A crime saga cobbled together from scraps of genre predecessors, Deadfall's unbelievable silliness escalates at every turn.

And so, nearly four years since it rolled cameras, the sun rises on another Red Dawn, which supplements the irresponsibility of the original with an incompetency all its own.

Silent Hill: Revelation 3D is the nadir of senseless seasonal cinema. But while Bassett's film struggles to say anything coherently, it gets the most important message across perfectly well: "Do not go to Silent Hill!"

Sinister is pretty much everything to hate about modern horror in one mixed bag, a ramshackle teardown of jump-scares and creaky tricks, saw-it-coming "surprises" and the lead-footed thud of inevitability as it tediously places one clumsy foot in front of the other, plodding towards a finale that comes far too late.

The more pressing affliction in Pascal Laugier's film is the absence of chills, logic and coherence.

Even if 2016 is preaching to the choir, its fanbase is eager to tithe - it's spent this week as Fandango's #1 ticket seller.

This movie will not find an audience. It's got likable stars, a reliable commercial genre and a decent supporting cast, but nobody will turn out to see it, even if it was a labor of love.

The film's length and muddled message will likely keep it from reaching much of an audience, even within the presumed Latino faith-based target.

Slapdashly assembled and lacking in dance thrills, the poorly promoted Battlefield America will drive away the few audiences that show up.

If this horror movie cashes in on the audience that echoes its character's awareness ("That's where the nucular thing happened, right?") then we're about to learn how low our national academic standards are.

Its endless parade of explosions, battles and general mayhem makes Michael Bay seem like Ingmar Bergman in comparison with Battleship director Peter Berg.

Fischer and Messina may make a cute pair, but amidst such contrivances, they're powerless to make this RomCom seem like anything more than a creaky retread of obvious indie clichés.

Stolidly maudlin, this enervating sub-middlebrow pic is doomed to well-deserved commercial obscurity.

Tyler Perry has finally achieved an odd kind of equality that heretofore eluded him: he's now just as mediocre and middle of the road as any other reliable hitmaker in Hollywood.

One for the Money is as static and ugly as romantic-comedies get, the distractingly fragmented coverage of simple dialogue scenes suggesting a general ineptitude that's rare at the studio level.

Kate Beckinsale can still fill out a skin-tight leather bodysuit, but with Awakening, the vampires-vs-werewolves Underworld franchise has finally decayed beyond the point of repair.

A well-meaning production that consistently fails to deliver on even the most basic of cinematic expectations, all while covering up stunning ineptitude with bloated song-and-dance numbers.

The Darkest Hour isn't just a dark horse contender for the year's biggest joke, it's the darkest.

Chipwrecked is the sort of Sunday afternoon trifle that will mollify children and mortify their parents, an eyesore that auto-tunes its strong cast into anonymity and undercuts its convincingly rendered CG leads by confining them to hideously cheap environments.

The Sitter clocks in at a slim 81 minutes, but it feels significantly longer, as there is almost no fluidity between scenes, with the entire outing feeling slapped together at the last minute.

Between Eastwood's direction and Dustin Lance Black's screenplay, what you feel leaking off the screen in every scene is missed opportunity.

A surprising follow-up to Doremus' low-fi but equally concept-driven 2010 Sundance feature "Douchebag," Like Crazy has appealing performances, a notable tone of realism in the acting and so many borrowed mannerisms from better or more interesting films it feels like a YouTube mash-up made by a Wes Anderson junkie who's studying Sophia Coppola movies while writing a term paper on "Garden State."

Nasty and over the top, The Human Centipede II (Full Sequence) feels like a horror movie that hates horror fans.

The real problem is, when the film blindsides us with a mystery we didn't know existed, we're already too busy not caring about mystery we knew was there.

Ugly characterizations and simplistic preachiness negate the terror in Red State - a film that eventually proves horrific in ways unintended by writer/director Kevin Smith.

The new film Abduction has a lot of problems, but the biggest is the fact that no one gets abducted. Ever.

We all have to make jokes around the water cooler, and if enough people bother to see Killer Elite, its silly nonsense could make for a great comedy routine by Greg from IT.

Of course, Bucky Larson isn't one of the year's worst films because its laughs are poisoned and problematic - rather, it's one of the year's worst films because there aren't any laughs at all.

Falling to pieces almost immediately, and then somehow discovering new ways to devolve into outright ludicrousness, it's a horror effort of such silliness that it's likely to be greeted with apathy at the box office before making a swift, deserved trip to the local video store's bargain bin.

Apollo 18 is a drab horror that tries to plant fears about untrustworthy authority (Nixon, NASA, etc) that are as stale as a freeze-dried peas.

A thoroughly shabby attempt to piggyback on the success of last year's "Piranha 3D," Shark Night 3D embraces convention with a voraciousness matched only by its predictability, amateurishness and all-around tameness.

The big event plays in the same cartoonish key as the rest of the film.

A squishy Hallmark Channel-level melodrama that rarely bothers to mask its propagandistic intentions.

The dismal reality is that this romantic drama is a disaster, a dour "When Harry Meets Sally" that tries to jerk tears out of the story of a man and a woman who go from friends to lovers.

Looking at the obnoxious TV ads for The Smurfs, it's easy to dismiss the film as a shrill, joyless exercise in special effects without substance. It's even easier after actually seeing it.

The movie is a bit of a departure for the mumblecore pioneer, one that does not play to his strengths.

The Undefeated says less about Sarah Palin than about the political and cultural environment that made her big screen beatification possible.

In this case, boredom is the deadliest sin.

