As an actor, Raymond is whiny and annoying, but not nearly so much as the film.

I didn't think Matthew Perry could find a romantic comedy more inert or inane than the 1997 fiasco ''Fools Rush In.''

As bumbling and mindless, as naively misconceived, as that clapping-through-tears moniker.

This may be the first talking-animal movie in which the critter hero seems to have been body-snatched by a commentator from C-SPAN.

This ill-fitting movie was mail-ordered from an out-of-date catalog of teen-com stereotypes.

A movie so unhinged it practically dares you not to hate it.

Just... bad. As in BAD bad.

Zucker directs this mess like a substitute teacher soldiering through a day's work for a day's pay at a decertified school.

A half hour in and still, the plot, tone, and setting are incomprehensible.

It appears to have been modeled on the worst revenge-of-the-nerds clichés the filmmakers could dredge up.

The effects are laughably primitive, the dialogue hilariously atrocious -- and those are the good parts.

Even Snow Day's winter wonderland looks fake.

For the audience, it's like watching the dreckiest of teen puppy courtships trying to pass itself off as ''Annie Hall.'' La-de-blah.

Benigni's Pinocchio is meant to be adorable, but he comes off as less an enchanted puppet than as a harmlessly deranged middle-aged man prancing about in the kind of froufrou cream-colored pantsuit that Dinah Shore retired to her back closet in 1977.

The picture is so lethargic that I began to think of watching it as a form of atonement.

The comedy is nonexistent.

Aims for dark farce but ends up playing more like Weekend at Bernie's Part VIII. [25 Apr 1997, p. 50]

Had the ghost of Paul Lynde swanned by in a caftan-clad cameo, you couldn't find a more outdated, miscalculated collection of stale, queen-size stereotypes than those trotted out on this ship of fools.

There is not one honest moment, not ONE, in Hanging Up.

Rancid, misogynist comedy.

Debased swill.

The only thing shocking about it, however, is the degree to which self-congratulatory gutter exhibitionism has become the degraded ash end of indie ''edge.''

It's a shrill, stupid, brickbat-blatant piece of hackwork that practically sweats to be ''commercial.''

Personally, I'd say that it was about time Arquette was leashed.

An inept low-budget thriller.

The trouble with Whipped isn't that its characters are dirty mouthed horndog jerks -- it's that they're phony dirty mouthed horndog jerks.

Abysmally stupid drama.

If you look hard, you can make out a story in Femme Fatale, but it has nothing to do with the senseless pileup of jewel thievery, shutterbug voyeurism, and leggy sex bombs so shallow and bad they seem to have come out of a 1978 copy of Hustler magazine.

Poisonously smug, one-joke indie comedy.

A somber, draggy, deadweight, lugubrious, absurdly self serious version of ''American Beauty.''

Why would filmmakers with this much talent work this hard to thumb their noses at everything they put on screen?

Ryan radiates neither desire nor terror. She's freeze-dried in a world of lifelessly abstract feminine fear, and so is the movie.

Viewers will never be molly-fied by this tripe.

It might be courting hyperbole to call Corky Romano the single worst movie ever to feature an ''SNL'' cast member (Dan Aykroyd hit some pretty arid valleys), but I'm willing to go out on a critical limb and rank it among the all-time bottom dozen.

Halloween: Resurrection comes closer to comatainment.

She Hate Me manages to be at once racist, homophobic, utterly fake, and unbearably tedious. This time, it's Spike Lee who's doing the bamboozling.

In one rotten production -- all involved have managed to create the most unlikable, man hating, woman hating, unfunny idiots since ''Whipped'' ended up on worst movie lists last year.

In every way dreadful.

To properly convey the jaw-dropping shoddiness of this videogame-based ''horror'' ''movie,'' one must approach what scientists call Absolute Stupid, a state previously thought to exist only under highly controlled laboratory conditions or at the highest levels of government.

The worst movie of 1999.

Yes, it's all a harmless lark. Which is why the only thing that could redeem this sour patch of candy-coated crud would be a final shot of Earth exploding.

It's a puzzlement how so many pros could have so wrecked one of the most beloved, hummably familiar movie musicals in the Rodgers and Hammerstein repertoire.

It's like ''Grease: The Next Generation'' acted out by the food-court staff at SeaWorld.

There's something uniquely embarrassing about a rock & roll fable that is no more authentic (and no less coy) than an episode of ''The Monkees'' yet insists on presenting itself as the epitome of rebel-yell cool.

This may be the only would-be blockbuster that's a sprawling, dissociated mess on purpose. It's a perverse landmark: the first postmodern Hollywood disaster.

The film isn't just bad; it's a barely coherent, inert mess -- a heart-tugger for voidoids.

Top-heavy with whimsy, so muddled it makes Mission: Impossible look like a model of narrative cohesion, The Saint is the apo-theosis of the new incoherence, with the cliches of espionage and action thrillers jammed together like bumper cars.

The film treats its audience like fidgety junior-high schoolers, piling on the sub-Koyaanisqatsi cityscapes and cheesy episodes with Marlee Matlin as a lonely photographer, plus bouncy cartoons of human cells who look as if they'd be happier chasing stains in bathroom-cleanser commercials.

You know all that artistic cred Adam Sandler built up with his acclaimed work in ''Punch-Drunk Love''? Well, he flushes it down the crapper with Adam Sandler's Eight Crazy Nights -- the most ill-conceived animated comedy since the 1991 dog ''Rover Dangerfield.''

To dismiss this movie for being ''offensive'' would be to offer it high praise.

Oooh, this is toxic.

A black comedy in the form of vicarious serial punishment.

There are no survivors here.

After enduring only a few minutes of this shrill debacle, you'll feel more trapped in the theater than Jimmy is by his bubble.

