Humorless, lugubrious, and interminable.

The movie offers an insulting "let them eat cake" gesture toward the 1982 audience, but the pacing is so ragged and the characters so lifeless that few will be able to stay awake long enough to feel offended

The protracted shoot-out at the end of Dear Wendy is even more pornographic than the moment when a female member of the Dandies exposes her breasts. The audience is clearly expected to enjoy the bloodbath even while it disapproves.

The thin story covering her acquisition of one wave after another while narrowly escaping death time and again is strictly for player one.

Aesthetically, Insidious operates at the level of a decent high school video project.

The plot of this character-driven drama is slender and the digital images rather muddy--apparently an impoverished indie feature can look bad and still not be very interesting--but to his credit, Thelemaque sticks to his minimalist turf. And the dogs are great.

Jarhead virtually begins with a rip-off of the basic-training sequence that opens Stanley Kubrick's "Full Metal Jacket."

Conveys little sense of a connection, as if di Florio had made it mainly because she had access to a celebrity.

The story unfolds briskly in the polished mode of a classic horror movie, then tanks after a plot twist at the midpoint alters the mood and slows the pace. Jim Sheridan (My Left Foot, In the Name of the Father) directed an ill-conceived screenplay that could have worked only as camp.

Poorly acted, over-the-top, and generally out-of-control bloodbath.

Josh Duhamel plays the smitten sports reporter who helps her mount her big art show, "Pain"--a fitting title, given the agony induced by this godawful comedy.

Valueless as entertainment, it’s still useful as a disambiguation tool for those who confuse Jessica Alba and Jessica Biel, or Taylor Dayne and Taylor Swift.

The wit is too weak to sustain a film, and the songs all sound the same.

Dumb.

More fanciful than factual, less likable than either The Big Easy or Breathless, McBride's previous two features, the movie tries hard to re-create the euphoria of 50s rock films, but the poor-white milieu is treated with such crude derision that all the characters wind up seeming like two-dimensional geeks.

By the time Gooding showed up for one of his assignments disguised as a call girl, even "Boat Trip" looked good to me.

The fundamental problems with David Cronenberg's disastrous 1993 adaptation, written by Hwang himself, are twofold: the unsuitability of such a premise for film, where the actors and audience no longer share the same space, and the miscasting of Jeremy Irons as the accountant and John Lone as the diva.

This feature debut by writer-director Scott Stewart may sound like an enjoyably goofy theo-horror romp, but it's a serious penance.

"Sorry, viewers" is more like it.

The concept was interesting and charming in "Love Letters," up to a point, but here it quickly becomes repetitive, obvious, and dull.

Whimsical fluff (1967) that weighs in on the far side of 50 tons; it's so clumsy and pounding that taking a child to it might be grounds for a visit from family services.

Writer-director Michel Leclerc keeps stressing how political all this is (the heroine labels almost everyone a "fascist"), but the movie never really decides what it's about, and its odd-couple romance is stale and unpersuasive.

A vicious, incoherent shoot-'em-up.

Overblown and stupefyingly dull.

The plot is largely a series of excuses for one-liners expertly delivered by Maguire, making all the hatred, maiming, and killing seem like digressions.

Simpleminded indictment of every senator who voted "yea."

With no personalities established and nothing at stake, it's no more interesting than a pickup game on your local court.

Director Robert Luketic telegraphs every dismal comic beat from Venus and Mars, then reinforces them with a twinkling, leering score.