The mayhem in The Mummy feels desperate, mistimed, grueling in the wrong way (the film's violence is infinitely less appropriate for preteens than that of "Wonder Woman").

If any of this was surprising or cleverly timed, you'd laugh and then cringe. In Vacation you cringe first and ask questions later.

It’s such a drag to see Ke Huy Quan undermined so persistently by the script and the role handing him his first lead in a movie.

Everything happens quickly in Fatal Affair, since it’s all plot and no character. These movies are what they are: disposable; full of shiny, unstained, high-end kitchen countertops.

No one seems particularly good at their jobs, but that’s beside the point. They’re silly and self-absorbed — mildly obnoxious more than anything — but rarely is their desperation funny.

It is difficult to decide what is more annoying. The complete lack of execution in this film, (despite the presence of some very talented actors), or the realization that these lame screenwriters were so devoid of original ideas, they resorted to picking at the carcass of a tale that has been done and redone to death. [11 Aug 1995, p.28]

Here's how you know Josh Brolin has become a movie star: Jonah Hex may not be much with him, but without him? Perish the thought. Perish it, throw an ax in its heart, then burn it to a crisp.

This is one of those would-be blockbusters that wants to have it both ways: It includes enough political commentary to have pretensions of seriousness, yet it's engineered to satisfy the explosion cravings of Schwarzenegger action fans, if any are left.

Kirk Douglas' performance...is so strong and inspiring it's a shame there isn't a better movie around it.

A staggeringly bad picture: a shallow, cliche-ridden mess that keeps blowing up on screen.

Worst of all, though, is the movie's moral maneuvering.

Not a picture that makes you think very much -- except to wonder why the studios keep making movies like this.

Gruesome and supremely disjointed foray into the world of hired assassins.

A wish fulfillment fantasy of staggering silliness, both smirkingly cutesy and gratingly offensive, this is one for the movie ash heap.

The worst part of the night isn't the Aqua Net hair or the sweaty '80s dancing. Murder is the theme of the evening.

Soul Man is a slick, frightening piece of work. It's not only because Ron Reagan Jr. has a bit part in it that it seems the definitive Reagan-era film.

It's strictly rental material. [06 Oct 1996, p.11]

It's a shame that these actors, stars already in the Latino community, with most also having played small parts in Hollywood's more white-bread movies, got such a poorly written script for their American coming-out party.

It's a pretty dull picture, I must say, because it's my duty to say it. And it's a pretty dull picture, I must say, because something about its particular grade of dullness may cause memory loss.

A rock 'n' roll film should be funny-crazy -- not just a big, dumb promo for some over-the-hill dudes in makeup who are trying to sell today's kids on yesterday's glory by championing deliquency.

Clean enough to fly the Walt Disney Pictures flag, yet it's full of bimbos and cleavage and shots of Adam Sandler getting kicked in the shins by a dwarf.

The fatal flaw in David Duchovny's big-screen directorial debut, House of D, is not Robin Williams as a retarded janitor. It's David Duchovny, the man who chose to cast Robin Williams as a retarded janitor.

Welcome to Mooseport isn't a belly-laugh farce. It's more along the lines of a "My Cousin Vinny," where you just enjoy almost everybody who crosses the screen. Such a comedy these days is more than welcome.

Run-of-the-mill sitcom-y in its pedestrian writing and uninspired direction.

There are good movies, bad movies and confoundingly bad movies. My Favorite Martian belongs to that rare third category. [12 Feb 1999, p.A]

It’s an odd one, indecisive about its tone and intentions.

Sniggery sex, adolescent male-bonding, casual drug use, the agonies of growing up, mistrust [to put it mildly] of the adult world, a yearning for material success and a corresponding distaste for anything that smacks of the "committed" 1960s - it's all here, supporting a plot so lunatic that it could have been assembled only in the backwards fashion outlined above. [22 July 1983, p.3-3]

The confusing screenplay, by John Eskow and Richard Rush, makes a few fumbling attempts to get a plot going (Downey crash-lands and has to be rescued by Gibson; later, their CIA bosses try to frame them for drug smuggling), but mainly the movie tries to get by on attitude, which is a mistake when Mel Gibson is its main perpetrator. [10 Aug 1990]

Poor Roberto Benigni, the Italian comedian who has been given the unenviable assignment of filling the shoes in which Peter Sellers stumbled so effectively. In Son of the Pink Panther, Benigni works from a real dung heap of a script.

It's one of those movies that are unfortunately so technically well done, it's hard to tune out on the senseless story.

The cast is enjoyable, with Jason Segel (as Gulliver's lil' pal, Horatio) and Emily Blunt (the local princess) a witty cut above for this sort of thing.

At its worst, a distasteful series of homophobic, racist and sexist jokes, and otherwise little more than jollies of the most juvenile and locker room sort. [24 Mar 1986, p.5C]

Snyder must have known in preproduction that his greasy collection of near-rape fantasies and violent revenge scenarios disguised as a female-empowerment fairy tale wasn't going to satisfy anyone but himself.

I wish the movie made emotional sense, because it’s all about getting in touch with whatever’s holding you back, but it doesn’t.

