Predictable and conventional and unadventurous. It can't really be defended, except that it's comfortably enjoyable.

Andrew Litvack, whose inability to direct is outweighed only by his inability to write anything remotely witty, enlightening, or engaging. Calling this a farce would be, well, a farce.

Singleton's version is cynical and silly--one long set-up to a closing scene that promises, or threatens, a sequel.

Less a spiritual quest than a very self-indulgent gimmick movie that could use a strong shot of inspiration.

When the movie's not playing stupid, it's aiming for sickly sweet sincerity. It's such a jarring and inevitably juvenile juxtaposition it comes off like a Hallmark card parody written by the staffers at "Cracked."

This really should have gone straight to video--or, better yet, to the nearest landfill.

It's like an amateur theater production. Reiner rushes through the setup in such a mad dash that it feels like a cartoon.

Deafeningly dull movie.

Moments of strained mirth indicate how false and fabricated the whole enterprise really is--just a couple of well-to-do superstars doing their darnedest to prove to us that they're regular folk. And failing.

What Lies Beneath is my head on the movie theater floor, snoozing through this film.

Runs two hours and 20 minutes and plays like 10 days in the county jail.

There might have been a decent comedy here if someone had remembered to insert some actual humor.

Every once in a while, a film comes along that so blatantly disregards emotional authenticity that one fears for the sanity of its director. She Hate Me is just such a film, and Spike Lee is its director and co-writer. Artless, sensationalized, didactic and often downright silly.

A film built upon transitions so weak and obvious it's astonishing the entire thing doesn't collapse on itself.

While tyro director Simon West fills Con Air with all the slam-bang action and well-honed wisecracks that were the more positive qualities of its predecessors, the film brims even more with all their worst qualities.

Every movie Dugan releases looks like something made on accident--tosses yet another stink bomb into theaters for audiences to sniff over.

Hope Floats comes lumbering along, scourging all in its path with saccharine sentimentality and bogus emotions.

Many of the most absurd things on view in this film are absolutely true.

A romantic comedy with neither humor nor sparks between the leads, Marci X attempts to lampoon gangsta rap clichés so obvious they feel ten years old -– “Malibu's Most Wanted” brought more to the table.

A work of hilarious, nearly Ed Wood-worthy ineptitude.

Full of conspiracies, all The Skulls lacks is a brain.

Wrenches paltry giggles and cheap warmth from a screenplay that makes "Son in Law" seem like Sam Shepard. But wretched Affleck is the real liability.

The film has no form or function; at best, it's a 90-minute infomercial.

Instead of satire, we're treated to diarrhea jokes, dogs dangled from the windows of speeding SUVs and tasteless sobriquets bestowed upon anyone who looks vaguely ethnic.

Meet Joe Black takes an interesting idea--Death assumes human form and comes to earth to learn about human existence--and reduces it to a flat, uninspired, interminably slow movie.

We're in for a long, unpleasant, reactionary ride.

A movie that leaves you wondering what the fuss was all about when its end credits appear; it's a mish-mash of a dozen other, better films ground up and watered down--Seven, Silence of the Lambs, and Manhunter, to name a few of the usual suspects.

May find it hard to sit without embarrassment through this bizarre mixture of paleontology, preposterous anthropomorphism, and fuzzy-headed New Age myth-making in which the only thing missing is the show tunes. Thank God for small favors.

It poses as an unblinkered look at the hangups and hypocrisies of the bourgeoisie. In reality it's an empty, narcissistic tantrum.

Proof of Life kidnaps the audience, then tortures it to a slow death

Rent a porno instead; it'll be less exploitative. God help us, two more of these things are planned.

A wobbly Basinger and a feeble screenplay doom I Dreamed of Africa.

May steal from the best, but it does it so badly and obviously that it has to depend upon gratuitous shock-cuts and soundtrack stings to elicit any kind of reflex-action fright from the viewer.

This ain't no movie. It's a very long, very tedious infomercial for Phantom Menace action figures, on sale now at a Target or Toys "R" Us near you.

Think "My Best Friend's Wedding," subtract gay best friend, dorky karaoke scene, charm, and any hint of malice or conflict, and you've got it.

If Big Momma's House isn't as bad as you imagined, then you've no imagination at all.

Every bit as pathetic and unfunny as it looks.

The fourth installment in the Batman franchise is one long head-splitting exercise in clueless cacophony that makes you feel as though you're being held hostage in some haywire Planet Hollywood while sonic booms pummel your auditory canal.

An ambitious, frustrating drag.

Connie and Carla doesn't just do violence to the memory of Wilder's brilliant sex farce (Some Like It Hot); it's so clumsy, it might give cross-dressing itself a bad name.

It's a self-satisfied, self-loathing mess that demands you adore and cheer for the very person you come to hate well before its 105 minutes are up. Little Black Book will leave you feeling skuzzy.

It doesn't add up to much more than a trifle that might have been more impressive as a short.

Disappointing only because its best moments are transcendent; its worst moments, sadly, are just so ordinary.

September Tapes, with its torturously high-minded narration and ludicrously low-road shenanigans, uses the terror attacks of 2001 as the setup for an infuriating gotcha finale.

One presumes the only thing worse than making this disaster is actually watching it; wouldn't wish either on anyone.

Bernal can't decide if he's making a Tarantino homage or an Almodovar riff or an Albert Brooks tribute...and the wobbly sensibility finally knocks the movie's legs out from beneath it altogether.

