What is remarkable, though, is just how unbelievably unbelievable this inspired-by-true-life tale is.

It's got the sex. It's got the violence. And, most important, it has an array of pot-centered jokes that might be funny to someone under the influence of an illegal substance. [30 Apr 1999]

Of all of its lies, the worst may be that Color of Night perpetuates the notion that people who seek therapy are more dangerous to others than those who don't. The film also makes a direct link between sexual appetite and violence.

It’s a pity Grizzly II: Revenge isn’t giddy-bad, the way Tommy Wiseau’s “The Room” delights so many. But it’s here, it’s seriously disoriented and disorienting.

Brooks' own timing as a director doesn't seem up to its usual snuff. Light-years stretch out between the set-up of a gag and its payoff, and for a director who has always depended on the quantity of his jokes rather than the quality, the gap is fatal. When a character is introduced as "Pizza the Hut," and then shown as a melting mass of mozzarella and tomato sauce, the result is to turn a fairly clever pun into something thuddingly obvious and vaguely nauseating. [24 Jun 1987, p.3]

If it weren't for Kate Lyn Sheil, who has a couple of scenes as a blase Brooklyn waitress inexplicably ending up in the protagonist's bed, 'The Comedy' might well have qualified as the worst film of 2012.

The vocal characterizations aren't the problem here; the script and the animation are the problems, and in feature animation, you can't arrange more significant problems than those.

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

As if by deliberate and vaguely sadistic design, Hoodwinked Too! Hood Vs. Evil leeches the fun clean out of the first "Hoodwinked" (2005).

An awful vampire comedy from John Landis ("Animal House," "The Blues Brothers") that is enlivened only by the eroticism of French actress Anne Parillaud ("La Femme Nikita") who is willing to disrobe for her first Hollywood film and major payday. She plays a vampire who feasts on Italian mobsters in Pittsburgh, falling in love with Anthony LaPaglia along the way. The neck-biting and gunplay are gross. Don Rickles is a sore thumb as a mob attorney. [25 Sept 1992, p.C]

This one's a certifiable soul-sucker, dining out on its characters' venalities while wagging a finger at the horror, the horror.

Shottas exists purely in the realm of rasta-music-video fakery.

Plagued by continuity problems, ham-fisted storytelling and a problematic voiceover by Da Brat, Civil Brand feels less like a prison movie than a prison sentence.

Rarely has a comedy been so empty of laughs. If this film makes any money, it all should go to the person who thought up the title. [18 Sept 1987, p.A]

Some movies are a joy. Some are a chore. And some are sheer torture. A good example of the latter is Virus. [17 January 1999, Metro Chicago, p.8]

The film is madly, compulsively overcontrolled, from its funereal pacing to its pristine red, white and blue color scheme; those moments when it loses its dignity are irresistibly comic, and in this grim context, infinitely precious.[16 Mar 1990, p.B]

The movie`s underlying message seems to be that racial harmony can best be achieved by allowing white boys to beat the stuffing out of minority kids- that`s what really earns their love and respect. There must be a better way.

Predictably impersonal and uninspired.

A soft-core sex comedy that keeps throwing out comic variations on the idea of the line between gay and straight sexuality.

What a letdown! The remake of the 1935 classic ''The Bride of Frankenstein'' with rock star Sting as the doctor and Jennifer Beals as the reconstructed bride is a complete failure in telling its principal story.

Limps along on a squirm-inducing fish-out-of-water formula that goes nowhere and goes there very, very slowly.

The polite word for all this is "repurposing," a euphemism for "hauling someone else's garbage."

Selleck's persona can seem coherent and mildly pleasant in the airless, miniature world of series television, but when he walks into the larger, more physical world of movies he melts away. There's too great a disparity between his bulk and his whining delivery, and he carries himself awkwardly on screen, as if he knew he was taking up too much space. [3 Feb 1989, p.A]

Arkin in particular can barely hide his lack of enthusiasm for the material. Some of the looks he shoots his co-stars appear to contain a secret code of some kind, deciphered as: 'Well, at least I'm in 'Argo.'"

The director is first-timer Mike Bigelow. Nothing's paced or shaped for maximum payoff; the shooting and editing rhythms add only clutter and noise, and the slapstick is strictly of the skull-banging, ear-splitting variety.

The lighting is appropriately dim, the music is reasonably clever, and they get in a few nice scares in the beginning. But as the movie wears on and Angela’s desperation grows, any glimmer of fun seeps away. And we’re left watching the same old grim game of cat and mouse.

At what point might animators be arrested for doing work so ugly it causes aesthetic blindness in millions of younglings?

Following on the abject failure of Bonfire of the Vanities, director De Palma seems to have seriously lost his way. [14 Aug 1992, p.C]