Shameless exercise in high-tech sadism.

The current national priorities should be as follows: reduce carbon emissions and stop funding the films of M. Night Shyamalan.

The unfunniest comedy I can recall seeing in ages.

The dearth of ideas is exemplified at the end by a Mary Tyler Moore freeze-frame of Graham leaping in the air.

This gross sex farce actually has a point, though about half the population won't like what it is.

Romantic comedies should never be this exhausting. Despite a few good zingers, Mars Callahan's vitriolic take on the sexes sinks under the weight of its secondhand psychobabble and smug apercus.

Creatively it's a giant step backwards.

Full of meaningless tragedies left unjustified by the absurdly optimistic ending .. (an) intolerable story.

The talented director Bill Duke (A Rage in Harlem, Deep Cover), who brought distinction even to The Cemetery Club, his previous outing, goes to sleep here, and it's hard to blame him; why stay awake for insulting hackwork like this? James Orr and Jim Cruickshank wrote this malarkey.

As if to justify a serious discussion of this comedy before dissing it, some reviewers have pointed out that it evokes Casablanca. Maybe that's why the plot seems imposed on the characters.

Virtually unendurable.

The inevitable isn't worth the wait.

One reason this production-design vehicle is so incredibly boring is that the characters keep having to explain the plot to one another.

Screenwriter Marc Moss can take credit for the film's laughable dialogue.

Director Jonas Pate should be run through a wood chipper for daring to quote "Fargo."

This gross-out action comedy gets good mileage from its high-energy music and World Championship Wrestling characters, and leads David Arquette and Scott Caan are expertly pathetic.

Despite the cast -- Kevin Bacon, Matt Dillon, Neve Campbell, Denise Richards, Daphne Rubin-Vega, Theresa Russell, Robert Wagner, and Bill Murray -- I found it preposterous.

Stephen Gaghan, who scripted this turkey, landed in the director's chair after Edward Zwick (Glory) bailed out, and you can almost smell the flop sweat.

Inept script delivers a series of juvenile gags.

Ludicrous and inept, this low-budget 1985 splatter film directed by former Chicagoan Stuart Gordon tries to compensate for its complete failure to establish even a sliver of credibility by inflating the usual quotient of giggly camp humor and squishy gore effects...It's this kind of flat-footed stuff that gives garbage a bad name.

This is supposedly a big-budget production, though on several occasions the scientist hero (Edward Burns) seems to be walking in place before a rear-projection screen.

David Morse, who plays the driver, gives a relatively sharp and understated performance -- for me the only bearable thing in the movie.

This grasping comedy targets kids of all ages but will please no one as it exploits exhausted ideas about adolescence.

An epic about the Irish patriot (Liam Neeson) during the last years of his life (1916-'22), it clearly represents a lot of thought on Jordan's part, yet it's dramatic and cinematic sludge.

Overwritten by Billy Crystal and Peter Tolan, overdirected by Joe Roth, overplayed by most of the cast, yet typically undernourished.

Alas, the plot eventually takes over, and it's exceptionally ugly and unpleasant.

Only in the last third, when he gets down to the business of telling a story, does The Brown Bunny become a porn movie -- though not in the sense you'd expect.

"Friday" had moments of stoned charm and telling neighborhood detail; this second sequel never gets beyond the angry, cruel, and misogynist.