This lame hostage movie doesn't even deliver for Seagal fans.

Freedomland manages a seemingly impossible feat: It's both turgid AND overwrought, eliciting the shriek that fades into a yawn without anyone ever noticing. It's a wholly dreary piece of work.

The Punisher would be almost offensive were it not so inconsequential. There's just something terribly off-putting about a movie in which every gruesome death is a punch line, where a villain's homosexuality is used to lure him to his death and dozens of innocents are gunned down just to launch a film franchise.

Bearable only because, unlike the recent spate of teen films, it's so breezy it barely even registers.

Doesn't work as comedy or drama or anything in between.

Awful narration almost ruins the ghostly, gorgeous Running Free.

The performances of the Anglo cast are closer to catatonia than Catalonia.

Really, what women want is what all of us want: a decent movie, something vaguely insightful and occasionally funny. This isn't that movie.

Are there really legions of postboomers out there sighing nostalgically over the happy hours they spent watching Inspector Gadget?

It could be said that Reeves is one of the great manifestations of the mysteriousness of stardom. He gives the worst performance in Sweet November, and he's the best thing about it.

The most offensive movie of the year.

An utter drag, a tepid and sterilized telling of Susann's life.

Prochnow rocks; nothing else does.

It wears out its welcome well before its halfway point, by which time you're either so tangled up in plot points you're strangling, or so bored you just wish you were being strangled.

Happily stuck between a rock and the deep blue sea.

Experiencing this movie is a little like watching a manic-depressive's medication wear off.

D is for Dreadful. And Duchovny.

Screwball mistaken-identity crapfest...it's just utterly plain, a confection so bland you don't even care that it doesn't really make any sense at the end.

It's too easy, but here goes: This movie's a Loser. Sorry.

The only thing worse than second-generation Guy Ritchie is fourth-generation Quentin Tarantino, and this movie has the musty smell of 1995 all over it.

Comes across as artificial.

Alas, the film has good intentions, but it's a failure. Just try to stay awake.

Aspires to be a "Beach Blanket Bingo" redux with a gangbang Grease finale, but it plays like junior high Neil LaBute filmed by an elementary school AV squad.

Director David Zucker has fallen a long way since the days of “Airplane” -- here, he seems to think endless hilarity can be milked from an animatronic owl and a running gag about urination that even the French would reject.

In short, let nothing deter you from staying home.

It's not until the plot surfaces that Bring It On really begins to suffer.

Isn't any fun at all, which is ultimately the most damning thing you can say about a Bruckheimer movie.

So utterly awful, you're tempted to build a time machine, then go back in history and try to make sure Ward's parents never meet.

It's too bad, then, that Anderson (whose only other major credit is "Mortal Kombat," but of course) and first-time screenwriter Philip Eisner felt so compelled to do away with suspense and turn Event Horizon into a big-budget slasher film.

The entire enterprise was directed by first-timer Christopher Erskin like a would-be Max Bialystock; one can only assume it's supposed to be this bad, because nobody sucks this hard on accident.

Hang out at a frat house or sports bar, and you can hear this kind of talk for free.

Shoddy and ridiculous.

Stay away: Everything about the movie is rinky-dink, from its phony, lifeless dialogue to its drab, shabby sitcom look to its choppy editing, all of which can wear on you after 95 minutes that come to feel like an eternity.

With a sneer and a wink, Drowning Mona plunges us into a fresh deluge of idiotic Americana .

Wild Things reaches such dizzying heights of wretched dialogue, creaky contrivances, and panting performances, you're forced to wonder if the filmmakers realized how bad their script was and switched gears into pure camp at some point during the shoot.

It will linger like a foul odor or the taste of tinfoil between the teeth.

A stunning piece of work--stunningly inept, stunningly incoherent, stunningly awful in every single way imaginable.

Welcome to Mooseport... is intended to be a comedy; that hypothesis is a generous leap of faith, given the fact that "House of Sand and Fog" contains more moments of mirth than this rather joyless exercise in waste and torpor.

A football film made by a man who apparently has seen little of the game outside of movies, and not very good ones at that.

It's absolutely awful, and even Gene Hackman can't carry it across the goal line.

A road movie trapped in a cul-de-sac.

Were it not for the involvement of producer Bruckheimer, who has made billions by conning millions into believing they can't live without his celluloid crack, it's doubtful Kangaroo Jack would even exist. As it stands now, the "movie" barely exists anyway.

The movie's so unfunny, it almost appears to be that way on purpose, kind of like an Ingmar Bergman film.

Indeed, this is the very kind of lame-brained folly Levy and his SCTV cohorts used to mock on their old show; now it's how he makes rent.

Kills whatever charm the first movie had by recycling its few serviceable parts.

Appears to have been made by people with nothing between their ears.

So awful it's hypnotizing.

Penned by Rock and a handful of his pals, is such an utter disaster it seems to go out of its way to avoid comedy. It's the very definition of oxymoron: a crowd-pleaser that doesn't.

It would be heartening if the adolescent girls of America turned their backs on this pandering piece of kitsch, but that would be hoping too much.

As the year stumbles toward its conclusion and critics begin penning their best-and-worst compendiums, here's a holiday contender fit for the all-time Naughty List.

Nobody involved will want to make this banal "comedy" a highlight of their résumé, not if they have any sense.

As worthless a piece of garbage as we've seen this year.