An intermittently enjoyable bad movie that never knows when to stop.

Gamely running through parodies of TV commercials and shows, not to mention Spielberg, Schwarzenegger, Stallone, Selznick, and Gandhi, the movie proves to be awful by any standards--feeble, corny, and labored in script as well as direction--although the Capracorn of the basic premise occasionally manages to convey a certain sweetness.

The characters' undiluted self-interest will seem one-dimensional to all but the worst cynics.

The only thing that really amused me was a subplot involving music and video piracy.

Involves a team of divers exploring a vast cave system, an appropriate setting given the hollowness of the story and acting.

Peter Weir's attempt to make a "Casablanca" for the 80s - a romance set against a background of exoticism and intrigue - suffers from hazy plotting and a constant, pretentious mystification.

This 1944 Hepburn-Tracy pairing is so undistinguished that it's nearly dropped out of the history books.

This isn't very good--the puritanical impulses of the slasher genre collide head-on with the sweet-butt requirements of gay exploitation flicks--but a gender studies major could have a field day with it.

Roger Moore is a pastry chef's idea of James Bond; but Christopher Lee as the archetype of the evil antagonist makes this 007 outing just about bearable.

The September Issue fixates on status and professional one-upmanship; if you want to see a movie that actually treats fashion as personal expression--in other words, art--keep a lookout for Anne Fontaine’s forthcoming biopic "Coco Before Chanel."

Never gets around to explaining how he (Michael Morra) picked up the moniker Rockets Redglare. In fact, the intimacy of this portrait may be a disadvantage.

So lightweight that you're likely to start forgetting it before it's even over.

It's a slick, empty spectacle, with antipathetic stars and a director with no basic sympathy for the myths he's treating.

Instead of a credible main character this 1999 button pusher has lots of showy cinematography and generic dread.

The comic timing and Gibson's mugging are skillful, but the movie fulfills expectations of plot twists and ironic atmosphere only after having made clear that it won't be offering much else.

Oscillates bewilderingly between contrived and insightful, mechanical and sincere, clumsy and graceful.

The script lacks wit, and the in-joke references to cinematic sci-fi classics will soar over little kids' heads without pleasing many adults.

Not so much a sequel to "The Fugitive" as a lazy spin-off that imitates only what was boring and artificially frenetic about that earlier thriller; the little that kept it interesting.

The result is a deadly disappointment, despite Ryan Reynolds's cocky, muscle-flexing charisma as the daredevil test pilot turned intergalactic peacekeeper and Peter Sargaard's movie-stealing turn as a nerdy scientist turned psycho monster.

The film mechanically uses the crosscutting technique made famous by Kubrick's "Dr. Strangelove" without any of its wit or focused energy.

So clinically detached it borders on absurd.

Despite a provocative climax, the movie settles into a ponderous collection of soliloquies.

Big, schmaltzy melodrama with mini melodramas.

Technically speaking, this feeble effort is the ninth Pink Panther or Inspector Clouseau comedy, but only the third without Peter Sellers. Roberto Benigni (Life Is Beautiful) does what he can as Inspector Clouseau Jr. (which isn't much, given the degree of prominence accorded to a hackneyed kidnapping plot).

Bruce Willis's marvelous performance as a contract killer only makes everything else about this comedy seem more pathetic.

A strong cast fails to rescue this ponderous Oscar bait.

This is a long way from the inspirations of Airplane!

Strains so hard to be upbeat you can almost hear gears shifting.