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.