Great movies can make you believe in a life beyond the frame; Zen Noir can't even convince you that what you're seeing onscreen is actually happening.

Not a single character or the jeopardy that they find themselves in – end of the entire human race and all – is likable, canine-in-peril excluded.

97% of the movie will make you need a shower. Possibly two.

No Good Deed slouches toward its inevitable conclusion much like that rough beast to Bethlehem, falling apart and lacking all conviction.

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

Do yourself a favor and go rent any Miike film other than this one.

It's the pod people's version of a great, contemporaneously resonant cinematic fable, created by apparent committee, and utterly devoid of both meaning and feeling. The tagline warns: "Do not trust anyone. Do not show emotion. Do not fall asleep." Yawn.

Awash in the obvious and sports a patently predictable outcome. Somewhere, Stanislavsky is shrieking as well.

Little more than a cluttered, noisy, and unsatisfying thrill ride to nowhere.

A muddled mess of bad-lad clichés, and Jackson's obvious talents only serve to point out how godawful everyone else seems to be.

Even as a guilty pleasure, Maneater is a particularly rough watch.

As mesmerizing as watching bread toast. Death, be not proud, indeed.

When they’re used to tell a story as dreary, unfocused, and exhausting as Tideland, the director’s trademark dreamscapes and disorienting camera angles feel like so much artless window dressing.

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.

I'd rather have a testicular nail-gun mishap than sit through this migraine-inducing train wreck of a film one more time.

Fails to kick start anything other than the urge to giggle.

Deadly dull tripe.

Certain things must be answered, like Seagal's environmental lip service that is utterly mocked by the movie's need to blow things up and destroy property.

For masochists only, and hardcore ones at that.

This mirthless comedy about a manly crew of smokejumpers helplessly babysitting a trio of rescued brats has more dead air in it than a radio broadcast hosted by a narcoleptic disc jockey.

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.

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.

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.

The Gallows offers exactly none of the frisson or pleasure of a found-footage film done right.

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

There are no astute or emotionally resonating takeaways to be had about the pain of depression, just stock melodrama with a cautionary-tale climax that feels desperate to shock.

Remember the eyeball-scrapingly unfunny "Gnomeo and Juliet"? Remember watching it and thinking, “Really? It’s 2011, and we’re still doing Borat mankini jokes?” Well, welcome to Sherlock Gnomes, a sequel seven years past its sell-by date, and 12 years after Sacha Baron Cohen made audiences cringe at his swimsuit choices.

Ultimately, one has to chalk up The Pink Panther to the good old traditions of Hollywood greed and chutzpah. Nothing this slapdash and badly executed is done for the love of movies.