It's a juicy premise, but the enactment is so dumbed-down -- by turns preposterous and predictable -- that you couldn't possibly fault your jaded children for yawning and rolling their eyes.

Let It Ride looks like it was vastly overshot and overwritten, then whittled down to something which resembles a movie but is really a long commercial for the joys of the racetrack. [22 Aug 1989]

How can Reiner, who has been terrific in the past with both comedy ("This is Spinal Tap," "When Harry Met Sally") and children ("Stand By Me"), come up with something like "North," a movie that may set some kind of record for unfunny humor, forced satire and unappealing kids? [22 Jul 1994, p.C2]

Robin Williams is such a great comic virtuoso that it can almost hurt to see him straining to pump life into a conventional, uninspired, sometimes-goofy big-studio comedy such as RV.

The Last Song is primarily for teenagers looking for something disposable to cry about for a couple of hours, though I did find it a tad easier to take than "Dear John."

The overall vibe of this folly is curdled and utterly blase; it's a 118-minute foregone conclusion, finesse-free and perilously low on the simple performance pleasures we look for in any musical, of any period.

It's a Hitchockian "wrong man" story, but there's a twist.

Jolie and Banderas are two hot actors, in many senses of the word, and their scenes together have a lewd excitement.

In Uptown Girls Murphy is like a puppy in traffic; you're confident she'll reach the curb but only because the cars are swerving, not because her moves are so deft.

Painfully blasé coming-of-age story.

Mark my words: Mindhunters will do for psycho-thrillers what "Showgirls" did for stripper movies.

Son-In-Law is a comedy that outstrips its aspirations. It could so easily be a movie you're embarrassed to be caught laughing at. [2 July 1993, p.C]

The last third of the film descends straight into a combination of "Dynasty" with shades of cult classic "The Room." It's fantastic because it's complete and utter silly madness. Helicopter crashes! Slaps! Drinks thrown in faces! Fully clothed shower sex! A framed "Chronicles of Riddick" poster! All the makings of an instant cult classic.

Offers only one point of interest beyond the breasts of its second female lead: Aniston's barely disguised disdain for her material.

(Matthau's) is a truly magical performance: hilarious, unguarded and deeply touching.

Thinner has its meaty moments, but overall, it's Stephen King lite. Less taste, less filling, less fun.

It's a long slog, not because what the film says is provocative but because the technique is as slack as the writing.

Won't change your world, but it's attractive and Smith the Elder, lowering his voice to subterranean James Earl Jones levels, delivers a shrewd minimalist performance. His son may get there yet.

Ragged as some of it might have been, that old "Out-of-Towners" had a unified and surprisingly dark comic vision to go with its nifty one-liners. This big, glossy picture is set in movie-movie land, that shiny, peachy place where a celebrity -- like Mayor Rudy -- waits around every corner. [2 April 1999, Friday, p.A]

Stumbles from cliche to cliche:

A bad, bad movie...It's loud and dumb and it wastes a good cast on a ludicrous script.

The movie bumps along from low-grade scare to scare, and it's not lousy, mainly because Virginia Madsen prevents it from being so.

The violence of Class of 1999 is so extreme, so redundant and so meaningless that Lester ends by nullifying his own message - it seems that brutality in the name of law and order is wrong, but that brutality in the name of entertainment is just fine. [11 May 1990, p.E]

Both Jackson and Levy are better than director Les Mayfield's ("Blue Streak") meandering comedy.

Commenting on performances here is like critiquing the production design of a porno--it's beside the point. Briefly: Knoxville, bad choice, man. Reynolds, you make a good villain. Simpson, lovely posing. Scott, you're from Minnesota and it shows--but I bet stunt driving school was fun.

Jade, like many another recent erotic or techno thriller, is packed with talent, polished and technically dazzling. But, daring as it might seem in its sexual content and exposure of bad behavior among the mighty, it's curiously soft at conveying what these characters really believe. [13 Oct 1995, p.J2]

We keep waiting for the movie to stand for something more than a manual of cruelty, but it never does, even though director Cimino makes a heavy-handed attempt through Western locations and Red River Valley on the soundtrack to recall the heroism of another age. [05 Oct 1990, p.C]

Doesn't have much plot. It just sort of meanders around like a wildebeest playing Blind Man's Bluff.

The cinematic equivalent of Trix. It's just made to be enjoyed by certain folks more than others. Will girls like it? More than their parents.

Let's make this simple: If you spend money on Soul Plane, you've been played.

A sweet, effective installment, an often bright and efficient repository for the slapstick laughs and cutesy sentiments so beloved by this age group.

It breaks director Billy Wilder's most important movie commandment: Thou Shall Not Bore. It's just not funny.

A sincere but clumsy attempt to capture the pain of a man trying to cope with loss and divorce through the ages. [06 May 1994]

Even when Eastwood and Robertson, pleasant enough company, threaten to float off the screen, The Longest Ride glides along and delivers its reheated comfort food by the ton.

