A sci-fi horror dimmer than the dark side of the moon.

A monumentally misconceived sequel, Escape from L. A. is the huge, shonky blemish on the magnificent history of John Carpenter and Kurt Russell.

According to Phillips, the 'Part II' in the title is a nod to the second "Godfather," which matched the genius of its forerunner. Ironically, his own sequel offer is one you should refuse.

Silly and aimed squarely at the younger crowd, Captain Underpants has enough spirit to be entertaining. Just don’t expect it to work all the time.

Jade tries so hard to be a serious, lush noir but, like the cheap sex it revels in, it is ultimately a hollow, anti-climactic experience.

The votes are in, and it’s official: this largely unfunny paean to Eurovision is a waste of some serious talent. At least some of the songs are decent.

There is some fun to be had if you're in an undemanding frame of mind.

The leads work hard and there’s an attempt to add fun via cheesy music and Salma Hayek, but hackneyed dynamics, half-baked action sequences and saying “m#th&rf$ck*r” does not a Shane Black make.

Overwrought live-action sequences, surreal-to-the-point-of-bewildering animation - The Wall grabs your attention but doesn't know what to say once it's got it.

If it weren’'t for Lost Horizon, this would have gone down in history as the Worst Musical of 1973.

As kiddie entertainment it works well, with simple humour and lots of action. But there's not a lot to appeal to any accompanying adults.

Class Action, which becomes unbearable whenever the lead characters talk about their relationship, has precisely two and a half things going for it, the half being Mastrantonio's Italian grin.

This tired, neutered action thriller won't cause you max pain, but you might wince every now and again.

Besides being an author, Edgar Allan Poe was one of the most vicious, merciless critics of his age. He would not have let this get past him without skewering its shortcomings with a barbed quill.

Though Cage and Armstrong’s father-daughter dynamic merits praise, The Old Way tries so hard to emulate Westerns past that it squanders a gilt-edged opportunity to do something new.

Take an uncharismatic leading man (Bill Campbell), an obviously pre-Oscar Jennifer Connelly, a scene-chewing Timothy Dalton and action that doesn't start until halfway through the film and what you have is one of 1991's more disappointing summer flicks.

A totally improbable scenario is hardly rare for a romantic film, but it’s harder to look past when characters are so thinly drawn. Pleasant enough but instantly forgettable.

Against the odds of a feeble script and uninspired direction the duo do, in fact, grow on you, and there are a smattering of silly laughs, most notably a sequence involving a large road kill stashed in the back seat.

Neither tribute nor analysis, this doc offers an inappropriately off-beam treatment for such a serious subject.

In a cast of hand-picked loons with ridiculous accents, only Brian Keith, as Taylor's thuggish lover, suggests a human being, while Brando gives perhaps his worst ever screen performance, not counting Christopher Columbus: The Discovery.

With all these folks in the same movie, there are inevitably moments when Hoffman or Wilson get a laugh, but on the whole it's the same again but weaker and with fewer good jokes. We're too tired of the gag even to think of a 'focker' line to sign off the review.

Whoopi's affable clowning aside, this film has little more than the title and the bad-mouthed postponement of cliche going for it.

What could have been an effective excoriation of US drug policy and a proper look at the violence inherent in the trade is wasted on a simplistic thriller that offers very little, especially given who is behind the camera. Sorry if that harshes anyone's buzz.

With its hackneyed storyline and critical derision in the US, whispers were that Honey was to be the new "Glitter." It's not nearly that bad, which is a shame since it just skims the embarrassingly blind enthusiasm of which camp classics are made -- instead bouncing along the path of bland and forgettable.

If you like to stagger away from a film feeling numb and slightly sick, this one's for you.

It's telling that the film is still only truly memorable for the closing five minute bulletfest, which turns Clint's bus into the only thing with more holes in it than the screenplay.

Not a total catastrophe, but perilously close to being one. Is it too obvious to say Imaginary is simply lacking in imagination?

A frustrating but fascinating film, made by an evidently talented filmmaker, which never quite manages to resolve the tensions between its apparent moral purpose and the formal flair with which it depicts events it purports to condemn.

Reynolds was coasting at this point of his career, with zero risk-taking it ends up as a soulless, below-average movie.

An unremarkable and quickly forgettable B-movie. Jessica Alba makes a decent stab for John Wick’s particular brand of movie vengeance, but she needs better material than this.

