This movie's already been entertaining (or boring) airline passengers for months.

The humor stays on one low level throughout, and thus fades fast.

Mutates halfway through into a ham-fisted action movie that squanders the good will, and insults the intelligence, of its audience.

The only real-life situations the movie evokes vividly are the circumstances of its own production: underrehearsed actors in hastily staged scenes speaking page after page of awkward expository dialogue.

It'll give fans exactly what they expect while passing unseen by anyone else.

The execution is actually worse than the premise. Nonstop racial, sexual and cultural stereotypes parade across the screen with little wit or real humor to guide them.

The Zodiac regurgitates a lifetime of police-thriller conventions, adding an aura of laughable solemnity in the hope of making the plot seem less banal.

It's noisy, it's flashy, and it's deadly dull -- without the goofball, horror-nerd energy of Kevin Williamson, who wrote the first film, this essentially storyless picture, written by Trey Callaway and directed by Danny Gan-non, revolves doggedly around Hewitt's tits.

So why not a sequel that subtracts the only good thing about the first movie, Ryan Reynolds? When Tara Reid won't even come back, you know things can't be good.

It looks like the film is angling for a "Northern Exposure" reunion, except with none of the regional eccentricity.

Dreary romcom-with-guns.

Talky and labored.

All the fine cinematography -- lots of beating wings and impossibly large dust motes floating through slanting beams of sunlight -- can't hide the sad fact that the second half of the film delivers none of the shocks and starts required of atmospheric horror.

To help Prinze sail past the eventually unbearable clichés of Kevin Falls and John Gatins' script, director Mike Tollin has assembled an impressive supporting cast.

The Crash-meets–Collateral Beauty false-gravitas joke of the year.

A mean-spirited, hyperviolent, stupid movie.

While the film is well-paced, visually it is deathly dull.

An excruciating no-brainer blend of “Starship Troopers” and “Top Gun,” without the former’s guilty-pleasure concoction of gory F/X and dark humor or Tom Cruise’s megawatt smile.

Tim Allen returns to lowest-common-denominator comedy as the star of his own ill-advised, irritating directorial debut.

Astonishingly inept alleged satire.

The director and her capable cast appear to be caught in a heady whirl of New Age–inspired good intentions, but the spell they cast isn't the least bit mesmerizing.

The method to the madness of the traps turns out to be quite clever, but the rewriting of Saw mythology is the slasher equivalent of revising Star Wars so that Greedo fires at Han Solo first.

Most of the animated sequences, capably mixed with live action, leave a bad aftertaste, particularly when the ultimate fate of one beaten and battered human bystander after another is left callously unresolved. In other words, parents beware.

This is one muddled attempt at franchise making: confusing, drab, sluggish. (Ugly, too, if you're forced to see it in 3-D.)

Rich with comic potential that goes unfulfilled, time after stupefying time.

If the teen in your life drags you along to this movie, act like you're doing him a favor -- and try not to let on that you sort of liked it.

It's tough to decide just what's more offensive: the movie's musty depiction of gangsta rap as public enemy No. 1, the notion that all an uptight white girl needs to loosen up is a few puffs on a Philly blunt, or the idea that any of this might be remotely funny.

What at times feels like a maniacal romp becomes just another sporadically funny, but mostly lame, piece of disposable product.

A horror movie that's not horrific enough, Soul Survivors plays like a "Twilight Zone" by way of "Touched by an Angel."

Crude animation, shrill voicework.

In keeping with the film’s giddy superficiality, what’s revealed is a series of sexy poses passed off as character depth. All the backstabbing, shifting alliances and dark motives are held together by adolescent, innuendo-laden dialogue and thick Sapphic overtones.

Myers is the movie's fatal flaw, squeezing out the other characters who fatten the plot, mostly with an eye to parents.

If you're above the target age of 5, Thomas may coax you into a naplike stupor.

Bad in such a bizarre way that it's almost worth seeing, if only to witness the crazy confluence of purpose and taste.

FX whiz John Bruno (Terminator 2, True Lies) makes a dubious directorial debut here, juggling monsters that are icky but not scary; an out-of-control Donald Sutherland as the tug’s Ahabesque captain.

Conceptually, Underclassman is the stillborn spawn of "Beverly Hills Cop" and "21 Jump Street." Except its star, Nick Cannon, possesses neither the biting cool of young Eddie Murphy nor the sullen mystery of Johnny Depp. And the script, by David T. Wagner and Brent Goldberg, is breathtakingly bad.