Conceived and developed shortly after Haddish scored, deservedly, with “Girls Trip,”” the movie is a mechanical series of witless yeast infection jokes, or thereabouts. While director Miguel Arteta has made some interesting work in the past, including “The Good Girl” and “Beatriz at Dinner,” his way with low physical comedy here is pretty artless.

After experiencing about a half-hour of Grodin's yelling, you sit in your seat imagining how much funnier Last Resort could have been if it had been written by, directed by or starred Woody Allen, Albert Brooks or Steve Martin. The answer is: a whole lot funnier. [09 May 1986, p.43]

Hoffs' Dublin appears to consist of stock street footage and a lot of stand-in California, which makes a hash of an exterior scene in which the characters complain about the incessant rain as the sun clearly shines through the damp.

The scenery's nice. But once you've said the scenery's nice, you're no longer talking about a movie worth talking about.

What exactly is funny about "Basic Instinct" or "Fatal Attraction"? Other than sending up specific scenes-say, Sharon Stone's uncrossed legs from "Basic Instinct"-there is no humor to be mined. The "Airplane" films kidded the genre rather than just duplicating scenes; director Reiner is operating at the level of a high school parodist. [29 Oct 1993, p.C2]

In a case study of how to screw up a simple, powerful revenge story, director Jonathan Hensleigh punishes audiences with an unbearably sluggish action movie that requires the word "action" to be placed in quotes.

If the setup, with its theme of two radically different brothers drawn to the same woman, recalls Moonstruck, the follow-through of The January Man has none of the earlier film's pleasing symmetry or emotional force. Sarandon seems to get lost in the shuffle (in a way that suggests some last-minute trimming of her role), and the picture eventually trails off into a tangle of unresolved plot threads. [13 Jan 1989, p.K]

Though the dialogue is written with all the finesse of a self-help book, and the visuals are a garish technicolor explosion, there are some nuggets of wisdom that do resonate, regardless of personal belief.

Something about baseball seems to bring out the silly side in moviemakers -- even in a movie like The Fan, which starts out well-crafted and deadly serious and seems to have good enough actors and a savvy enough director to stay that way. But halfway through this thriller things go haywire. [16 Aug 1996, p.D]

Wedding Date is neither good art, good entertainment nor even good trash.

Not-funniest comedy of the year so far.

If you want a relationship comedy that feels like last year's stuff, doesn't go far enough in any direction and is made watchable only by an overqualified ensemble, there's The Ex.

Lacks the meanness of so many recent gross-out comedies. With the sparkling Diaz leading the way, the lame humor is much more palatable.

It can't help but fall prey itself to a final deadly genre cliché: Its soundtrack outsparkles the movie.

It is scattered, weightless, impossible to get hold of, and somehow, after seven years and more than 10 hours of screen time, I could not tell you what these films are about.

The script by Phil Hay and Matt Manfredi gives you next to nothing for narrative complication and surprise, and a meager amount of verbal jokes.

By the end of this modest, strange venture, Leto made me believe it was worth being forced to hang out on the sidewalk with this man, if only to get a creeping sense of what that might’ve been like.

Viewing UHF may be injurious to your sense of humor. Rarely has a comedy tried so hard and failed so often to be funny. [21 Jul 1989, p.A]

Fghting your heart out at the end of this movie can't win the prize or the crowd.

A funny thing happened to Larry Doyle's 2007 debut novel on the way to the multiplex. It turned into its own ring of coming-of-age comedy hell.

It's not, however, a particularly pleasant surprise. Directed by 25-year-old Marc Rocco (son of actor Alex Rocco, who appears in the film), Dream a Little Dream places the usual plot inanities of the genre in the context of a wildly ambitious, baroque-surrealist style. The effect is a little as if the late Russian mystic Andrei Tarkovsky had directed "Police Academy VI." [9 March 1989, p.6]

There's nothing wrong with Paranoia that a stronger director, livelier leading actors and several hundred fewer narrative conveniences wouldn't cure.

I saw Resurgence an hour and a half ago, and I feel like an alien wiped my memory clean already.

G.I. Joe may not be beefier, but it’s cheesier and less aggravating than "Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen," the summer ’09 headbanger it most resembles.

"Masked" is erratic and volatile, too, from scene to scene, moment to moment. The script is chaotic, but the top-flight actors play their hearts out.

A nauseating thriller that reaches down from the screen and defies you to stay in the theater to see what desecration of the human body it will present next. [24 Feb 1986, p.C3]

Proceed with caution to "Warcraft," but there is entertainment to be found here. It's certainly more absorbing than the lazily assembled "Alice Through the Looking Glass," because Jones' exertion and drive behind the film is palpable, if a bit sweaty.

Is it the worst film of 2019, or simply the most recent misfire of 2019? Reader, I swear on a stack of pancakes: “Cats” cannot be beat for sheer folly and misjudgment and audience-reaction-to-“Springtime for Hitler”-in-“The Producers” stupefaction.

It's a movie, and certain liberties are bound to be taken, but having Derek stop a moped-driving Brit on the street by pulling out some sort of identification and yelling, "CIA, I need your moped!" is not the way.

In its execution, Stand Alone is no worse than other violent vigilante films in the ''Death Wish'' mold--its vision simply is more offensive.