Breaking the golden rule of thrillers - don't let the audience guess the ending from 15 minutes in - this just becomes largely pointless.

Cruise oozes as much charm as in Top Gun and The Colour of Money, but the mix of bar-acrobatics and Caribbean love isn't anywhere near strong enough to get you drunk.

It’s occasionally funny, but the moments of sincerity are undermined by the unformed sense of grievance and bitterness at the whole wide world.

Ambitious but very tedious and talkatively hackneyed, redeemed just a smidge by the money shots of a swarm of extras on horseback sweeping across the sands.

Ben Barnes as a Colombian? Really?

Perhaps it’s fitting that this story about babies has the attention span and grasp of logic of a newborn.

It’s not hard to tell that this Big Lebowski spin-off involved neither Coen Brother. Fair play to Turturro for going in such a strange direction, and assembling a pretty killer cast, but it’s unlikely to satisfy even the most ardent Quintana enthusiast.

Good intentions, but far too earnest to appeal to anyone beyond those who believe you can fight a true crisis of the soul with a campfire and some Kumbaya.

A self-consciously grubby and silly slasher that'll be lapped up by gorehounds, but which really belongs on the rental shelves.

Despite solid work from the engaging cast, there’s nothing new here to distinguish Freedom Writers.

Like mum's home-made comfort food, it's warming but not really that good for you.

If you thought the first Trolls movie was fine, you’ll probably find this fine too. It completely lives up to the watchable mediocrity of its predecessor.

High hopes of magic from the Gondry-Rogen pairing are dashed. Some neat touches aside, this isn't so much eternal sunshine, more superbad.

There are effective moments, a dime clutching tot watching an ice cream van plough gently into a garden wall after its driver has a heart attack, gives a stylish laugh, but at the end of the day perhaps a trip to the bar will be more fun.

Staggeringly laboured though this premise may be, it also has the potential for some lightweight farce to pass the time.

A scabrous, somewhat wayward anti-80's rant that, whilst providing Grant with a few moments of high farce, lacks the wit and social surety of Withnail & I.

Most unforgivably, the period detail is all over the place and the punk/disco soundtrack a real hotch potch, leaving this a story with no real sense of time or place.

If you want to see Paul Giamatti as a snail - and who doesn't - you've come to the right place. If you don't, wait for Cloudy 2.

Romero does his best to streamline the flabby storyline and gets some extraordinarily subtle performances from a great cast, but King's malformed original keeps hobbling the film.

Intermittently funny but erratically structured, it's a rare disappointment from Shelton.

The Front Room features a remarkably funny performance from Kathryn Hunter as a mischievous mother-in-law, but its tale of lurking danger remains malformed.

Purposeless waste of director Walter Hill's energies.

For a long stretch of the second act the film feels like doing a long stretch, but Schwarzenegger’s having a ball as Stallone goes through the motions.

Director Dennis Hopper continues the fumbling manner of "Colors" and the forthcoming-but-disowned "Catchfire," drawing out what ought to be a 72 minute B-picture into two hours and ten minutes of sweaty silliness with three pretty stars who can't quite bring themselves to be camp enough for the material.

Gorgeous to look at — but this is simply not looney enough to stand alongside the Looney Tunes greats of old. Needs more anvils.

There should be something fun in watching Academy Award winner Octavia Spencer drop C-bombs and go apeshit. Instead, Ma is an ersatz, misjudged exercise in psycho-horror that lacks the courage of its B movie convictions.

Cinderella is given more independence, but at what cost? An irritating script ruins the sincere magic of the beloved story – strong music isn’t fabulous enough to preserve the DNA of a classic.

If not a train-wreck, this is certainly more than a fender-bender. In a world overflowing with targets for a satirical pasting, we needed something a lot sharper than this.

Not quite a complete write-off, but basically a folly.

Some likeable performances — and solid Irish accents — can’t save a dreary parade of clichés. Pray that the Lord forgives these cinematic sins.

Incoherent and inconsistent, this is a step back for Statham in his quest to become more than a cult figure.

Fans of the Ramona Quimby books will be disappointed, but tween girls will love it.

Being over-stuffed and heavy-handed are not even Crossing Over’s biggest problems. That dubious honour goes to an absolute failure to address its nominal subject-matter in any meaningful way.

