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.