Compadres feels less like an actual movie and more like a half-dozen movies thrown together, and absolutely nothing sticks.

Instantly forgettable.

They've become deadly dull, these two once-keen buckers of bureaucratic BS, and watching them interact on screen is akin to having your pleasure centers removed by knobby little aliens whose only knowledge of mankind comes from Jack Webb's stoically unvarying television incarnations.

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

Meets the required minimum dosage of feature-film attributes, and then nods out when it comes to going any further.

The film is a mess, going all over the graveyard but never finding the grave. It's the work of a fan with too much time (and money) on his hands, eagerly awaited but best forgotten.

Shue, to her credit, looks like she's trying to crawl out of her skin, but hey, anything to get away from this hell house, right? Right.

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

Novelty alone does not a good idea make, and in the case of Gnomeo and Juliet, it's rather a disturbing, even fetishy one.

Takes the giant leap from your run-of-the-mill mediocrity into an alternative universe of awfulness.

This vehicle for hip-hop star Usher is no blinged-out Beamer rough-riding it over to Jay-Z's joint to wallop some cheeba up off'n the Zeezer's haid; it's more of a Yugo, as in "You go to this wannabe straight-to-video tripe, you deserve what you get."

It's a shame to once again witness Martin Lawrence squander his considerable comic talents under a fat suit and fake breasts in this shoddy sequel.

The film is chockablock with terrible actors (including Tyga, in a bizarro cameo rapping at a frat party), and the jokes he gives his inferior cast to work with are stinkers.

There is virtually nothing in which to emotionally invest.

Koteas' overearnest performance almost makes The Haunting in Connecticut worth a look, but ultimately even the star of Cronenberg's "Crash" can't salvage what is essentially a substandard rip-off of "The Amityville Horror."

Shapeshifters-lite. Fangs but no fangs.

The real shocker is how hellishly yawn-inducing this utterly pointless and forgettable Haunting turns out to be. It's enough to make you scream.

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

As for Hotel Transylvania,, no need to put a stake in it, it's deadly dull already.

Michael Moore has nothing to fear from David Zucker.

The investigation is dull, the jokes dispiritingly flat-footed, with Ponch’s sex addiction and squirminess over male intimacy supplying most of the setups for CHIPS’ puerile humor.

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

I’m in Love With a Church Girl is not unambitious: It crams into its two hours terminal illness, money laundering, a DEA sting, clubbing, a prolonged coma, and lots of Bible study. But the action – punishingly turgid, spread-it-on-a-cracker cheesy – feels inauthentic, ginned up only to promote the film’s come-to-Jesus messaging, and to call the acting amateurish does a disservice to hard-working amateurs everywhere.

Appallingly bad stuff.

The talented people in front of the camera fail to bring anything original, interesting, or even funny to this tedious would-be comedy.

Aiming to be this year's Basic Instinct, Body of Evidence never raises a discernible pulse.

This latest entry is simply dumb, dull, and pointless.

Vacant and pointless.