The novelty factor stops and starts at the 3-D specs: this is a horror movie on tracks, not going anyplace new. Still, there’s some inventive grue-splashing as always.

If you're looking for a film to put you off marriage, children, affairs, and indeed life itself, look no further than this melancholic ensemble piece about listless adulterous couples in small-town New England.

"Save your last breath...to scream" reads the tagline - we advise you save it for the inevitable sigh as the credits roll on this monstrous B-Movie farce.

This year's Dodgeball? Not a chance. Ferrell admirably tackles the so-so material, but it soon defeats him.

Occasionally charming but mostly bland fare from Weitz, despite the reliable cast. About A Boy remains the best showcase of his talents.

A dark domestic comedy that continuously shirks the courage of its convictions.

Always a spoof rather than a homage, this comedy soon realises there's only so many laughs you can plunder from the heavy premise and the repetitive carriages.

This attempts to unite period drama and demonic possession, but feels tired and overworked on both counts.

Despite magic moments, this is so lop-sided in conception it's really only worth seeking out as a folly.

David Corenswet takes on the blue-and-red mantle admirably, and glimpses of Gunn’s signature sense of fun shine through — but a lack of humanity, originality and cohesion means the movie around them just doesn’t work.

A note to Fonda: even thin, fabulous 67-year-olds shouldn't wear strapless gowns. It's scary.

It’s third time unlucky for a series that still hasn’t worked out what it wants to be. The Last Dance can’t find its rhythm.

There is the odd funny moment, but The Art Of Racing In The Rain relies too heavily on the charms of its golden retriever. It might be built on the notion that dogs are the wisest of us all, but the end result winds up stupid.

Serenity is a genuine headscratcher, baffling on almost every level. Badly scripted, strangely acted and poorly pitched, there is so much to pick over it’s hard to know where to begin. Sometimes the best of bold intentions are just not enough.

A forced, over-ripe satire on the hunger for social media, bolstered by an engaging performance by Joe Keery. But if you really want to feel the real-life impact of the ’Gram on a young psyche, stick with Eighth Grade.

This is sadly unsuccessful as both an eat-the-rich satire and a schlocky B-movie. Not even Paul Rudd and Jenna Ortega can rescue Death Of A Unicorn from expiring on arrival.

Maybe it’s fitting Playmobil: The Movie is old-fashioned, stiff and only suitable for those between the ages of four and ten, but it sure isn’t much fun.

A tragic waste of acting talent, with nothing new to say. Can we please now politely close the door on middle-class repression before we get really angry?

While it's all very pleasant watching these undecided pubescents frolic in the lake in their undies, there's a distinct lack of real drama or purpose in the self-indulgent, humourless proceedings.

As an outing to complement study of the book the film is worthy enough but curiously less than the sum of its parts.

Not a complete disaster, but also not the vampire / werewolf mash we've always wanted.

Nothing aligns, nothing builds, and before you know it we’re hip-deep in the big showdown -- a free-wheeling frenzy of choreographed combat that neglects to find much space for the cast.

Despite strong lead performances and some intriguing themes, this rarely rises above being a serviceable action thriller.

A thin soup of weak jokes and contrived drama.

One comes out of this fragmentary documentary about the King Of Cool’s passion for motor racing liking him much less than one did going in.

Fans of Moon and Source Code be warned: Mute is sadly, almost tragically, not worth the wait.

Relentlessly ugly, preposterous and hackneyed of dialogue: guilty on all counts. It will do well, then.

Possibly not the worst animated feature the House Of Mouse has produced, but certainly stumbling around the darker recesses of the Disney vault.

A likeable cast and colourful depiction of Pakistani (and Pakistani-British) culture makes this look warm and inviting, but the central romance can’t hold our attention as it should.

The major fault in Exorcist III is the house-of-cards plot that is constantly collapsing.

Perhaps not an entirely a faithful portrayal of the era or the great man, but interesting in parts.

There is a great deal of action in Renegades, yet it still manages to be a faintly boring film.

Despite a fun voice cast, this is a lazy effort that squanders its characters, and will likely bore anyone over the age of ten.

It's watchable enough in a nothing-better-to-do sort of way, but comparison with a contemporary movie, say, Uncle Buck, shows just how thin it really is.

There is some nice insight into cycling-team practices, but overall The Racer lacks sufficient nuance, specificity and originality to nab the yellow jersey.