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.