The real problem is the movie itself. The plot, with its interlocking contrivances, is like a machine that keeps trapping the actors in its gears. Since they aren't allowed to relate to each other on a simple human level, the spangly back-and-forth chemistry on which a romantic comedy depends is nowhere in sight.

Carrey suggests an escaped mental patient impersonating a game-show host-and, what's worse, his hyperbolically obnoxious shtick is the whole damned show.

Cowgirls, a flaky-surreal adaptation of Tom Robbins' 1976 feminist hipster road novel, finds the director of "Drugstore Cowboy" and "My Own Private Idaho" lost in the ozone of his own private whimsies.

Being Human doesn't seem to be about anything: Its five astonishingly limp parables might have been spun by a depressed Aesop who forgot to take his Prozac.

Whatever you're imagining -- self-serving self-awareness; unedited hipster mopes; yammering dear-diary script -- The Hottest State, Ethan Hawke's bathetic tale of a good-looking young actor's first heartbreak, is far worse.

It's really a dramatic sinkhole.

This nadir of equal-opportunity raunch forces viewers to spend time with a needy yeast-infested adult who doesn't know how to go on a date with a man; her grating, neurotic monster of a best friend; and a third, random younger chick, who's crazy-upset about some tedious thing that happened with her boyfriend.

Dinesh D'Souza's documentary is no mere screed: 2016: Obama's America is a nonsensically unsubstantiated act of character assassination.

There's no artistic or thematic point — except maybe to demonstrate that a young filmmaker is as much in need of someone to say no as the characters in this disingenuous exercise.

At best, Left Behind is shoddily made sensationalist propaganda — with atrocious acting — that barely registers as entertainment. At worst, it's profoundly moronic.

If Let's Be Cops were content to be simply an unfunny genre exercise, it would be easy to dismiss it and move on. But the sting of astoundingly ill-advised sexism and homophobia is harder to shake.

For a superior experience, go buy a disturbing-looking doll that says ''Don't go see Annabelle'' when you pull its string.

Disposable and shockingly inept.

The race for the worst film of 2015 is officially on.

Even by the series’ already low standards, The Human Centipede Part 3 is crap.

There’s something weirdly innocent about Shanley’s ineptitude: He seems to be inventing the oldest cliches for the very first time. The movie doesn’t really hit bottom, though, until he has Ryan deliver an ickily earnest monologue about how her character is ”soul-sick.” I think she means, ”Pass the Pepto-Bismol.

While the Nightmare on Elm Street movies possess a sick yet clever surrealism, and the first Halloween was at least well crafted, the Friday the 13th series has always been the cut-rate horror franchise, offering barely functional sex-and-slash pitched straight at the moron brigade. Jason Goes to Hell varies the formula a bit, with ideas swiped from The Terminator, The Hidden, and Alien, but after nine installments the impalements and dismemberments all look the same. So go to hell already, Jason — and take Sean Cunningham, the ”brains” behind this dreck, with you.

Kin is a movie about a child with an all-powerful firearm that makes him feel important and special and powerful. On a one-to-ten scale of moral fecklessness, this ranks about a thousand.

The film is a jokey, nattering fiasco, as awful as Hudson Hawk. And yet, like that famous disaster, it never loses its aura of precocious self-satisfaction.

When a kids’ flick has nothing to offer but cute special effects, it’s easy to think the filmmakers are patting themselves on the backs for their technical ingenuity. That’s not comic fantasy — that’s marketing.

With Mr. Magoo, it’s the filmmakers who seem blind.

A hateful ”family” comedy based on jokey insinuations of incest.

The first movie from the cult television comedy troupe doesn’t have a single good laugh.

It’s an unmitigated nightmare of crude, boorish tripe-and woe unto our nation’s future if kids find it hilarious.

Bilko is a weightless comic creation, and Steve Martin, perhaps sensing this, drifts through the movie with a misplaced balletic goofiness.

Chucky the plastic slasher proves that his novelty value has long worn off.

The Exorcist III has the feel of a nightmare catechism lesson, or a horror movie made by a depressed monk.

What is there to do but laugh in self-defense at such pompous self-regard when blood gushes, fuses pop, and Seagal scowls in a series of snappy, embroidered buckskin jackets?

Navy SEALs isn’t just the most stupidly didactic action movie since The Green Berets. It’s the dullest action movie since The Green Berets.

As the naughty ghost pal of Phoebe Cates, an obnoxious British actor named Rik Mayall is like Michael Keaton’s Beetlejuice without the juice. In Drop Dead Fred, all he does is smash and spill things and say many, many potty words.

Inocent Blood is an unbelievably lethargic horror comedy directed by John Landis (An American Werewolf in London). Anne Parillaud, the French star of La Femme Nikita, is less sexy than morose in the role of a modern-day vampire who preys on mafiosi. Why mafiosi? For no good reason other than that it allows Landis to stage a lot of scenes in which cut-rate Italian hoodlums stand around yelling at each other.

It would all be worth getting mad over were the film not so plodding or so obvious in its tactics.

Most of the jokes are so lame that Chevy Chase can’t even be bothered to look nonchalant. A sadder excuse for a movie would be hard to imagine.

Hillbilly Elegy is two movies, one laughably bad and one boringly bad.

There’s plenty of simulation here and not much stimulation.

The original 1989 dead-guy farce maybe had a few laughs if you caught it on cable at one in the morning. Blind drunk. Weekend At Bernie’s II not quite that good.

It’s essential to recognize Uys’ patronization of the Bushmen for what it is: a beguiling form of racism.

Insanely ridiculous.

Samuel L. Jackson, call your agent — and fire him.

The movie actually makes you long for the rockin’ entertainment value of a good catechism session.