Final Destination 3 is a gorefest that should either slake your worst appetites or drive you to the exits.

Welcome to Marwen is a misjudgment only a first-rate filmmaker could make.

The Love Guru”does not bring out Myer's best, and aside from a deft early Bollywood parody, there’s nothing visually to help the fun along.

Cursed with an honest title, Failure to Launch waves a white flag in scene after scene, declaring surrender. We give up! We do not know how to make a decent mainstream romantic comedy!

The pathos really are shameless, arriving with killing regularity and false humility.

An oppressively cute Manhattan time-travel romantic comedy that’s lost in time, space and cliches.

The Ninth Configuration is neither frightening nor funny nor inspiring, although it strains to be all of these. [30 Sep 1985, p.3C]

Isn't just the weakest of the "Die Hard" pictures; it's a lousy action movie on its own terms.

Rampage is a drag.

It lacks a sharp look and satisfyingly fleshed-out story and compensates with one numbing round of insect- or human-based peril after another.

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]

In the end, Protocols of Zion is all context--a bit here about Father Coughlin, a minute there about the Holocaust, a stint with "The Passion" and a brief shot of Levin watching the beheading of Daniel Pearl--no soul.

It's tough to get on board with these monsters. They don't get the banter they--or we--deserve, and the screenwriters lean on wearying stereotypes.

Sometimes, you can use a smaller devil to catch the Devil, the movie suggests. But in this case, the entire movie goes to hell in record time.

Dominik drains the complication and, saddest of all, the screen wiles, from a plainly complicated legend.

This is “True Lies” without the striptease or the Arab-maiming.

The slapstick is awful; the pathos isn't much better, though it's far more plentiful.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't laugh at some of this--though it's not as funny as Laurel and Hardy as toddlers in "Brats." But I wanted to slap myself whenever I did.

The film is a fancy-pants muddle in terms of technique. And if Bloom doesn't do something about his smirky tendency to troll for audience approval, his career may be severely limited.

This movie also offers less: less wit, less charm, and only a few scraps of the old movie’s crucial songs (though “Baby Mine” receives its moment, in a campfire rendition).

An exhausting, predictable, even maddening moviegoing experience.

Serves as both an homage to and shameless thief of its influences. The result: a sprawling, deformed, undisciplined piece of cinema that hobbles along on weak, genre-splicing tactics.

Not without its humorous moments, but they are too few and far between.

Just a schlock romance pumped with testosterone.

The film's crude humor and violence -- cartoonish, but still violent -- should offend parents of younger kids. Yet its ultra-broad, pratfall-filled comedy will satisfy only the most indiscriminate teens.

Almost comes as a breath of fresh air. Too bad it's so foul.

The music is drippy and constant, the wobble from comedy to drama feels off, and the dialects have been reamed in the Irish press. Charm resists calculation; even if actors get some going, even if a writer creates an approximation in or between the lines, deliberately manufactured charm curdles so easily. The one success story of Wild Mountain Thyme belongs to Blunt, who has yet to give a poor or lazily considered performance.

Despite a big budget, lots of technical flair and a good cast headed by Sarah Polley and Ving Rhames, it's mostly a bloody mess.