You see where this is going, but, apparently, kids don’t know the formula.

Though he’s known for his mildly edgy standup, someone in authority has decided Cook would be well-suited for fluffy romantic comedies, but like last fall’s Employee of the Month, Good Luck Chuck is so undistinguished that it feels like an extended screen test.

Cloying, obnoxious, unfunny, evil, shallow, schadenfreude-wielding, dumb-fuck-fratboy-wants-a-blowjob, sitcom-directed piece of elbow-in-the-rib-till-you-puke-blood, just-connect-the-dots-and-we’ll-all-make-a-lot-of-money-and-nobody-gets-hurt...

A good horse kick, or a fistful of Valium, may help you get through this relentlessly sadistic exercise with your soul more or less intact.

The idiocy and sheer laziness of the whole concept ought to be the sort of thing director Renny Harlin (Deep Blue Sea) could make into glorious cinematic cheese, and occasionally he cuts loose with a swarm of CGI spiders or a final battle that resembles nothing more than a live action game of "Street Fighter II." But he's hamstrung by the PG-13 rating and the budget.

Levy, Luis Guzman, Cheri Oteri -- utterly wasted. At 82 minutes it feels longer than “Lawrence of Arabia” -- and a lot less funny.

All the while, director Lorena David labors to keep implausibility and bad acting from sinking a ship that never should have left port.

Thai director Kaos (a.k.a. Wych Kaosayananda), making his inauspicious Hollywood debut, still can't breathe any life into it. You'll just want to get back to your Game Boy.

If, as it appears, Rosenthal is competing with the knife-wielding Myers for the title of biggest hack, he wins by unanimous decision.

It's screen comedy at the end of its tether, Capra-corn gone rancid.

Given the tainted history of Supernova, it's difficult to figure out where to place blame for either the undernourished screenplay or the moribund action.

Highly reductive and deathly dull slasher flick.

There are all sorts of noteworthy people in this silly vampire epic, including acting greats Sir Ben Kingsley and Geraldine Chaplin, but the only artist this critic wants to heap praise upon is the regrettably unidentified Supervisor of Blood Splatter: Nice work, dude.

For this violent yet gore-free film, clearly designed for horny teenaged video game wizards, writer-director Kurt Wimmer stages a succession of fight sequences that pit V against helmeted thugs who appear to have raided the Star Wars storm trooper costume closet.

Unfunny comedy. Nearly everyone is terrible except for Cumming, who just does what comes naturally and steals his every scene.

How fortunate that the J. Lo bod, majestic butt and all, finds itself in excellent working order in Gigli: There is precious little other consolation in this formless windbag of a romantic comedy.

Suggests that we're supposed to take this love story as something more than farce. Please. Tom Hanks fucking that volleyball would have been more convincing.

No, it’s not Caddyshack -- just swap Jews (Rodney Dangerfield) for blacks (Big Boi) and you’ve got Who’s Your Caddy?. The movie, of course, is terrible.

What the film suffers from most, though, are its own low aspirations: stroking the libidos and funny bones of brain-dead 12-year-old boys immersed in the shallow end of hip-hop.

All Serving Sara can offer is Perry with his arm shoulder-deep up a longhorn steer's backside, a wasted supporting cast that includes Vincent Pastore and Cedric the Entertainer, and a huge, comedian-shaped hole where Hurley's performance should be.

This ostensible comedy may be a new depths-of-hell low in the Emmanuel Lewis filmography, but for star Jamie Kennedy it’s par for the coarse.

Cuba Gooding Jr.'s unrelenting energy can be galvanic in good films, but in lesser efforts it reeks of frenzied futility.

Smart money says Friedberg and Seltzer never sit through these movies in entirety.

Gormless, gutless little home movie.

I’ll be straight with you: This movie is awful. And not the fascinating, Alexander Nevsky (the action star/filmmaker, not the 13th-century prince) kind of awful — it’s the does-anybody-involved-know-what-the-hell-they’re-doing kind of awful.

The only time the actors appear to have accelerated their own heartbeats is in two paintball scenes, as well as -- professionals all -- the fart-lighting contest. It's pretty pathetic.

The killer in this nasty yet taut slice-and-dice 'em horror flick is a collector of eyeballs, which he removes from his screaming victims with an efficient single swooping motion of his talon-like index finger. If that image makes you grin not cringe, then this movie's for you.

