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.