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.

It seems like a slam-dunk pitch -- "Pretty Woman" with the genders reversed -- but there's one major problem: The whole hooker-fantasy bit is much more of a guy thing.

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.

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

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.

The film strains for some kind of meaning, but asks you to do the work it can't and won't perform on its own.

Given the great premise and characters inherited from the first film, it's surprising that this sequel fails to match its predecessor's appeal. The humor is silly, broad, and surprisingly generic.

It's not a bad film, exactly, just a confused one, too violent to be a straight romance and too focused on aid relief to be an ass-kicking action flick.

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

They do it up big, but their frame of reference -- mostly old sci-fi movies and TV shows -- is pint-sized.

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

Horror fans will have a blast, though it's unlikely anyone else will be won over.

The various talents on display aren't enough to overcome the sheer blandness of the material.

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

Director Stephen T. Kay (The Last Time I Committed Suicide) busts off some cool shots, and Eric Kripke's story is pretty sound until the finale. Worth a look for horror fans, but nothing classic.

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.

All of the plot developments seem half-hearted -- which is a shame, because the star has the charm to succeed if given a better movie.

No less amusing than an average sitcom, but that's certainly not reason enough to buy a ticket.

It's a mess, but it isn't as bad as you think.

If your expectations aren't too high, there's lots of cool shit on-screen.

This compression of logic--coupled with two hours of ham-fisted delivery--guarantees that Antitrust won't jangle your nerves but will intermittently split your sides with laughter.

Manages the seemingly impossible task of being very funny indeed and being as dark as anything Wong has ever made. This is an almost painfully bleak comedy that makes you squirm in the manner of “The Out-of-Towners.”

Billed as a comedy, this low-wattage sitcom is both ill-tempered and mean-spirited.

Part of the problem is that this First Daughter is modeled on good-girl Chelsea Clinton; a movie based on our current two party-girls-in-chief trying to embarrass their reformed alcoholic dad would be far more fun.

Some of this stuff should give you some good laughs. Unfortunately, the film's not a comedy, and once the conservative-bashing wears off, the alleged thriller elements kick in. Too bad that for you, the viewer, there's still another hour to go.

Using humor to make a serious point, Arau suggests that without the millions of Hispanics...life in the Golden State would screech to a halt.

There's no reason to see this film in a theater -- you'll hate yourself for paying full price. Plus, you'll need beer, and lots of it, to appreciate the movie properly.

What keeps Love in the Time of Money from being truly awful is the fact that the actors give it their all -- they may be in contrived situations, but by golly they'll make the best of them.

Filled with so much religious righteousness--endless Bible-readings...that the film feels more like a recruitment tool for Soldiers for Christ than a look at the bloody four-year conflict that tore this nation apart.

Moore invested his characters with flaws, with a tangible humanity; God knows they never felt the need to explain themselves, as the film does, rendering it something akin to one long footnote.

Here's a bizarre hodgepodge of influences: "Kindergarten Cop" meets "Sound of Music," filtered through the Hulk Hogan movie "Mr. Nanny." The formula, by now so overused it's actually formless, is pure Disney

A mostly well-constructed action flick with a number of flashy, well-choreographed fight and chase scenes.

Many of the dilemmas that are established never pay off, and there is no clear protagonist or antagonist. To make matters even murkier, the movie is poorly shot in visually uninteresting locations with constant soft focus. That said, it's also damn funny.

There's nothing at all scary about White Noise, which goes bump in the night so often it's easy to mistake it for clumsy.

Here's a popcorn movie with soul, welcoming the masses to consider how much can change in popular culture over 30 years, as the horrific becomes the familiar.

Grind does evince a true love for skating, and both the street action and the actual competitions are brilliantly performed and slickly lensed. That it's also funny and excels beyond Youth Culture 101 is a nice bonus.

As a thriller, The Butterfly Effect is iffy and uneven, but as a portrait of a people, it's effective and intriguing.

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

A top-notch cast compensates for dubious credibility.

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.

Although DeSalvo performs the miracle of making these characters seem like people we actually know, occasionally her delivery definitely makes us wish we didn't.

Every situation, every bit of dialogue, comes straight out of the Big Book of Movie Clichés.

A mind of overcooked pasta and a stomach of iron may get you through it, but it really is worth considering how desperately you need cheap chuckles while executive producer Adam Sandler and his favorite charity case laugh all the way to the bank.

