The pranks are as bland as Macdonald’s demeanor, which is supposed to subvert expectations about the role of the straight man in a comedy duo; the subjects of running gags range from anal rape to anal rape.

It's not scary because not one second is believable.

The idea of transposing the story to the macho, greedy world of big-time sports is promising, but director Jesse Vaughan delivers only flat dialogue and predictable situations.

Must have been slapped together fast: live-action stunts created by uninspired editing lead up to computer-generated imagery that's just as lame.

Away, away with all of you and your sorry master, director Alan Johnson, whose every prospect for future employment in this darkling realm of TV pilot failure must be waning by the hour.

The result is TV flavored, less a narrative than a haphazard succession of vignettes populated by crude stereotypes instead of credible characters.

All of this comedy's jokes are old.

"Speed" made millions on mindless, empty thrills; this laborious sequel is just as mindless and empty but lacks the thrills.

There's a gothic backstory to all this, which makes no sense but looks pretty cool.

It's not terribly interesting on the subject.

As in most bad thrillers, the number of pointless shocks increases in direct proportion to the drama's decreasing vitality, like defibrilator paddles jolting a dying man.

Strange, dumb, and sometimes even fun.

This Mike Myers vehicle exemplifies American comedy's continuing slide into infantilism.

After nine years, Duffy has coughed up a sequel, and like the first movie it's energetic, proudly juvenile, and reverently derivative.

Overwrought indie crime drama.

The results are flat-out tedious.

What seems more problematic is the virtual exaltation of Dirty Harry vigilantism, the storm trooper mentality and behavior on Nolte's part that the film breezily takes for granted; if there's any irony about it, it's carefully designed to wash over the storm trooper types in the audience and not give offense to them--only to the rest of us.

Penis jokes fly fast and furious, and while they're hit-or-miss they're occasionally very funny. Schneider always plays a variation of the same put-upon schlemiel, a formula that worked fine for, well, Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd.

A more helpful title for this date movie would have been Couples, Retreat!

All I saw were unimpressive digital effects; artless, quick-cut abstracted gore; and a last-ditch attempt to evoke a visceral response by heaping the climactic scene with bat shit.

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.

The material is nothing but a mass of programmed emotions and bumptious rabble rousing, but that isn't enough for Clark—he's got to make it even dumber by filling it with gross caricatures, incoherent action, and Irish music. And what this man does to actors, I wouldn't do to cockroaches.

This tired action comedy is the usual weave of over-the-top violence and cross-cultural shtick.

As an actor Austin is still a lightweight, but Rick Hoffman (Hostel) fleshes out a recognizable character.

Christian E. Christiansen directed this stinker, which lacks even unintentional humor.

Sally Field's direction is pedestrian, though she does manage to get winning performances out of Driver and Eisenberg.

This moronic horror movie has the earmarks of a disastrous shoot patched up in editing.

A holiday film for the whole family, provided the whole family is obsessed with human waste.