A charmless rom-com.

Everything about Vice feels like recycled goods. It's basically "Westworld" meets "Blade Runner" programmed by glitchy filmmaking replicators.

A stinker, the more so for the thespian excesses of the accomplished cast.

As the killer, who plucks out his victims' eyeballs, Kane, the seven-foot bald WWE wrestler who's like a modern Tor Johnson, is so inept he's more cuddly than terrifying.

One quarter ''True love waits,'' three quarters ''Cowabunga!,'' all pretty clumsy.

It's not "Clueless," just clueless.

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.

Less a movie than a 93-minute Mountain Dew commercial.

Don't be fooled by the low grade: This sequel-in-spirit to Jean-Claude Van Damme's 1994 dud doesn't even succeed in being memorably bad.

Viewers' own evenings, meanwhile, will likely be ruined by unimaginative direction, inane dialogue, and Schaech's passing resemblance to Forrest Gump.

Far more grotesque than the first Human Centipede - in fact, The Human Centipede 2 (Full Sequence) could be the sickest B movie ever made.

Abysmally stupid drama.

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.

A creepy, humiliating ''comedy,'' playing to Bullock's worst instincts for demonstrating the lovability of women who don’t fit in.

You don't walk into a movie like A Haunted House 2 expecting anything remotely scary or serious, but you don't expect to walk out feeling a terrible sense of dread, either.

Here's a sobering thought: If every war gets the comedy it deserves, could Delta Farce, a strenuously unfunny "Three Amigos" knockoff, be our M*A*S*H?

Epic Movie is just timely enough to conclude with a wink and a nod to Borat. I only wish that it had been bold enough to go Borat on HIM.

Presents undercover law enforcement less as a profession than as an accessory, an excuse to pout and glower chicly, to stand around in nightclubs acting like a sullen version of the Last American Rebel.

A grisly piece of torture porn.

Silly, undone by lack of faith in its own subject.

By the end, you feel like a drill sergeant-you want to wipe that stupid grin off Sandler's face.

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.

The movie, a shoddy mess, is a bargain-basement rip-off of ''Ronin."

Debased swill.

Sitting on your couch watching these morons sit on their couch and get wasted is like being the only straight guest at a pot party. Everyone else is laughing, and you're left wondering why.

Some horror movies want to scare you witless, but Silent Hill: Revelation 3D just wants to beat you senseless.

The film squanders every opportunity (and international-coproduction cent) on by now imitative Nine Inch Nails-video-style visual Goth-goo, and, scarily, forgets to input a plot or script that makes any sense.

If you put the scripts for ''West Side Story,'' ''Mean Streets,'' and ''The Warriors'' in a blender, you might wind up with something like Deuces Wild, a preposterously melodramatic paean to gang-member teens in Brooklyn circa 1958.

Though not quite the fiasco of revved-up gunplay that Beverly Hills Cop II was, this new movie, directed by John ''Rock-'em Sock-'em'' Landis, is just a clunky action thriller, with occasional comic moments rationed out to the audience like stray crumbs.

Some bad films become kitschy-cool with age, but Shanghai Surprise continues to rot.

A desert of shrill juvenile jokes and clanging chase sequences.

In its mingling of horniness and disgust, Tomcats attains a convoluted cleverness.

Sends comedy backward in time, and we're in the 1970s, ethno-sitcom style: These Andersons in their out-of-date white, snooty gated community apparently confuse themselves with their forebears on The Jeffersons.

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

Darkness was clearly tossed together like salad in the editing room, since it's little more than the sum of its unshocking shock cuts.

A flat, heebie jeebies thriller.

It's all the thrill of watching other people play Uno.

The movie is merciless sending up "Juno's" self-satisfied hipster gobbledygook, and it's quite funny to see Hannah Montana still promoting her tie-in products as she lies crushed and dying under a meteor.

Friendly yet toothless, College musters little energy even as anarchic-party-movie nostalgia.

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.

Carpool is affably stupid Saturday-matinee fare -- good for opiating the kids for a few hours -- but let's just say it's no Big Bully.

Confined to just a few sets, the movie is like the pilot for a sitcom you never want to see. Yet Ephron seems to think she's making a feel-good holiday classic: She floods the soundtrack with old pop versions of Christmas standards, trying to render stale comedy appetizing by drenching it in syrup. [23 Dec 1994, p.50]

Even Christians hip to TBN preachers' peculiar eschatology may be baffled by the incoherent wrap-up, which provides the stingiest Second Coming since the third ''Omen ''movie.

Rollerball was trash even back in 1975, but in some small way it was ahead of its time. The new version just makes you feel like you've been watching a lame late-night rerun while stuck in a thunderdome.

Terminal colon cancer has never looked more fetching than in the critically ill romantic-disease comedy A Little Bit of Heaven.

Just... bad. As in BAD bad.

Processed comedy chop suey.

Malty brew of heroics and minutiae.

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

It's doubtful that even a real actress could have triumphed over the rusty tinsel of Glitter, a hapless, retro-'80s ''Star Is Born.''

