for loitering.

There’s no pacing to the narrative, and the images are perfunctory. I’m Not Ashamed will draw the same audience that has turned Rachel’s journals into popular reading matter, but the film is not likely to lure any converts.

Isn't much more than a self-indulgent picture about the feeble delirium of a lovesick girl -- lightweight stuff that labors to seem terribly important.

With every bit of sliced flesh and every punctured skull I found myself wondering who exactly this movie is for. Its unflinching violence has earned it an R rating, meaning its desired demographic – teenage boys – is out of contention. That raises the question: Are there really adults who want to sit through this kind of mindless, bullying mayhem?

What is most egregious, and seems completely lost on the filmmakers, is that the film is the very thing it attempts to expose: a pandering cash-in on faith-based films disguising itself as an honest examination of belief. And that, true believers, is unforgivable.

The Basketball Diaries is a stepped-on product that never scores.

There’s such an overriding sense of soap opera that I kept expecting a commercial break.

Even the dependable Rickman can't find his footing here. As he lamely hams it up, you can see him trying to rally himself and then deciding it's not worth the effort.

The Boxtrolls feels rough-and-tumble and not as much fun by half.