The violence is always vicious, the catalog of brutally attacked, pornographically bloody bodies is unending, and despite the abundance of action the film is terribly dull.

The movie is toothless and uninspired, and as directed by veteran filmmaker Joel Zwick (My Big Fat Greek Wedding), the film is a disgracefully shoddy affair.

No film that requires a woman to jump in water and dogpaddle toward a man has the "sisterhood's" best interests at heart.

A strictly-for-the-kiddies animated reboot of the seemingly ancient Smurf brand, The Lost Village is so tame it hardly merits a PG rating.

About as humorless – and joyless – as they come.

All ends happily for everyone in the movie, but for those in the audience, the experience is so hackneyed that they'll come out feeling like they're wearing shirts that say, "I went to the Acropolis, but all I got was this lousy T-shirt."

There are simply not enough sparks here to fire the imagination.

A misguided and utterly tone-deaf Hallmark card to the canis lupus familiaris and the people who love them.

The script's tone veers chaotically -- and ambitiously -- at once aiming for a Noel Coward kind of elegant sparring, then for the lightly raunchy, rompy absurdism of "What's New, Pussycat?"

The first film was near-mythic in its tone and treatment of its characters, while this remake barely serves as a primer in how not to generate suspense.

The Glimmer Man is simply a spectacular belly-flop of an action movie -- neither good enough nor bad enough to be anything but instantly forgettable, though not necessarily painless.

Insidious: Chapter 2 is perhaps an even more scattershot mess than its predecessor. Whannell's script is so rife with portentous backstory, third-act goofiness, and a denouement that practically screams "Insidious 3: Same Old Shit," that the film as a whole is jarring, and not in a good way.

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

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.

Might make a terrific double bill with the equally inane (but considerably more entertaining) "Con Air," with the French electonica duo Air chirruping in the background. But, you know, only if you're stoned out of your head.

The comic, his career now apparently in total free fall, tackles the (dual) role(s) so broadly (no pun intended) that it's just plain annoying.

As Timeline so adequately proves, not every bestseller will render a good film.

But for anyone who assumed Kennedy's experiment couldn't sink any lower than "Malibu's Most Wanted," there are, it appears, ever deeper depths in the realm of comedic misfires.

Abysmal, unfunny, and ultimately, completely unnecessary.

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).

I'm not sure which is more freakish: the fact that this savagely unfun and relentlessly generic Adam Sandler comedy has spawned its own (infinitely more entertaining) Internet meme or the realization that something has gone seriously awry with the decision-making process of Al Pacino's agent.

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.

Things do not end well, least of all for the audience.

Kind of "Hoosiers": Part 2. But the storytelling is so backassward that it’s impossible to care about any of the characters or really engage in the movie whatsoever.

The biggest takeaway from the film is that the American foster-care system has failed us all. And that’s super sexy.

Not so much bad as it is witless and predictable.

Steer clear, Friends of Ol’ Marvel!

Already hobbled by an overwrought story that turns positively Hallmark-Movie-preposterous in its third act, journeyman director Michael Hoffman (Soapdish, The Last Station) can’t conceive of a single memorable set-piece or rouse his actors into action. By the time Marsden’s character has very polite sex with the love of his life with his pants still on, I was done.