Isn't a movie, it's Gorgonzola, a crumbly summertime stinker veined with pop-cultural fungus.

Though it doesn't work as entertainment, this numbingly chipper rom-com (directed by Dermot Mulroney) might be of historical value someday as an A-to-Z guide to the genre's most overworked clichés.

Filling in for Eddie Murphy in a septically humored kiddie sequel to "Daddy Day Care," Gooding gives a mug-job performance that consists mainly of reacting (again and again) to nasty smells.

A thriller primarily about the movement of Cindy Crawford's breasts beneath a succession of ever-smaller T-shirts.

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

Paul Blart: Mall Cop 2 does all it was created to do: exist.

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

Dudsville.

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.

The Avengers is too enervated to qualify as even a full-scale disaster.

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

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

The movie doesn't so much extend Schwartzman's antic outsider persona from ''Rushmore'' as uglify it, reducing him to the ultimate Uncool Anti-WASP.

An awful, stillborn comedy assembled out of rusty spare parts from secret agent movies and run-of-the-mill ''Saturday Night Live'' skits.

Generic hip-hop soundtrack? Check. Aerial stock footage of milieu? Check. Hardy-har homophobia and misogyny? Check. Emasculated sub-Gump white dude played by Jay Mohr? Double check.

Empty jokes hang heavy.

Fragmented and monotonous, without a semblance of the gymnastic cleverness that at least made the first Mortal Kombat film into watchable trash, Mortal Kombat Annihilation is as debased as movies come.

In Date Movie, the hormones, anxiety, and princess jealousy that fuel the majority of Hollywood love stories are made so excessive that the romance itself is revealed to be...every bit as big a crock as it usually is.

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 shamelessly rehashed Death Wish II finds Kersey in L.A., methodically hunting down those responsible for his daughter’s death (just as she’s recovering from her assault in the first Death Wish).

Somehow, it actually looks cheaper than "Paranormal Activity." It's less funny, too.

Watching these videos of actual cats, all of whom have racked up countless views on YouTube, just serves to underscore how unfunny and neutered Nine Lives actually is.

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

Not even the presence of the irrepressible David Johansen (here playing the Gunther Toody role originated by the ineffable Joe E. Ross on the ’60s television show) and a paddy wagon full of engaging Noo Yawk types can pull Car 54, Where Are You?‘s woebegone comedy out of the vulgar ditch that its screenwriters drove it into.

Bucky Larson is a one-note joke played over and over and over.

Just a lumbering, poorly photographed piece of derivative sci-fi drivel, full of grunting extras scampering around in animal pelts and more dank, trash-strewn sets than I ever care to see again.

The film's moral? Turn off the TV, young 'uns, and go outside and play! And avoid Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2 matinees while you're at it.

Far be it from me to dismiss a man's effort (Uwe Boll) in a sentence, but the film on your teeth after a three-day drunk possesses more cinematic value.

Less classic Mel Brooks than middling "Best Week Ever."

It's tempting to say ''avoid at all costs,'' but truthfully, everyone should see something this bad at least once, if only to help us better appreciate the comparatively brainy merits of works like "Eurotrip," "Freddy Got Fingered," and the modern-day plague of movies with titles ending in "Movie."

The worst movie of 1999.

Writer-director-stars Zach Cregger and Trevor Moore, of the Whitest Kids U'Know, here prove the crassest, most maladroit moviemakers you know.

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

The Farrelly brothers could burp out a movie funnier than The Hottie & the Nottie, a farce of corrupt stereotypes that's never more grotesque than when it pretends to be more than skin-deep.

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

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.''

Even with the low expectations any reasonable viewer brings to a Shore flick, this rates only stupid-plus. The bongs-and-pajamas set, though, should be riveted.

Fans will gorge on this deft, year-by-year portrait of the ultimate enduring cult band.

Directed by Holbrooke’s son, David, the film balances poignant political insight with a heartfelt narrative about a man trying to reckon with his absent father’s legacy.

Ratter definitely delivers an effective paranoia creep-factor towards the end, but first, the audience has to get through about 45 minutes of just watching Ashley Benson cook eggs, shave her legs, and dance in her living room.

At least the movie has archival value: an early appearance by Chicago Hope‘s Peter Berg, along with Billy Zane embarrassing himself as a favor to his wife, Liza Collins Zane, who costars in the film.

This latest installment — the best of the Stephen King-derived series — offers some unexpected plot developments and surprisingly chilling gore. But fear not, it’s unlikely Urban Harvest will cause nightmares, due to its hilariously inept climax.

It’s Pigeon’s sincere approach here and throughout the documentary that holds the audience’s attention.

The Brain That Wouldn’t Die has an equally familiar basic plot (mad scientist tampering in God’s domain), but it’s grimmer (a fair amount of gore), sleazier (B-girl catfights), and cruel to its leading lady, an attractive actress who spends most of the picture shot from the neck up, with her seemingly disembodied head sitting in a laboratory pan.