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.

There's a modicum of charm to Timeline, since its eager, earnest tone harks back to Donner's work from the '80s, particularly "The Goonies" and "Ladyhawke."

Well, Sanaa Lathan's in there somewhere as the smart and sexy ass-kickin' chick, but it's really all about the monster disembowelments, which happen often.

It's the solipsistic, obvious, misogynistic, and occasionally redeeming tale.

For adults, the film does, at least, offer up most of the lovely, schmaltzy Rodgers and Hammerstein score. Even here, though, the pleasure comes with a wearying price tag.

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.

Not good enough to overcome its status as damaged goods, which is almost a shame, since audiences will miss Billy Bob Thornton's best performance, and hairpiece, in years.

If a movie is going to be so totally derivative, it should at least do a better job of it.

Not scary enough for its own good, Beck's Ghost Ship ends up stuck, enjoyably enough, between the Scylla of schlock and the Charybdis of camp.

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

Dude, where's the script? Just Awful.

Heigl and Butler have genuine chemistry, and the writers have given the duo some bitchy, snappy dialogue. They probably had in mind such workplace comedies as "Desk Set," starring Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, but in this day and age, witty banter and stars with chemistry aren't enough to catch an audience's attention.

Sometimes the 2D and 3D animation doesn't blend, and the heinous pop songs would embarrass Peter Cetera, but there's plenty to like, including a fascinating mechanical contraption and musical score both shamelessly and lovingly stolen from "The Dark Crystal."

It's a lame Heather Locklear romantic comedy and a lame Hilary Duff romantic comedy all in one!

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.

If it weren't for Murray, there'd be nothing at all to the film, which forgets all conventional notions of story or characterization.

It's all a big, boring failure of slapstick and degradation. Of course, that's not to say your kids won't like it.

It's a thoroughly delightful throwaway--the kind of movie for which cable television was made, from the maker of "Music & Lyrics" (Marc Lawrence), who knows his way 'round a snappy tune.

Much like a cat, the movie is a superfluous gob of fluff with an attitude ranging from idiotic to nasty.

Cinematic flat-lining.

Less fun than "Cry_Wolf" and "Venom," if that's possible.

It would take the ghost of Stanley Kubrick to get great performances out of Jimmy Fallon, Queen Latifah, and supermodel Gisele Bündchen, and Tim, you're no Stanley.

Happily stuck between a rock and the deep blue sea.

If you love Kawasakis, Hondas, and Yamahas, and don't mind tin-eared writing, get down to the multiplex.

So awful it's hypnotizing.

Shadow Hours must stand simply as an impressive B movie. Compared with what we've seen lately, however, that doesn't seem like a bad achievement by any means.

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.

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

Knockout's heart is in the right place, but it drags because of tedious earnestness and shallow "You go, girl!" feminism.

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

Duff isn't exactly known for complex fare, but even "The Lizzie McGuire Movie" was way better than this.

The final showdown between sole survivor and killer is sufficiently well done that you wonder why the rest didn't measure up.

This all-star Euro-indie is stultifyingly torturous.

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.

Shoddy and ridiculous.

Peet is still adorable, and a couple of twists enliven the plot, but the jokes are lame, the timing is off, the physical pratfalls are too broad, and there's still no chemistry between Perry and Henstridge.

A blender full of all the juicy nuggets that define Troma films: monsters, mayhem, syrupy bloodletting and gooey head-squishing, transgender mutilations, loads of bad acting by complete freaks, and even more pointless nudity by attractive and unattractive people alike.

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

First, the good news: Unlike most action film sequels, Speed 2: Cruise Control is not a mere retread of the original. Now the bad news: Better it had been.

Ultimately it's an ugly, insipid rape fantasy, nothing more.

Definitely merits its R rating with a fearless approach that will earn genuine laughs as it turns a few stomachs. Yes, a Rob Schneider movie that's funny. Strange but true.

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

Every bit as pathetic and unfunny as it looks.

Generally engaging.

Once you get past the inherent silliness of the premise, what we've got here is actually a deft little chiller, stylishly directed despite the so-so cast.

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

Awful narration almost ruins the ghostly, gorgeous Running Free.

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

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.

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.

Once the terror ends and the credits roll, we finally get to the best part: a merciful escape.

The pseudo-mystical nonsense in Brian Helgeland's supernatural thriller far outweighs its scare factor.

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

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

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.