Unfortunately, as the opening title might suggest, the filmmakers have punted on the hard cinematic work of making the incredible seem credible; instead they've turned Russell's story into a broad farce with one wocka-wocka gag after another.

The premise for this sci-fi actioner makes sense for about four seconds, after which you begin to wonder why everyone on the planet would willingly become a shut-in.

By the time the manic camera slows down to reveal the back stories of the characters, everyone's motives are either moot or redundant.

A bewildering slice of southern gothic hokum, it suffers from a weak script.

This didn't make me laugh much, but I liked the music, a patchwork of samples culled from the various atomic-monster epics.

This parallel-reality shtick would be OK if the gun violence weren't so awful--but staging a murder again and again for the sake of some undergraduate head game is no more defensible than using it to pump up an action flick.

It has its moments, but not many, and generally speaking it runs neck and neck with Dune as the least successful and least interesting Lynch feature.

So stale and complacent that it could be a rerun of "Love American Style."

Someone should tell these guys you can't score a touchdown throwing lateral passes.

Dismal SF deep think that gave birth to an equally dismal string of sequels and TV spin-offs.

This is mainly a narrative brain-teaser like "Memento" or "The Jacket"; merely keeping up with the game requires so much energy that the thinness of the material becomes fully apparent only toward the end.

This fumbling and formulaic semiremake of The Private War of Major Benson (1955) is basically just an excuse to let comic Damon Wayans—functioning here as cowriter and executive producer as well as star—strut his stuff. But he's strutting in a void, and not even two gold teeth will light his way. The initial premise [is] good for a couple of laughs at most.

I don't doubt the noble motives behind this Disney parable, but the attempts at amiable, laid-back dialogue (script by Gerald DiPego) are painful, the pacing is sluggish, and the confused story's poorly focused.

Walter Hill's first outright failure, this revisionist western draws on the major themes of his work—the relationship of pursuer and pursued; the beauty of clean, planned action; the attraction to violence and resultant moral revulsion—but none of them ignites.

Wahlberg turns in one of his worst performances ever, but then he's saddled with preposterous scenes.

The road of excess leads to the palace of boredom in this overblown monster epic.

This wretched remake was helmed by Raja Gosnell, perpetrator of the live-action "Scooby-Doo" movies. I'm partial to Quaid and Russo, but there are limits.

As the characters behave with symbolic excess in situations designed to provoke their bigotry and self-interest, superficial black comedy periodically gives way to painful drama.

Mainly it's a shambles, though for once Williams gets to do what he's best at (his stand-up shtick), and the absurd story, no matter how carelessly assembled, keeps moving.

It exchanges the police subplot that gave the earlier film its steady pace for a lot of pointless backstory about the mother-fixated stalker.

May be amusing if you feel a pressing need to feel superior to somebody, but the aim is too broad and scattershot to add up to much beyond an acknowledgment of small-town desperation--something Sherwood Anderson and Sinclair Lewis did much better back in the 20s and 30s.

[An] unsatisfying mess.

The truth is that this programmatic Christian parable is pretty unbearable--glib, often myopic, and reeking with sentimentality and self-pity.

This romantic stinker is one of those films in which every plot development becomes a life lesson and every gesture is weighted with significance.

The action plot is lousy with cliched suspense scenes of back-road executions halted at the last possible instant.

The set-up is tediously slow, while the later murders are packed so tightly it's like watching a blender on high speed.

Contrived hunk of feel-good.

Even though Kristy is seen mainly through the uncomprehending eyes of Jake, McGovern manages to fare better with the cliches thrown at her than Bacon does; but neither has a prayer of scoring at a game whose rules and players might have been dreamed up by a computer. Even the cutesy minor gag of putting the title's initials on the hero's license plate has something grimly nonhuman about it.