Too dull for camp and too bad to be taken seriously.

For more experienced viewers, the tired terrain is badly shot and haphazardly assembled into an audience-testing feature that appears to have no idea how unlikable or unprovocative it is.

There hasn't been such an egregiously self-congratulating piece of Communist propaganda since, arguably, the peak of '60s Soviet musicals, but Revival is so repetitive and po-faced that there's no kitsch value to be had.

All you need to know about this low-budget farce is that Amy Sedaris costars (yippee!) and New York pol Anthony Weiner would feel right at home with the sexting subplot (eeeuw!).

All of this is silly, none of it is funny and it's not long before the whole film stops making sense altogether.

From its baldly overwritten dialogue to its claustrophobically stingy use of locations, Dragons is underdone in every way.

Dylan Dog feels like its ideas were stolen from western entertainment-a mash-up of sexy vampires, burly werewolves, and comical-gross zombies-which Hollywood then stole back from the Europeans, forgetting that other movies have explored that evil terrain thoroughly, exhaustively and better.

Lifeless as entertainment and incoherent as ideology.

The barely coherent Footprints seems bent on erasing any nostalgia one might have for Hollywood's heyday.

So thuddingly awful you won't crack a smile.

Inside the dreadful action comedy Cat Run, there are about three terrible action comedies struggling to get out.

Tackling his own original screenplay, Zack Snyder keeps his reputation for outlandish visuals intact but strikes out as a storyteller.

Starved of humor and energy, the interminable Big Mommas: Life Father, Like Son could force Lawrence and co-star Brandon T. Jackson undercover for real.

What's most memorable about this plodding thriller are the copious amounts of foundation and lip gloss.

Even when presenting itself as a goofy trifle, the film never gels to that minimal standard.

American viewers are unlikely to be interested.

Even the presence of Dan Aykroyd as Yogi and Justin Timberlake as his pint-sized straight man Boo Boo, couldn't save the movie.

Sternfeld's depiction of small town life feels completely inauthentic at almost every level.

The case may be plausible, but Gibney's method - a singularly unimaginative trawl through archival footage and listlessly edited talking heads - is life-sapping to watch, and his editorial contributions laughably literal-minded.

Robert Young's Eichmann feels the burden of history so heavily that it's effectively smothered by it.

Fans will presumably get what they came for; what anyone else gets out of it is hard to say.

Kalamity is a real klunker.

A mess of a horror movie that spent several years sitting on a shelf and should have remained there living up to its fullest potential as a dust magnet.

Everything about this film is fairly offensive, including its racial stereotypes, homophobia, misogyny, generally bad writing and amateur filmmaking.

What helps salvage the film (much to the surprise of director and co-writer Lussenhop and his fellow writers Peter Allen, Gabriel Casseus and Avery Duff) are the unintentional laughs generated by the film's outrageous gun battles, childish dialogue and an action chase featuring Brown that seems to go on forever.

To say that Marshall's technique is so low-brow it may as well be a moustache is being kind--at best this is the sort of lazy, ambitionless hackery that can lead both filmmakers and audiences to write off a genre for dead--or at least until a more skilled storyteller is able to do it right.

As if a string of bad jokes wasn't enough, Vampires Suck is full of distractingly forced pop culture references and shameless product placements (the actors practically mug for the camera while holding various products).

Unlike "The Lost Boys," there are no bloodsuckers in Twelve. Instead, it just sucks time: 98 minutes to be exact that you can never get back.

Fails to deliver enough clever gags, emotional warmth, or eye-popping 3D to compete with recent family releases.

This is the kind of movie where the audience of extras orgasmically react after every song as if they were at a Bruce Springsteen concert instead of watching a bunch of kids who wouldn't make the cut in a junior high production of "Bye Bye Birdie."

Conceptualized and re-conceptualized, written and re-written, shot and re-shot, cut and re-cut, the final product is the world's longest short film.

Very small children may well take a shine to the big, goofy dog and his furry friends, but parents and older siblings will be left squirming in their seats at a bland, predictable blend of bad comedy and sentimentality.

Burzynski may have credibility in the eyes of some, but the movie about him has no credibility, so no one will be receptive to its message.

After this bomb, Katherine Heigl and Ashton Kutcher may qualify as two of the most attractive and prematurely washed-up screen actors Hollywood has ever produced.

The movie's simple-minded lesson that forests are good and development is bad is undercut the minute one pauses to think about how many natural resources were wasted on this sorry excuse for a motion picture.

The compellingly awful thriller, In My Sleep--in which Melrose Place meets imitation Hitchcock--is so unselfconsciously derivative that you have to admire it…or, if you don’t admire the movie itself, than admire the jejune chutzpah of writer-director-producer Allen Wolf.

It’s a crock to believe a film’s worth a twirl because it has a saucy title.

A broadly promising premise and well-matched stars prove no match for an abominably unfunny screenplay and the work of the poisonously untalented Shawn Levy--arguably the worst director making big-budget studio films today.

Poor word of mouth should doom it for a quick ride to DVD oblivion.

Letters to God is far too simplistic and pandering to find success outside of the targeted church-going family moviegoers it’s hoping to reach.

A pathetic thriller and lame social satire that suffers from abysmal writing, poor pacing and terrible acting, even from the normally reliable Sean Bean.

If "Midnight Run" and "His Girl Friday" had an unwanted, mutant baby, it would be The Bounty Hunter, a romantic comedy where the jokes sputter and die immediately after exiting the character’s mouths.

Should be immediately screened in film schools across the world as a shining example of everything that is wrong with the American studio system and the increasingly dreadful junk it produces.