The Duffs don't even fully commit to their characters here -- they’'e seemingly undecided about whether they can get away with being shallow and bratty without ruining their family-friendly images.

Idiot plotting and dialogue are what you'd expect from a genre that typically rewards narrative development with a skip function. But the rote fight scenes are a disappointment.

McCormick and screenwriter J.S. Cardone don’t have one original thought between them, but they do appear to share an obsession with characters opening hotel-room closets in which the steel hangers gleam ominously.

Director Chuck Russell ("The Mask") and screenwriter Thomas Rickman don't need new agents -- they need backup careers.

Refreshingly quirky comedy.

You could make a case that any movie in which Mexicans and rednecks become best of friends is a net positive for society. But to do that, you'd have to ignore the severe boredom that sets in about halfway through this comedy.

By the time this dud drops on NetFlix, it'll be as obsolete as a Chia pet jokebook.

Still, it’s hard to despise the movie, especially when Peter Stormare shows up over-enunciating the most brilliantly awful English accent of all time.

In short, it’s a gift-wrapped part for Lohan, who plays her good-girl/bad-girl role with wit and an air of sly calculation.

Opens the floodgates of cartoonish villainy and pitiful sentiment.

While Kaminski understands that movie terror comes in at the eyes, he has little skill for connecting sensation to hearts and minds.

There’s something oddly fascinating (and — dare I say it! — watchable) about a movie being this defiantly dumb. I never thought I’d say this, but this guy could give Tommy Wiseau a run for his money in the best worst filmmaker department.

Wears its lack of originality in a crowded slasher marketplace like a red badge of desperation.

A pretty miserable time at the movies.

The film's deadly lulls outweigh its infrequent highs.

Is it possible for a movie to have a worse title? This might not matter so much if the film that followed were any good, but for the most part it's drudgery.

The film, whose clumsy editing and dearth of establishing shots keep the viewer in an unintended state of confusion, is a corpse in its own right: It’s filled with the rotting ideas of far better movies.

Mathew Cullen’s calamitous film adaptation of Martin Amis’ London Fields plays like the hazy recollection of someone who hated the book, an incomprehensible jumble of misogynistic claptrap. It dashes joylessly through dense material, too quickly for individual moments to register, much less resonate.

Astonishing isn't the word -- neither is incompetent, incoherent or just plain crap. Indeed, none of these words really gets at the very special type of badness that is Deuces Wild.

Lacking even the train-wreck appeal of a brainless stoner comedy like "Half-Baked," Surfer, Dude is a numbing experience at just 89 minutes.

Bruckheimer shifts from high-concept historical romance "Pearl Harbor" and high-concept T&A "Coyote Ugly" to a first attempt at high-concept light comedy, yet only his fondness for dragging acting talent down with him carries over.

Grotesque and ugly.

Queen Latifah gets co-producer and scenarist credits for this anemic comedy, and also a supporting role that amounts to the worst performance of her career.

This may be celebrity prankster (and pinup du jour) Ashton Kutcher’s most elaborate practical joke to date: the gag being that this is a real movie and that he’s a real movie star.

As numbing and depressing to watch as suits hammering out a film-packaging deal one venal clause at a time.

Full of shuttery jump cuts set to music cues so loud your heart can't help but convulse, Darkness should have been left to molder in Miramax's vast vault of horror-movie stiffs.

A schizoid monster slapped together by uneasy bedfellows.

If your child forces you to go to Yu-Gi-Oh!, remember that there's no law against iPods in movie theaters.

This carpet-fouling mongrel of a movie no more deserves release than do anthrax spores.

Film critics never come home stinking of their honest labor, but the nearest equivalent is reviewing something like College, which leaves its stain on one's very humanity.

The strangeness is sometimes amusing, often showy, and laid on so thick that it's difficult to make the connection.

Actor-writer-director Mars Callahan's diarrheal 10-character rant about modern relationships sounds like it was researched by eavesdropping on the restroom chatter at a high school prom.

A disappointing hodgepodge that fails to tie up its conflicting strands of family drama and suspense thriller.

Bad photography, bad acting and bad dialogue.

Rollerball pushes the Hollywood action movie to stratospheric new levels of incoherence; pounding at the senses, it's mashed story, character, time and space into a chunky hash.